Page 65 of The Rom-Commers

Charlie waved me off. “We don’t have to label it.”

“Thank you.”

“The point is,” he said, “the internet wants you to take slow breaths through your nose—five-point-five seconds in, and five-point-five seconds out.”

“Five-point-five?” I confirmed. “That’s what WebMD said to do?”

Charlie nodded.

“Can’t fight the internet, I guess.”

“True,” Charlie said. “Now start breathing.”

And then, after he’d watched me do a few breaths, he said, “The internet also wants you to ask me what I was hiding on my laptop when you walked in.”

That was unexpected. I frowned at Charlie. “You don’t have to—I don’t really—” Then, “Do youwantme to ask you that?”

Charlie nodded. “I suspect you’ll like it.”

I suspected I wouldn’t. But okay. “What were you hiding?”

I edged around the dining table, and when he pulled a chair next to his and patted it, I sat beside him. Then he opened up his laptop and maximized the screen.

I peeked through squinted eyes, in case I needed to shut them again fast.

But it was just an illustrated image of a backyard.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a video game,” Charlie said, “where you power-wash things.”

Then he pressed some keys, and a jet of water started spraying in first-person point of view, as if he were holding a power hose.

Charlie turned the hose onto a dreary gray sidewalk, and as the water moved along, it left a bright clean section behind. The hose also made a deep, brown-noise shushing sound, and once all the dirt was gone, the game made a very satisfyingdingsound and gave him some points.

“Thisis what you were doing when I walked in?”

“Yep.”

“You were playing a video game where you virtually power-wash a sidewalk?”

“Not just a sidewalk,” Charlie said, starting on the patio beside it. “The entire yard.”

“But…” I started. And then all I could think to say next was, “Why?”

Charlie nodded, likeFair question. Then he said, “Because it’s fun. And Cuthbert likes it.”

Charlie started up again so I could see how soothed the guinea pig was by it. But glancing between the screen and the pig, I could see no discernible difference. Cuthbert was sitting there like a fluffball before Charlie started power-washing the side of that virtual doghouse, and he was sitting there like the exact same fluffball after.

“Are you sure it’s Cuthbert who finds this comforting?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” Charlie asked, staying focused.

And before I knew it, I was hooked, too. I watched Charlie finish the patio, and then do the gutters, and then the wall behind the hedge, and then all the patio furniture… until deep into the wee morning hours—without noticing the time pass. I listened to the shush of the spray, and I pointed out when he missed a spot, and I sat companionably mesmerized beside the world’s most beloved screenwriter while he finished off the whole rest of the yard and then leveled up.

That’s when Charlie turned and took in the sight of both Cuthbert and me watching him.

“Good news,” Charlie said then.

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