7
SIX DAYS LATER, I HAVE WRITTEN A TOTAL OF TEN WORDS. WHICH I THEN DELETED. Wrote again. And promptly deleted.
Then I briefly considered flinging my laptop across the apartment, before cradling it in my arms, stroking its silver exterior in near tears, and whispering, “I’m so sorry for even thinking that,” to an inanimate object.
This is why writers can’t live alone, I reason. I’ve gone full writing goblin mode, with no Penelope to remind me to eat vegetables or hydrate or seek out sunlight. That would be completely fine if any writing was actually taking place .
A knock on my door startles me from my incredible focus on the third page of reviews for a pair of joggers that I plan to wear from the comfort of my couch.
True crime podcasters would tell me I basically deserve to be murdered and they can’t wait to cover my case, because I swing the door open without looking through the peephole. That’s how I end up standing in front of Parker Warren while wearing a shirt so oversized it could be a moderately conservative dress, SoulCycle sweats I stole from Penelope, and a lopsided bun like melted ice cream on the cone that is my head.
He looks me up and down in a way that can only be described as appraising. “Casual Friday?” he asks.
I glare at him. He’s wearing a suit. Of course he is. It’s not like we’re in the middle of summer, and, as far as I know, he doesn’t have a job right now.
“This is, happily, how I look every day of my life,” I say, with a smile so sweet it can only be construed as poisonous. “Did you come to mock my clothing choices, or ask for my opinion on whether you should wear a suit in ninety-five-degree weather? I would say no, because you would die of heatstroke by the time you got down to the subway, but you know what?” I purse my lips. “That outcome wouldn’t really bother me, and we both know you’re not taking the train.”
He ignores everything that just came out of my mouth and says, “What is your name?”
I frown. “I already told you.”
“Your full name.”
“Why? Couldn’t find it on Google ?”
“What is your full name, Elle?” he says.
“Who are you, Rumpelstiltskin?”
Now, it’s his turn to frown. “Rumpelstiltskin asks the miller’s daughter to guess his own name.”
Is that true? “I had no idea you were so familiar with Germanic fairy tales,” I say, halfway closing the door. “They should add that to your next Fortune feature. Goodbye.”
“Wait.”
I pause, if only at surprise at the sliver of desperation in his voice. Against my better judgment, I open the door again.
“I need you,” he says.
My head empties out. “You need me?”
“To be my date.”
I almost fall to the floor. Is he this shameless? “Excuse me?” My voice is treacherous and brittle.
He leans against the doorframe, and it’s a big frame, and he’s making it look diminutive. “Is that such a horrifying prospect?”
Yes. “Yes.”
He sighs. “I need a date I can trust .”
I laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
“Would you sell a story about me to Page Six or Daily Mail ?”
My eyes widen, my fingers curl, and my mouth opens, ready to launch a tirade of How dare you? Does he really think I need to sell stories about him —
He laughs, and it is an annoyingly deep and pleasant sound, scraping against my bones. “Exactly. You’re perfect.”
I glare at him. “Seriously, Parker. You probably have hundreds of willing women within a twenty-block radius. I would rather streak in the lobby than go on a date with you.”
He stares me down with an intensity that makes me understand why those hundreds of women would be so willing. “Exactly,” he says again. “You’re perfect.”
Something unexplainable bubbles up inside me, champagne in my bloodstream. I frown. “Unfortunately, I have nothing to wear, no desire to go anywhere with you, and a plethora of things to do.”
Then I slam the door in his face.
“PENELOPE. THERE IS A DRESS IN THE HALLWAY.”
An hour later, I’m still wearing the casual Friday outfit, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, staring down at a dress draped across the decorative couch right outside my door, on a hanger covered in silk that looks like it cost a lot of money, with a brand that is French and couture, and—
“And there’s heels.”
When I tell her the brand, Penelope lets out a low whistle. “Your hallway has expensive taste.”
“Tell me about it.”
Penelope sighs. “Don’t kill me.”
“I would never. We both know DNA testing is too good nowadays, I’d never get away with it.” Thank you, true crime podcast.
“I think you should go.”
I shift my phone to my other ear. “On second thought, no body, no crime, right?”
