“But you obviously have the talent,” he says. “You wouldn’t have gotten a book deal or an MFA if you didn’t, right?”
His belief in me is sweet, but not reassuring. Creating art takes vision and inspiration and the time to put in the work to fulfill it. I don’t have any of these things. I haven’t in a long time.
“I tell myself that in my better moments,” I say. “But to be perfectly honest, my job is such a grind, I barely have time to catch my breath. And the pitiful truth is that I don’t have such a burning idea for the great American novel that I’m motivated to get up at five a.m. to work on it anyway. I feel stuck. Like what’s the point of even trying?”
“To find happiness,” he replies. “Fulfillment.”
“Right. So easy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy. I just think you’re brilliant, and it’s worth it to keep going.”
“I know you’re right,” I concede. “I guess I’ve always imagined that some literary masterpiece would just emerge from my brain like magic. And instead, I’ve stalled out. I think that’s why I was with Gabe. I wanted to borrow his literary existence. Get absorbed into his world because I’ve struggled so much to make one of my own.”
I can tell I’m making Felix sad, which in turn is raising the stakes on how pathetic I feel.
Suddenly I’m awash in regret at how much I’ve disclosed.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m being depressing. But you know, this has helped. Getting away. I’m not bursting with an idea for a book, but I feel so much more like myself. Like Icanfind that inspiration again.”
He smiles. “Good.”
I take a plunge. I add, “You’ve helped with that.”
He looks at me searchingly. Like he isn’t sure how much to read into my words.
Which makes sense, because I’m not sure exactly how much I’m trying to say.
I’m so confused by what I still feel for him.
“You’ve helped me too,” he finally says.
Before he can elaborate, a pig sidles up to us and starts rooting in my bag for the last apple.
Neither of us pursues the subject further.
Instead, Felix starts building a sandcastle, which I find charming. When a pig trots by and tramples it he doubles over with laughter, which I find even more charming.
I find just about everything he does charming.
Which is partly why, as the day wanes, I begin to feel dread. I don’t want to return to my real life.
Felix can evidently tell that something is wrong, because on the boat back to Atlantis, he asks, “What’s the matter?”
I decide to tell him.
“This is going to sound insane,” I say.
“Try me.”
“I’m sad I’m going home tomorrow.”
“Come again?”
“I know. Iknow.”
“Is it the lack of telecommunications you’ll miss? The absence of valid personal identification? The humidity?”
I laugh weakly.It’s you, I don’t say.I’ll miss you.