Page 14 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“What does your shirt say?” she asks, changing the subject. Changing it tothe worst subject.

I was starting to think that I might actually have a chance here. We were vibing, even. But she’s cool. Like ridiculously cool. Singing-in-a-punk-band-in-front-of-a-hundred-people-as-a-favor-to-her-friends cool. Whatever ground I gained will surely be obliterated once she finds out that I make up stories about cloud giants and wyverns onmySaturday nights.

The way I see it, I only have two choices here: I could tell her what the shirt says and explain it away, act embarrassed. But then if I even had a minuscule chance with her, it will be completely gone. She’s so cool, soherself—any insecurity on my part would be the end, a critical fail.

No, the only thing I can do here is own it. Fake all the confidence in the world. Most likely she’ll laugh. Maybe roll her eyes and write me off. But there’s a small sliver of a chance that she might... not.

“Oh, it’s a D&D joke. Dungeons & Dragons,” I say, forcing my voice to be steady and strong. “I was playing with my friends before I came here. I’m the Dungeon Master. So, you know, the person in charge.” I look her in the eyes and smile.

Delilah

“Dungeons & Dragons?” I ask. “So you were, um, playing together at a park? With costumes?” I inspect Reggie’s outfit again, searching for something shiny or cloak-like that I missed before, but it looks normal.

He leans forward and laughs. It’s a low hiss, like air being let out of a balloon. “Damn, why does everyone think that?” He shakes his head, slaps his knee. “Nah, that’s LARPing. Live-action role-playing. But for real? Those guys are dope, like aspirational. Do you know how long those costumes take? It’s some serious artistry.”

He smiles and I can’t help but match it. His energy is infectious. “Okay, no costumes or acting out... so is it like a video game?”

“No, it’s not that. Though I won’t front: I do love my Switch.” He claps his hands together, lightly so there’s no sound, and points at me. “All right, so, Dungeons & Dragons. The official spiel: It’s a tabletop role-playing game where you create your own fantasyadventures. But, like, it’s so much more than that. It’s storytelling. It’s an act of friendship. It’s creativity in its purest, most uninhibited form.”

“So like... Monopoly?” I ask. “My mom has game nights with her friends sometimes too. They really like, um, Yahtzee.”

Reggie reels back and clutches his chest, all dramatic. “Oh, you’re breaking my heart, Delilah.” His nose wrinkles and he lets out another long, hissy laugh. It’s a good laugh. “That’s like comparing a paint-by-number set from Target to, like, theMona Lisa.”

“I don’t get it... but I’m intrigued.” Especially because he seems to like it so much. “Explain it to me. Like I’m five.”

So he tells me all about the long stories he plans out just for his friends—Yobani, Leela, and Greg—to play every Saturday night. He explains the manuals and the dice and the amount of effort and time it all takes. I still don’tfullyget it. But what I do get is how excited he is talking about a long story—or I guesscampaign—he’s been running for a while involving a quest for a jewel and a fancy cup they were supposed to get tonight. I understand the way his eyes light up when he tells me about the essays he posts online, sharing his perspective of D&D. There’s so much love, so much passion, there.

I’ll be honest: I thought D&D players were these pale white guys that lived in their parents’ basements for eternity and had closets full of tie-dye shirts with wolves on them.

But Reggie’s not that. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. People should do what makes them happy.

It’s just, Reggie is so sure of himself, so solid. He seems to beexactly who he is, without any anxiety about how others may perceive him or judge him. And, wow... I want to be like that. I want to, at the very least, bearoundthat.

“You’re still sitting here,” he says. He’s squinting at me like he’s trying to figure something out, and his short, curled lashes sparkle at his lids under the bright security light outside of The Mode.

I shrug. “We both seem to be pretty good at that.”

“Being unnaturally quiet, going unnoticed. These are skills I had to develop as a bony seventh-grader with a voice that took its sweet time dropping and braces that made me spit.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Now that you mention it, youdotalk very quietly, even when you aren’t protecting me from donut shop employees.” I nudge him with my elbow, smile. “You still waiting for your voice to drop? Trying to cover it up?”

“No, that was for—” He clears his throat, and his voice is still quiet but it drops an octave. “That was for you. For your migraine.”

“Oh. Wow.” My breath catches in my throat as I take that in. It’s a little thing, but it feels really big. My family, my friends—they don’t even remember to do this all the time. But he got it right away. “Thank you.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“No, it is. It’s something.”

“Well, Delilah. I don’t know you very well yet, but I’m pretty sure you deserve all the somethings.”

His finger reaches out to lightly touch my wrist. It’s quick. It should be insignificant. But it’s like that single touch sets off all therest of my nerve endings, every inch of my skin on high alert. I’m trying to figure out what to say, how to get him to do that again, when I realize the music inside has lulled. And then I hear the whoops and yells of the crowd, someone on the mic leading them.

“Ten, nine...”

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