“I’m serious,” she says. “Elle, he might be the worst, but getting out of the apartment wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Leaving the comfort of my bed sounds like the absolute worst idea .
And maybe that’s the issue.
“Look, I know you like to be independent. I know you like to be alone. But it’s gone too far. You have become an island, Elle. Like, a deserted one.”
I bristle. Maybe I like being an island.
“When was the last time you went on a date? A year ago?”
And it was disastrous. “This isn’t a date,” I whisper, only now realizing I’m speaking in a shared hallway. I dart back inside. “It’s a fake date.”
“Exactly. Even more reason to go. You know, maybe living next to him turned out to be a good thing, if he’s getting you to do something that requires leaving your emotional support five-block radius.”
I sigh. “You want to know the worst part?”
“Always.”
“I’m writing again.” Well . . . it’s not exactly the screenplay. But at least I’m writing something . “Kind of.”
Penelope sucks in breath like a vortex. “Elle!” she exclaims. “I was really starting to worry.” Then she says, “How is that a bad thing?”
“Because he’s the one who prompted it, ” I say, walking circles around the kitchen.
“Oh my god. The guy you hate . . . is your muse .”
I make a disgusted sound. “Don’t call him that.”
“No, no, wait,” she says, and I can tell that she’s pacing. “He’s always been your muse . Hear me out! After that night in the staircase, you were so angry, you wrote that screenplay. The one that won all those awards. Every time some news would come out about him, you would lock yourself in your room for days and just write.”
“I did that before,” I argue.
“Sure, you wrote a lot —and are the reason I have to listen to computer key ASMR to fall asleep years after we stopped sharing a room—but never with this much passion. You must admit, you wrote your best work after that night. He has, in this weird way, pushed you to be better.”
“Of course I wrote my best work after that night!” I exclaim. “I grew up! My writing improved! Are you really going to attribute every single success I’ve had from twenty-five onward to him ?”
“No,” Penelope says calmly. “But you used your hatred of him as fuel. He was your twisted muse.”
Twisted muse. I make a disgruntled sound.
“You wouldn’t be getting this angry if it wasn’t sort of true.”
That is the bad part of being friends with someone so long. They start to become family, and family is allowed to talk to you plainly without fearing that you will leave them forever.
“Listen, babe,” she says. “Who cares? Whatever gets you writing, right? Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if CAA found out that he was your sort-of muse and arranged for him to be your neighbor.”
I laugh without humor and say, “Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised either.”
THERE WAS A NOTE IN THE HANGER BAG, PINNED TO THE DRESS. See you at 8:00. I’m looking down at my phone, so I know he knocks the moment the clock changes.
Part of me doesn’t want to open the door. This is all so very unlike me. I want to cancel, and hide under my covers, and only leave my apartment at odd hours like four o’clock in the morning so that we never run into each other again.
Another part says this is a good thing. Penelope’s right. Parker is my twisted muse . Maybe tonight will inspire something. Maybe I’ll even have fun.
I open the door.
He’s wearing a different suit. This one is fancier, and sleeker, and tailored to perfection, like it was made for him—which, in this case, I don’t think is a figure of speech.
For the last hour, I debated whether to actually get dressed up. A dress is one thing, but doing my hair? My makeup? That’s another. I have my mother’s dark brown shiny hair and high cheekbones, but I didn’t get her red lips, thick eyebrows, or permanent glow, or much color whatsoever on my face, so without any makeup, I’m plain. With makeup, I look like a different person. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much. If you like me only when I don’t look like myself, what’s the point?
In the end, I decided to put it on, if only to do something with my hands. Because, though I don’t like wearing it, I like doing it. For some reason, I was gifted with the ability to do a near-perfect cat eye, which I’ve practiced hundreds of times on Penelope. She apparently gifted me a full set of makeup—which I had the pleasure of discovering tucked into my second suitcase—so I played with the different colors. Before I knew it, I’d done myself up, and it was time to go.
The dress is short but elegant, with long sleeves and a modest neckline. The heels are not short, but they’re not the tallest I’ve worn either.
When I open the door, Parker Warren looks at me like I’m wearing far less clothing. His gaze is intense, like it was that night in the stairwell, as he takes me in, inch by inch. “Perfect,” he says, for the third time that day, then offers his hand. “Don’t be alarmed, but we’re about to go into a lion’s den.”
