AT BREAKFAST, AS Timothy scalded his tongue on his coffee, Deborah shuffled into the kitchen, her hair bunched on the left, pillow lines crinkling her face. She squinted. Her left eye was three-quarters shut.

“How did you sleep?” Timothy kissed her on the side of the head. Deborah shoved him away. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

“Huh?” Deborah fumbled with the coffee pot, pouring a cup. Coffee splashed onto the counter. She let the puddle dwell as she crumpled into a chair at the kitchen table.

“About Chicago.” Timothy wiped up the hazelnut spill before it could stain the alabaster laminate.

Deborah groaned and held her head in her hands.

“I was thinking—”

“Just, please, stop talking,” she said.

“I just thought—”

Deborah held up her hand. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Timothy swiped his jacket from its hook. Standing at the bus stop, waiting for the 7A, he wondered how many more mornings he’d have to withstand watching his wife nurse a hangover.

During his midmorning lecture, Timothy addressed his 101-level class. Their disinterested eyes were signs they were severely hungover after binge drinking on a Monday. Knowing his prepared lesson was irrelevant to his students, Timothy did what all experienced educators do when faced with a disinterested class: he told them they were going to watch a movie about covalent bonding, adding there’d be a quiz afterward.

As the movie played and attractive and repulsive forces acted upon electron pairs, Deborah’s words clung to the inside of Timothy’s mind, her slurred voice saying he was wasting his time on kids’ games, that he didn’t stand a chance at the tournament. This demeaning moment looped, enraging Timothy more and more as each excruciating second replayed. Who was she to tell him what he was capable of? The only thing he was wasting his time on was waiting for her to change. The chairs in the classroom were bolted to the floor. Timothy leaned back. His seat whimpered as though it was begging to be unmoored. And Timothy resolved to tell Lexlitha how he felt. Today.

Animated atoms giggled while sharing electrons, and Timothy mentally composed the first seven paragraphs of his love letter to Lexlitha, editing while his students snored.

Timothy coveted his office hours. The period was a solitary 120 minutes among his hectic day of teaching, gaming, and enduring Deborah’s drunkenness. He was grateful his students were entry level and unconcerned with careers in chemistry. In all his years of teaching, he’d had only a handful of overeager undergrads visit for help with their homework. Timothy used the time to read, nap, or contemplate his existence—the existential trifecta. After his class ended, he trotted to his office, wanting to jot down the email to Lexlitha while he still recalled its poetry and rhetoric. (When they first formed their squad, Timothy and Lexlitha had exchanged email addresses so they could organize practices, later arranging them by text message. Lexlitha’s email address incorporated her alter ego in the game, leaving Timothy to guess at her secret identity.)

When he arrived at his office, sweaty from dodging students on the sidewalks, he sat down to type, but when he tried to remember the opening lines, his fingers froze. The eloquent paragraphs professing his love had evaporated, leaving him with an unoccupied email draft and a vacant mind.

As the day ticked away, Timothy stared at the wall (more precisely, at a poster of the chemical compound for the element of success—or what an “inspirational poster artist” believed success looked like—with the quote Through teamwork, we’re all bound together written underneath), waiting for the words to return.

The alarm on Timothy’s phone played the theme to Cape Canaveral: Space Station Alpha, the first TV spin-off, letting him know his office hours had ended. But instead of heading home, Timothy loosened his tie and adjusted his tendinitis braces. It didn’t matter whether or not his email contained the flowery prose and pentameter of a Lyran death sonnet. If he didn’t tell Lexlitha how he felt, he’d spend his life yearning for her. The orange-skinned woman who could defeat a battalion of Cygnusian battle drones was his only chance at happiness.

Timothy twisted his tight wedding ring and typed.

He wrote Lexlitha that he’d loved her since the day they fought together in the village of B’Modfolious, drenched in the blood of their enemies. He wrote about how his respect for her had grown over the years, how she was the person he admired most in the world, and how being next to her, even if it was only in the game, made him feel like the best version of himself, as if he really were the image of the heroic fighter pilot he used as his avatar. He wrote that he’d wanted to tell her how he felt for two years but was never sure if those feelings would be reciprocated. He wrote how his wish for Chicago was to meet a few days before the convention and get to know each other over coffee or scones without a screen to separate them, and how he hoped she’d find this idea appealing. He started to write about how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her but deleted the line. He didn’t want to come across as desperate.

