Page 38 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“Bro, chill out, you’re about to have my mom in here again.” She’s already popped her head in twice “just checking” on us. “Greg wasn’t—”

“Forget Gruly!” he shouts. “Look at this comment on your last post!”

I walk to my desk, leaning over his shoulder to read whatever’s got him so agitated, and Greg crowds in too.

I really dig your perspective. This is so needed.

Which is, like, a pretty innocuous comment. I don’t see why he’s making such a big deal and hollering all wild. But then I see who it’s from.

Darren Lumb. The host ofRole With It,the biggest D&D actual play podcast and YouTube show. We’re all obsessed withRWIand listen to their weekly sessions religiously—along with, like, everyone else who’s serious about the game.

So whoa. This actuallyisa big deal.

“Darren Lumb commented!” Greg’s voice has gone up at least two octaves. “Darren Lumb knows who you are!”

“Yobani, is this some stupid April Fool’s thing?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. “’Cause we told you you’re banned from this entire holiday after the cereal incident. Be straight with me!”

“Forget the cereal! This is real! I swear on Trickery’s parents’ graves!” Yobani says, shaking in his seat. I look him up and down, and reality sets in. Yobani isn’t this good of an actor.

“We need to write him back. Right now!” He jabs a finger at my computer screen. “This could be fucking huge! You could be on the show!”

“No. No! Not yet.” I need to think about this. I need to say exactly the right thing.

Also I have NO interest in being on Darren Lumb’s show. Like, at all. I enjoy listening to it and watching it, but I don’t need people seeing my face, knowing who I really am. Just the thought of that makes me feel sick to my stomach. That’s why I keep this all anonymous.

Yobani grabs my keyboard like he’s ready to throw down. If Idon’t act quick, he’s probably gonna hijack my account and send it himself. And Greg, a Darren Lumb superfan, will gladly hold me down until it goes through.

Ping.

We all freeze and then slowly turn to stare at my phone on the bed. I usually keep my phone on silent like a normal, well-adjusted person. But I’ve had the volume full blast for the past two weeks so I wouldn’t miss a text. So is that...?

Ping. Ping.

Yes, it definitely is.

Delilah

We don’t even get to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Ryan shows me how to sit up straight and how to hold the guitar on my right leg with my hands in the correct places. She teaches me the names for the different parts of the guitar (turns out the twisty thingies are called tuning keys) and the right way to hold a pick. And I’ve just barely got the names of the strings down (thanks to the mnemonic device Eddie Ate Dynamite Good Bye Eddie) when all of a sudden an hour has passed.

I made a lot of mistakes. The fingers on my fretting hand are red and sore—and Ryan says they’ll stay that way until I get calluses. But I feel content. I feel excited to learn more. I feel capable.

And when Ryan and I are snacking on shrimp chips and more LaCroix after the lesson is over, I realize that the best part of the day is that I have a new friend. A badass, total goals, still kind of intimidating friend—but a friend all the same.

I feel a little silly getting all excited about that. I’m not inkindergarten and this shouldn’t be a major feat. But it kind of is. I was myself. I let go of trying to be cool and instead was just honest, and Ryan decided she still wanted to hang with me anyway. This has happened twice now, so maybe... I should start believing it’s possible.

“So how long have you and Leela been together?” I ask, leaning back on her ridiculously comfy couch.

“Oh, a long time. Two and a half years now?” Ryan smiles. “I asked her out after the first meeting of Pride Club our freshman year. Would have done it sooner, but I needed it, like, ninety-nine point nine percent confirmed that she was into me, too, before I could take the risk. I was so scared!”

It’s hard to imagine this Ryan sitting in front of me with blue hair and pink Docs being scared of anything, but I guess asking someone out is maybe the only time we’re all sweaty, anxious messes.

“And she’s okay with this, right?” I say, pointing between the two of us. Ryan arches her eyebrow and I realize how strange that sounded. I rush to explain, “Not that she shouldn’t be! It was just when she left—”

“She was being really fucking conspicuous,” Ryan cuts me off, laughing.

“Um... yeah.” I laugh too.

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