“A lion’s den ?”
His eyes are glittering mischievously. “Only the worst of society. Social climbers. Social tearer-downers. Heiresses with nothing better to do than meddle in private affairs.”
I pale. “What?”
“Relax,” he says, looking down at me. His deep voice is making me do the exact opposite. “I know you can take it.”
My face goes inexplicably hot, even though I keep any space I’m in for more than a few hours at a crisp sixty-eight degrees.
He offers his hand again.
And, this time, I take it.
WE’RE IN THE BACK OF AN ESCALADE WITH WINDOWS SO TINTED, I can only see the faint twinkling of New York City lights outside of them. Something tells me Parker didn’t call an Uber. The man at the wheel has an earpiece and looks like he could kill someone with a shoelace.
My last Uber driver had a toupee two shades lighter than the rest of his hair and a penchant for scream-singing along to pop songs from the ‘0s.
“So, do you normally take your neighbors on dates?” I ask, casually looking over at Parker. We’re in each of the window seats—there are several feet between us—but the space still feels too small. He takes up far too much of it.
He nods, expression completely serious. “I took Ms. Andrews out last weekend.”
Ms. Andrews is eighty-four and pushes her cats around in strollers.
I smile despite trying not to and turn toward the window so he doesn’t see. It doesn’t work.
“You smiled,” he says, with the awe of discovering a new product to patent.
“I did not.”
“You did. And now I’m going to have to find it within myself to be funnier, because I want you to do it again.”
I glare at him because I’m convinced he must be making fun of me somehow. “So, where are we going? And why couldn’t you have just showed up dateless?”
His eyes lose some of their previous light. “Have you heard of Edith Adelaide?”
“The heiress?”
He nods. “She has a Park Avenue apartment with the largest terrace in New York City, overlooking Central Park.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “And you really want to see it?”
He barks out a laugh. “No,” he says, eyes twinkling again. “I wish it were that simple. Edith Adelaide knows everyone in the investing world and is why I was able to get funding with a prototype I built as a college freshman. She was one of the first people to believe in me.” A shrug. “Every few months, she hosts an important gathering, and this time, she said I couldn’t come without a date.”
“I don’t understand. Why is this so important? Didn’t you just sell your company?”
“The acquisition hasn’t been as straightforward as expected. There are a few . . . loose ends I need to deal with. Tonight.”
So, the dinner is critical, for some secret business reason. He needs a date, and preferably one who won’t spill all his secrets—or anyone else’s—to the nearest tabloid. It makes sense.
I’m a date of convenience. Maybe that should make me feel small, but I don’t care. Because tonight could be just the inspiration I need for my screenplay.
We pull up to a building with a long green canopy. A doorman helps me out. He’s wearing a hat and suit like he works at the Plaza. Parker gives his name, and we’re whisked into a lobby that is gold and ornate and old New York. To my surprise, the doorman walks right into the elevator with us and begins pushing on an old crank, like we’ve gone back in time. We rise and rise, until a bell rings, and the doors open like curtains, right into an apartment that dwarfs even the one I’m staying at.
I’m greeted by a Picasso sitting above a Steinway piano.
Then by a teacup poodle, who jumps up and greets Parker like he’s his most favorite person. Parker kneels and plays with the puppy, and part of me aches in a strange way. Another part kicks that part in the shins and reminds it that we are supposed to hate this man. This man who plays with puppies, and fills suits like he was the model for them, and says things like Relax, I know you can take it.
He stands once the poodle has zipped away and leans down to whisper, “She has five of them. Cloned. They live in each of her houses.”
Then, before I can recover from that fact, he takes my hand.
My first reaction is to pull my hand away, but Parker seems to sense that, because he holds it tighter, and his thumb smooths down my knuckles, and for some reason that simple gesture sends chills raining down my spine.
Penelope’s right. I really need to get out more.
“Parker!” a booming voice says. It belongs to a frail woman who is shorter than even me. She’s wearing clothes that have no logos, no names, but by quality alone I can tell they cost a fortune. Pants fitted to perfection. A silk shirt without a single wrinkle present. She’s barefoot. Her hair is an elegant white halo around her head. Eighty-seven, and she has more energy than I do.
