Frankly in Love by David Yoon Read Free Book Online Page B

say, “Huh!” at the same time.
    On the way into the kitchen I spot a photo of me and Q andmy parents from three years ago, at our junior high school graduation.
    I point at the photo with my chin. “You still have that thing?”
    “Yep,” says Q, putting our plates into the sink. “Do you?”
    “Yep,” I say. But that’s not true. I have no idea where our copy of the photo is. There are no matching photos of Q in my house. The last time Q was at my house was months ago, when he came to drop off something I’d left at his house. I can’t actually remember the last time he stepped foot past the foyer.
    “Game on,” says Q.
----
    •   •   •
    I’m watching a little homunculus run around a 2D landscape from a God-view perspective. Q clicks and pans with the speed of a card magician. It’s fast, but not incomprehensible. He’s mining resources and building an elaborate system of factories to bring his homunculus hero through the Stone Age, Iron Age, and beyond.
    We’re in Q’s room. Q’s room is pretty small, with just a small desk, two narrow bookshelves, and a sofa (Q prefers sleeping on sofas, because they are dual-use). What Q’s room is is mostly screen. A tiny projector sits on a faux-marble cornice and throws the giant view of the game onto a blank wall that Q has painted with some kind of special projector screen paint for maximum image quality.
    “The story is,” says Q, “you’ve crash-landed on this alien planet, and you have to build up an escape rocket from scratch using whatever’s on hand.”
    “Cool.”
    My pocket buzzes, and I sneak a peek. There’s a picture of Brit looking with one big eye through a wine goblet like it’s a magnifying glass.
    I single-thumb three hearts back and put it away.
    “But the aliens don’t like me,” says Q. “Because I’m cutting down their forests and polluting their environment. So you also have to build weapons to kill them off.”
    “Wow, that’s super amoral.”
    “I know, it’s a bummer aspect of the game’s design. It’s called Craft Exploit .”
    “Also, since you’re the interloper here, shouldn’t you be considered the alien, not them?”
    “It’s conflicting, right? Definitely a dude made this game.”
    Q spots six warships approaching, and decimates them with a flurry of tiny missiles.
    “Probably a white dude,” I say.
    “Would explain the colonialist impulse,” says Q.
    Another buzz, another photo from Brit, this time of a package of paper napkins named Napkins à la Maison de Beaujolais. Brit’s added her comment beneath: J’adore French-for-no-reason branding.
    I stifle a chuckle and stash the fartphone before Q can notice.
    “Still, the game looks fun,” I say.
    “It is,” says Q. “Open source, too. I coded these lift-sorters, right here.”
    “Badass,” I say.
    Yet another buzz. I want another peek. I want another hit of Brit.
    But Q pauses the game. “Your phone’s really blowing up, huh.”
    Q stares at me.
    “Fine,” he says finally with an eyeroll. “Answer it.”
    “Just one last one, I promise,” I say.
    “The last one? Or the last-last one?”
    We’re coming back Sunday night! says Brit. Frank Li, I frankly need to see you.
    I feel my stomach wave hello. My ears grow warm. Gravity eases enough to loosen all the joints and nails and screws holding the world together until all its pieces are slowly tumbling free in a soft huge space lit only by the white rectangle beneath my thumbs. My girlfriend is texting me.
    I Frank Li need to see you too.
    Can I come to your house?
    Impossible, I think. Just forming the words would be impossible: Mom-n-Dad, this is Brit, and we’re going to lock ourselves in my room for hours like they do in teen movies.
    I’m racking my brain for alternate venues optimized for romance, but then I do a mental facepalm. I’m not free Sunday night.
    I type carefully. Shit, Sunday night I gotta help Dad out at work, I say, and add a sad face for extra sincerity.