It's hard to imagine not reading as much as I do, although I guess it's not uncommon. For me, it's always been an escape, a way to leave my world for an hour or two while never being daring enough to drop all of my responsibilities and live my own literature-worthy life. I guess I write a lot for the same reason. Or wrote. It's been a while. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"You're still working there?" I ask. "How's that going?" I try to think of a million better ways to ask, ways that don't sound so awkward and don't bring back memories of the last time I visited and saw T.J. so vulnerable, but maybe this is just one of those things that will always be awkward. That will always feel strange and intrusive and not my place. I'd hate myself if I didn't ask him, anyway.