Page 7 of The Broken Hearts Club

“I’ve just never heard anyone say something like that. Like hey, check out my compensation package.” He shot me a look but let it go without commenting, so I asked, “You’re what, then? A programmer?”

“I was, but I decided to change careers when I turned thirty. Call it a premature midlife crisis, I guess. Now I’m a concept artist.”

“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds rad.”

“I work for a company that makes video games,” he explained. “It’s my job to come up with the initial drawings of the characters, environments, and assets, under the guidance of the art director, and with input from our 3D modeling and animation teams. Everything needs to work together to create a certain aesthetic, and that sets the tone for the game as a whole.”

“You have the best job ever!”

Miller muttered, “My ex didn’t think so.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a plastic surgeon.”

“Ew.”

“It’s not all butt lifts and boob jobs. He also does pro bono work with burn victims.”

“I regret my ‘ew.’ That’s pretty awesome.”

“It is, and he’d be the first to tell you that.”

Miller started walking again. His home was really nice and spotlessly clean, but it felt like no one lived there. The blank walls were white, and there was hardly any furniture.

We walked halfway down a long hall and stepped into a room that was something else entirely. The walls and ceiling were midnight blue, which matched the large area rug. In addition to a stylish black couch, it contained a printer, a desk chair, and a chrome and glass workstation, which held three huge monitors. It was all very sleek and modern, and Hubert Humphrey looked totally out of place on the couch.

“This is the office-slash-guest room,” Miller told me. “The sofa folds out into a bed, but I’ve fallen asleep on it many times and thought it was perfectly comfortable as-is.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room with no windows.”

“This side of the building butts right up against the one next door. It’s perfect for work, though. There are no distractions, and I don’t have to worry about glare on my screens.”

I dropped my stuff next to the alligator and hurried over to the wall directly across from the doorway. It held a cluster of amazing drawings. Half of them were of a post-apocalyptic landscape, and the other half were sketches of a strong-looking woman with long, white hair. She was dressed in combat boots, cargo pants, and a cropped bomber jacket, and she was holding some sort of huge, futuristic weapon.

I asked, “Did you draw these?”

“I did.”

“You’re stunningly talented!”

He started to pluck the drawings off the wall. “Not according to my art director. I met with her this afternoon, and she called these ideas trite. I have to start all over again.”

I turned to him and asked, “What does trite mean?”

“Dull, boring, unoriginal.”

“Was she high? Those drawings are phenomenal!”

“They’re well-rendered, but she’s right. They look a bit like the last game I worked on, and we want something fresh for this next one. The good news is that we’re at the beginning of the design process, so I still have time to get a clue.”

He dropped the drawings into a drawer and shut it. “I still think they’re beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks. I guess they are, but they’re still not good enough.” He changed the subject by pointing at a closed door and saying, “There’s a half-bath through there, and I’ll show you where the shower is.”

With that, he was on the move again. I scooped up my stuff and hurried after him.

His bedroom was directly across the hall from the office. It was a huge room, which contained a king-size bed with gray linens, one nightstand, and one chair. Nothing else.