deal. I could have even run a blog series about a certain stalker who hung out spying on the apartments of private citizens instead of providing anything useful.
None of it seemed worth the trouble. So what if my identity was blown? The only person that information could hurt had already assumed the worst. What more damage could be done?
We still had rules on my site, though. I texted Ash. Could you go into the forum and remind the posters not to bring over gossip even if it’s about me. Thanks.
Everything was under control, but it left me with a low-grade depression. I remembered how cavalier I’d been about Gabriel’s reaction to the attacks from my posters and felt a pang of remorse. Who was I to decide how someone else should feel about being targeted online?
I leaned back in my chair and swiveled around. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Gabriel standing right in front of me, like I’d conjured him.
“Shit, Gabriel. Sidle much? You gave me a heart attack.”
He held a mug of coffee in a way that made him look like he was at a cocktail party, mingling. “I read your article on Friday.”
“Yeah, I can guess your reaction. My enthusiasm has no place in a serious magazine. Yadda yadda yadda.” I spun back toward my laptop. “We’ve had this conversation already, Gabe.”
“Actually, I came to apologize. I was wrong.”
Interesting. I faced him again. “Do tell.”
“After I saw you here with that drummer—”
“Shane.”
“—Shane, right. I thought you’d written a puff piece based merely on your infatuation with him. In my own writing, I have to search for the good and the bad, so I was holding you to the same standard.”
“This is starting to feel like a back-handed compliment.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m trying to contextualize.”
“You’re pointing out the lack of critical thinking in my article.”
He held up a hand. “Stop. I’m telling you that I understand now what Lars is after. What you wrote about the Walking Disaster—”
“Walking Disaster.”
“What?”
“It’s just... Never mind. Go on.”
“What you wrote reminded me of how I felt when I used to actually love a band, back when I first started writing.” He looked behind him and hooked a chair with his foot, rolling it over. He settled in with his elbows on his knees and started back in, hands moving, reminiscent of Shane. “When I was about fifteen, I heard Metallica for the first time. Do you remember when you first heard them?”
I thought about it. “Not exactly.”
Wouldn’t have pegged him as a heavy metal fan if he hadn’t spammed my blog with Metallica-based sock puppets.
“Well, I do. I was—”
Pete, at the cube next to me, stood up and said, “Guys. Normally, I don’t care if you want to hang out and chat, but I’m on a deadline. Could you take it to the breakroom?”
Gabe checked his watch. “Want to go for a walk? No funny stuff. I’ll tell you the rest of this.”
My gut said no, but my brain said he was offering an olive branch, and I probably owed him an apology of my own for starting the online war. “Sure.”
He held the glass door open for me and said, “I feel as though we got off on the wrong foot.”
His willingness to let go of a valid grudge mollified my own attitude. A little. It was more than Shane had done.
The elevator doors opened, and we waited side by side, surrounded by strangers from other floors. How could there be such an infinite supply of strangers? After a week working in a small building in Indianapolis, I at least recognized everyone. Every day in New York was a total reset. Gabe was beginning to feel like an old frenemy in comparison.
As we exited the building, he steered me around the corner, away from the crowds.
“So, you were telling me about Metallica.”
“That can wait. What’s troubling you?”
I sagged. “I guess I owe you an apology as well.”
“What for?”
“First for the cyberbullying. I thought I understood what it would be like to be on the receiving end.”
He laughed. “It’s not fun, is it?”
“Not in the least.”
“But that’s not what’s wrong, is it?”
The truth slipped out. “You were right about Shane.”
“How so?” He stopped walking and turned to face me.
“He kind of proved your point.”
“Do you mean—?”
“We seem to have what they call irreconcilable differences. He wants me to have no interest in musicians, and I want him to have a little faith in me.”