Her smile is as radiant as the emeralds in the mines her family used to own in South America. My googling in the clearly-not-an-Uber revealed that her mother married an American, John Adelaide, who had enough scandalous affairs and bad business savvy to nearly bankrupt them. When her parents died in a plane crash above the Amazon—spawning at least a thousand conspiracy theories—Edith took over the remaining funds and began investing in people she believed in. She single-handedly made another fortune out of her nearly gone inherited one, though she is forever labeled an heiress . I wonder about her life, about the stories in it that I could stretch out and explore and perhaps translate to the screen.
Edith’s eyes widen when she sees me. “And you really brought a date!”
“You said you wouldn’t let me in without one.”
Edith laughs, the sound hearty and not at all eighty-seven years old. “You know very well I would have let you in regardless.”
I turn to look at Parker, incredulous, but someone has already come up to him, a man in his late thirties or early forties. Is this the person he really needed to meet?
Edith turns to me and says, “Welcome to my home. I’m Edith.”
“I’m Elle.”
She shakes my hand. “Would you like to see my wonders?” “Wonders?”
She gives me a conspiratorial smile, then motions for me to follow. “I collect things,” she says. “Things that make me happy, that make me wonder .”
She points out a bowl from 500 BC that’s sitting simply on a table, no glass case in sight. I spot an impressionist painting I studied in an art history class. An entire room in this apartment was taken from a castle in France.
Edith looks at me. “Before you judge me too harshly, I have no heirs and willed my entire fortune—all of this art included—to ten charities I know and trust.” She shrugs. “I figure I have five more years on this earth, give or take. Is it too selfish to enjoy my money so frivolously in that time before I give it all away?”
I’m glad she doesn’t look like she expects an answer, because I have no idea what to say to that.
Just as Edith shows me to another room—a library filled with books that look like they should be touched exclusively with gloves—a hand finds my lower back. “You’re not trying to add Elle to your wonders, are you, Edith?” Parker asks casually.
There is nothing casual about the erratic beating in my chest at the heat of his hand on me. I could move away. I could pretend to really want to inspect the illuminated manuscript in the corner. But I don’t. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I like the feeling of him touching me.
I must be losing my mind.
Edith laughs. “I wouldn’t dare. You’ve already tried to buy this place from me enough times. Getting your girlfriend involved would just make your obsession worse.”
I open my mouth to tell Edith that I am not in this or any Marvel cinematic universe Parker Warren’s girlfriend, but Parker starts to make slow, low circles on the bottom of my spine, and what am I doing? Why am I letting him?
Why do I lean into his touch just the slightest bit?
I look up, only to find he’s already looking down at me, studying me like he really does think I’m a wonder, and—
“So, how did you two meet?”
The heat thrumming beneath my skin turns to anger as I remember that night in the stairwell. How it ended.
Parker opens his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it. “We’re neighbors.”
“In San Francisco?” Wait—does Parker even live in New York? Is he here for only a short while, like me?
“No. Here, in the city,” Parker says.
Edith looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to gush about this great man I despise, so I smile my sweetest smile and say, “He was just so neighborly. And welcoming. Not at all intrusive.”
He mirrors my expression. “And she was just so easygoing. And friendly. Not at all obsessed with her laptop.”
Edith’s gaze travels between us, looking just the slightest bit too interested, but then the elevator dings somewhere in the gilded maze that is her apartment. “That will be the rest of them,” she says. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I turn to look at Parker and say through my still-plastered-on smile, because there are guests milling around us, “I am not obsessed with my laptop.”
“Right. That’s why you treat it like a small child or treasured pet. You should get a stroller for it and walk it around Gramercy Park like Ms. Andrews.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed, anger temporarily forgotten. “Ms. Andrews has a key to Gramercy Park?”
It’s the only private park in New York City. There are only just over a hundred keys in existence, and they go to those who live directly on the park—which we do not—or members of the exclusive clubs that circle it. I’ve always wanted to go inside, just once, but it’s strictly closed to the public, except for on Christmas Eve. The town house of my dreams is located on its perimeter. I used to tutor a kid who lived there when I was at Columbia.
“ I have a key to the park,” he says.
Immediately, I’m plotting to steal his key to Gramercy Park.
