She laughed a little nervously. “Maybe you’re right.”

There was a long, awkward pause. The static electrons hissed between us. It hurt, hearing her voice and knowing she was close by. The distance between us might as well have been millions of miles.

She began again. “So…I’ve been thinking about all the stuff being said on the blogs right now—the ones focusing on the developments of the lawsuit…”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and rubbed it, feeling the onset of a new headache. It served me right. The doctor had advised me to wear special glasses while using the computer and I almost always forgot to put them on. Of course, I didn’t fully believe his theory that the eyestrain was what induced the migraines.

“Yeah? What are your thoughts?”

“I know these people—well, not in person, but we communicate online a lot. I read and comment on their blogs, they comment on mine. We share info. We e-mail each other. I know what would steer them away from this beat-down campaign.”

I frowned, concentrating on her words and wishing I could see her face. I imagined that cute little dimple that appeared between her eyebrows when she was concerned. “What’s that?”

“Change the conversation. Get them talking about something else.”

“Well, I was hoping that the buzz around our very first DracoCon would do that, but it doesn’t even seem to be making a dent.”

“The Con is going to be awesome and a lot of the bloggers will be there. But I know of something even better.”

“Yeah? What?”

“The hidden quest.”

I sighed. “Is this another attempt to pry clues out of me?”

She paused. “It’s an attempt to help you save your company’s reputation. This would get them off the warpath. And players would flock to their blogs if they were discussing their progress on the quest.”

“Bullshit. The minute that quest is uncovered, it’s over. They put their heads together and share clues. Then, they solve the entire thing in a thirty-hour period and post spoilers online so everyone else can just repeat what they uncovered. I worked on the concept for that quest for years. I’m not about to see it just blown through in a day and a half.”

“But…it’s been six months since it was implemented. People are claiming the quest doesn’t even exist or that the code for it is broken. I know in my heart that the quest will be an amazing experience or you wouldn’t be so protective of it. But you have to let it go. You have to give it up so that others can enjoy it.”

I shook my head though I knew she couldn’t see me. “I’ll, uh, I’ll think about it.”

She sighed. “Okay. You can’t keep all your secrets forever, you know.”

That seemed like a personal message to me about us. I took a deep breath, feeling like we’d crossed over into forbidden territory. We’d never expressly forbidden this territory, but it seemed dangerous all the same. “I’ll keep them for as long as necessary.”

“I see,” she said quietly.

I paused. “When can I see you again?” I finally asked.

She cleared her throat. “I thought you were seeing other people.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She paused. “I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes, the headache intensifying. But this ache was nothing like the one in my chest. I’d fucked up with her, badly, and if I didn’t rein myself in soon, I stood to fuck up even more.

“I’m gonna go. I won’t log on again unless you want me to.”

“Why would I not want you to? You had fun today, I could tell. I’d never ask you not to log on.”

“I did have fun, but you enjoying your gaming time is more important.” And I probably wouldn’t have logged on if I hadn’t wanted to hear her voice so badly.

“Adam, I…”

“Yeah?”

“Just—think about what I said, okay? And…”

I waited. It took her a minute.

“And take good care of yourself, okay?”

I took a deep breath and expelled it. I wanted to go over there right now and I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless. This feeling of emptiness was almost overpowering. “Okay,” I said in a dead voice.

“Thank you. I’ll see you around.”

Yeah…around. My stomach knotted. We said good-bye.

In my soul, the temperature was absolute zero, the temperature of space. And I was empty, like the huge distance between the stars, out on the edge of existence. When I’d spent a week and a half on the International Space Station, one of my favorite activities was to go up into the cupola once we’d crossed the terminator—the line between day and night in orbit. From that observation dome, I could see the stars—marvel at the blackness of empty space between them. Wallow in my insignificance as a tiny spec of a being in awe of it all.