Harris couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying the interview in his head. He thought up a thousand better responses to Billy’s questions. Wittier, more insightful. Why couldn’t he have been that person in the moment?
Billy would probably end up scrapping the article. At least no one would read about what a spaz he was.
By two am, he still hadn’t gone to bed, although he’d started to feel drowsy. He had the sneaking suspicion if he slept, he’d dream of what Mitchell called an oxymoron—perfect love. He sat in his boxers and a fluffy robe, watching late night TV.
His stomach rumbling, Harris left the comfort of his new room and shuffled into the hallway toward the kitchen.
Harris couldn’t quite make out the figure sitting on the couch. The only light in the room came from an iPad in the guy’s h