Just as I’m about to ask how he possibly came to possess one, a woman walks up to us. Well, not really us . She seems to be operating under the assumption that I am incorporeal, because she shamelessly steps right in front of me and starts talking to Parker.
Her hair is so blond it’s almost silver. She’s tall and slim and wearing a dress that seems to defy physics, since it’s backless, there is no strap in sight, and there is very little fabric to speak of, yet it’s somehow kept upright. When she turns slightly, I see that it’s her impressive chest that is keeping her decent.
I look down and frown at my own chest. Definitely not enough there to act as a hanger.
Half a second has passed, and every anxiety is already playing out in my mind. I’m going to stand here like an idiot. No one is going to say anything. The woman will keep talking to Parker, and I will either keep waiting here, a doormat in heels, or wander off to pretend to study the wonders and wonder why I’m even at this gathering, and maybe I should just leave, because I really don’t belong here, and—
“Carissa. This is Elle,” Parker says. He sidesteps the silver blonde and places his hand back on the base of my spine.
Her gaze darts between us, and she doesn’t even attempt to hide her disdain. Her eyes are large and blue, like gemstones set in her face. Her skin tone is slightly pink. “Elle,” she says flatly. “Would I know you from anywhere?”
I blink. “I—no, we’ve never met.”
She rolls her eyes. “Who’s your family? What’s your Instagram? Where do you summer?”
I have a habit of categorizing people I meet as tropes. She’s playing her role of out-of-touch socialite far too well. Maybe I should put one of those in my screenplay?
Part of me admires her for being so to-the-point. What was it that Parker said? We were entering the lion’s den? Full of social climbers and social tearer-downers (a term I’m 99 percent sure he made up)?
“I don’t have social media,” I say, “or use ‘summer’ as a verb.”
Carissa is clearly done with this conversation. She just looks at Parker and says, “Nice seeing you, as always,” the bottom of her Eighth Wonder of the World dress swishing as she walks away toward a woman I’m relatively sure has starred in one of my movies.
Parker looks at me, green eyes glimmering with humor. “I did warn you.”
“She wasn’t that bad.” Even a hermit like me has encountered a thousand people just like that in LA.
His hand on my back stills. “You’re right. Here comes the worst.”
This time, it’s the exact opposite. The man who comes over to us completely overlooks Parker—which is hard, considering Parker towers over him—and comes up to me.
“I thought I’d met all of the most beautiful women in New York,” he says, staring far too long at a place that is not my face. “Turns out I was wrong.” He extends his hand. “Walter Dresden.” Walter looks to be in his forties. His forehead is a seascape of deep lines. His appetite for women seems to have frozen in time, while he certainly has not.
I give him the most cursory of handshakes. “Elle.”
“Elle,” he says, dragging out my name like he’s tasting it. Gross. “Why have I never seen you before?”
“I only got to the city about a week ago.”
“Do you work?” he asks, and I have to physically stop myself from letting the disgust reach my face.
“I do.”
Walter smiles, and it’s as grimy as his overly gelled hair. “Wonderful,” he says, like I’m a ten-year-old who just declared she wants to become an astronaut when she grows up. “What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
He nods solemnly. “Well, there’s no money in that, is there? But it’s certainly a commendable pursuit. A nice hobby.”
“There are plenty of successful writers,” I say through my teeth. And you’re standing right in front of one.
He laughs like I’ve told the world’s funniest joke. “There’s no such thing as a successful writer,” he says. Then he finally acknowledges Parker’s presence with a frown. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, when you have a Parker Warren.”
That’s it. I’m seething. I’ve never wanted to use my in-depth How to Get Away with Murder knowledge more in my life. I’ve never wanted to pull up my Wikipedia page or scream out my accomplishments in a long monologue until this very moment, just to prove him wrong.
Parker’s looking at Walter like he’s gum he’s discovered on the bottom of his shoe, but he doesn’t say a word. I’m glad. Walter Dresden already thinks not-my-boyfriend-in-any-space-time-continuum Parker supports my entire life. I don’t need him also coming to my rescue.
Before I can say something I’ll probably end up regretting, Edith comes into the room and announces that dinner has been served.
Edith’s private chef serves course after course of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted. Wine pairings are offered.
