Page 22 of What You Never Knew

I go over and pull the photo from his hands. “Whatever. We kissed. End of story.”

He goes back to the photos, picking up the one of his mother, and suddenly his smile fades and his face gets a fixed, serious quality to it. He’s quiet while he takes in the details, examines the look she’s sending his father and my mother. “A picture really does speak a thousand words,” he finally says. Tossing the photo onto the pile, he gets up. “I think I need another drink.”

While he’s gone, I gather the photos up and slide them back into the envelope. It’s obvious that Ezra is still very much affected by that time in our lives. No matter how long ago it was.

“Wanna smoke a joint?” he asks from the doorway.

I haven’t smoked weed in about a million years, so I’m surprised to hear myself answer, “Sure.”

It’s dark out on the verandah except for a thin sliver of white moonlight. Lighting the joint, he inhales, then passes it to me.

“I read your book.” The statement catches me off guard, and I cough out a puff of smoke. Not very smooth at all. He laughs and pats me on the back. “You okay there?”

I swat his hand away. “I’m fine.” Taking another hit, I pass it back to him.

He holds the glowing joint in his hand. “I’ve actually read it multiple times.” He puts it to his lips, his eyes squinting against the smoke.

The weed works fast and suddenly everything zooms into one tiny speck of existence, just me and Ezra. I’m light-headed and feel as though if I look out into the darkness, I’ll get sucked up into the night sky and disappear forever.

He holds the joint out to me. “I thought it was great. Really well written. And profound. Like crazy profound.”

“Thanks.” I take the joint so that I have an excuse for my one-word answer.

“You haven’t written another.”

“Nope.” I exhale the word along with the smoke.

“You don’t like to talk about it.”

“Nope.” I pass the joint back to him.

He takes a long, slow inhale while studying me closely, then asks, “Why?”

I take my chances and look out into the darkness, now wishing I could get sucked away into oblivion. I can feel his eyes on me and know there’s no way out of it. He’ll keep asking me that question until he gets an answer. That’s his way. He’s not one to give up.

“I guess because I feel like a failure.” My answer comes from some part of my brain that the weed has unlocked—the honest, vulnerable part. I would never have admitted that without some help. I’m not sure I’ve admitted that even to myself.

“A failure?” Ezra’s voice sounds too loud all of a sudden. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” I was expecting a bit of sympathy, but he actually looks angry.

“You write a book in your twenties that’s a huge success, you were called the voice of a generation, and you call yourself a failure?”

“Key words, Ezra. A book, and in my twenties. I haven’t written another one since.”

He swipes his hand through the air. “So that’s it, then. Not writing another book cancels out the accomplishment of the first book?”

“Well, not exactly, but I mean, that success was in my twenties, and I’m forty now.”

He throws the joint on the ground and stamps it out with his foot. “You don’t think people are reading that book now? You don’t think it’s still having a profound effect on people?” I shrug, and he sighs loudly. “My god, June, what is wrong with you? Most people don’t write even one book in their life, and if they do, it sits in a drawer and never sees the light of day. You should celebrate that one accomplishment for the rest of your life. As far as I’m concerned, you are failure-immune because of that book. You literally don’t have to do another thing in your life.”

He’s even more handsome when trying to make a point—his cheeks flushed, his brows furrowed, his eyes intense lasers. I have this sudden flash of when we were kids and he was trying to persuade me that UFOs existed. He ended up convincing me—he always did—and we spent that summer looking for clues of alien existence.

“June. Are you listening to me?” He snaps me back to the present.

“Yes, Ezra. I’m listening. I get it. I’m failure-immune.”

He frowns deeply. “You don’t get it, do you?”