Parker is seated on my right side. The moment we sit down, he whispers, “If you want to see something even better than any of Edith’s wonders, look at Walter in about five minutes.”
I never want to look at that man again for the rest of my life, but exactly five minutes later, I watch Walter Dresden glance at his phone and drop it into his soup. The color drains from his face. He makes some garbled sound, napkins off his phone, then bolts out of the room.
“What did you do?” I whisper to Parker, who’s leaning back in his chair, expression showing nothing.
He takes his wineglass and turns it a bit. “I just made his divorce proceedings a little more interesting.”
“I don’t understand.”
He looks at me. Leans over. “At some level, information becomes more important than money. I was able to get some that is going to make it a lot easier for his ex-wife, Portia, to enact the infidelity clause in their prenup.”
I blink. “Do I even want to know how you did that?”
“Probably not,” he says, then takes a sip of his drink.
The woman on my other side is lovely. She’s an art curator at the Met, and I’ve picked up enough from my little sister, who once dreamed of being a curator, to make conversation. She animatedly tells me about the last exhibits she’s worked on and the current trends.
Between dinner and dessert, Edith announces that she would like to engage in a healthy debate about the future of internet currency. While most follow her into one of the many living rooms, I break away to use the bathroom. The faucets look like fountains, and the toilet tries to talk to me.
On my way back, I see an open door leading outside. There’s a rush of laughter, and some voices rising above others, coming from the other direction.
I step onto the terrace.
It has the square footage of a sprawling apartment. There’s furniture everywhere and a railing that isn’t as tall as I would like, but I test its strength, then lean forward to look at the park below.
It all looks so geometrical: the rectangle of never-ending park, the jutting buildings like a frame made of Jenga towers. One of them is alone, far taller than anything around it. It looks like the city is sticking its middle finger up at me.
“I bet the stars hate us.”
I freeze. I’m still facing the park. I might as well be a mannequin in a Fifth Avenue storefront, because I don’t move a muscle.
The voice behind me continues. “I bet they’re angry about that time I said that the universe looks dull, now that I’ve seen you.”
My bones have suddenly revealed themselves to be Play-Doh, and I feel like I’m about to melt right onto this balcony. After the longest moment of my life, I turn around and whisper-yell, “What are you doing?”
Parker Warren is leaning against the opposite wall without a care in the world. He lifts a shoulder. “Just quoting my favorite movie.”
I swallow. “Your favorite movie is an alien love story?”
His eyes are glittering. “Only if you’ve written it.”
I close mine. No. This can’t be happening. “How?” I finally ask, forcing myself to look at him.
He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out two envelopes. He tries to hand one to me, but I don’t take it, so he shrugs and keeps them both. “We were both invited to the 30 Under 30 party. Our mail must have gotten stuck together,” he calmly explains.
My world turns into a keyhole. Anxiety and panic close in all around me.
“As you know, only under thirties are invited. That narrowed down my search significantly.” He tilts his head. “You’re a writer, which shrunk the pool. None looked remotely like you, but then I figured you must write under a pen name or be anonymous altogether. And there are only so many honorees without a picture.” His smile creeps slowly across his face. “Who knew my neighbor was one of the world’s most successful screenwriters?”
He knows. He’s known this entire night.
Hearing him say those words should make me feel triumphant. One of the world’s most successful screenwriters is a far cry from the gold digger he accused me of being. It’s a far cry from Walter Dresden’s view of a writing career.
But I don’t feel any of that. I just feel anger. And fear.
My voice shakes as I say, “Who knew my neighbor was one of the world’s richest stalkers?”
He laughs at that. “You told me to figure it out, Elle,” he said. “In fact, you encouraged it.”
I did, didn’t I? It was only because I truly believed he would never find out. Without the 30 Under 30 connection, I’m not sure he would have. Nothing besides that list connects me to my screenwriting career. I get paid through an S Corp. The studios don’t even know my identity.
I was cocky, and I’m an idiot.
My hands are trembling. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
He frowns. “I don’t know why you insist on keeping your genius a secret, but it’s your choice. I would never.”
“Good,” I say, shrugging off the warm feeling that goes through my chest at him calling me a genius. I am no such thing, but it is the greatest compliment I’ve ever received, and I hate that it comes from him.