When he was finished, Timothy lifted his hands off the keyboard, sighed, and readjusted his tendinitis braces. He read and reread the email, making sure every word resonated with his love for her. Then he signed it Derek, because that’s how he wanted her to think of him—as Derek Storm. He suspended the cursor over the send button, but he couldn’t bring himself to click it. Maybe he should work things out with his wife, try to bridge the troubled years with communication and love. But how could he communicate with someone who was adrift in a self-made void? The thought of seeing Deborah drinking on the couch made him sink into his chair’s worn fabric and rusty springs, and Timothy knew the only way to pull himself free was to send the email.

The email—subject line: This is the most important email you will read all day—zipped its way through fiber-optic cables to Lexlitha’s inbox, where it would sit until she decided to open it. Timothy reclined in his chair and waited for a response. He expected she’d take a while to respond. He assumed she had to eat dinner and do all the evening activities people do before they can play online RPGs. He was prepared to sit in front of his computer all night and wait.

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

When he was finally ready to give up, he received Lexlitha’s response. Seeing her email in his inbox, Timothy shivered. Sweat moistened his armpits and belly. In his email, Timothy had been completely earnest, open, and vulnerable—the type of person he thought women wanted. It would’ve been impossible for her not to fall in love with him. Confident she was going to suggest they run off to Nebraska and start a new life together, Timothy opened the email.

Derek,

Are you insane? I’m not being facetious. I seriously want to know if you’re crazy. Do you honestly think I’d leave everything for you, someone I know from a video game? I have a job, a life. It might not be the greatest life or one I would have chosen, but it’s mine. And yeah, I get that we spend a lot of time together online. And yeah, we have a lot in common—namely Cape Canaveral—but it’s not real. You know what is real? Me worrying about how I’m going to stretch my measly paycheck for two weeks while my kid’s sick. Yeah, I have a kid. She’s awesome, and she demands all my time! She’s missing school right now because she has the flu. I don’t have anyone here to pick up the slack. I’m having to pay my own mother to babysit her grandchild just so I can work a job where I’m underappreciated. The game is my escape. Why are you ruining this for me?

Lexlitha didn’t sign her email—with her real name or otherwise.

Timothy buried his head in his arms and cried. Lexlitha had rejected him. She was right. The real world was a horrible place. In it, he was an overweight introvert married to an alcoholic who’d rather pass out on the couch than sleep next to him. In the real world, Timothy played videos for his students, having become a burned-out educator who’d sacrificed a fulfilling life in favor of the possibility of a tenured position. The real world was ugly, which was why Timothy tried to escape it whenever he could.

He leaned back in his chair, his teary gaze falling to a copy of The Many Brides of Ophiuchus VII on his desk. It was a Cape Canaveral erotic book Timothy had purchased online in 2005 from a website exclusively selling erotic fiction. He’d read the book several times, had memorized sections from it, imagined doing the things described on the pages with Lexlitha. In the book, Kennedy Space Center’s Chief of Security Colt Dagger fell in love with an Ophiuchusian warlord’s youngest daughter, but the warlord wouldn’t let her marry until all eight of his older daughters had wed. In order to marry his love, Dagger had to persuade members of his security team to marry the other eight daughters. This proved to be a colossal enterprise, because the warlord’s other daughters weren’t as beautiful as their youngest sister. Some had multiple arms and legs, mouths on their backs; others were cyborgs programed to murder their husbands. One daughter was a sentient glob of swamp sludge. Dagger had to convince his men of the beauty within each daughter and persuade them to marry them—which they eventually did, joyfully and fully in love. And of course, there were scenes of all eight wedding nights and the marriages being consummated. Finally, after 432 pages, Dagger married the warlord’s youngest daughter. On his wedding night, Dagger woke bound to a table, the warlord standing over him. The warlord unstrapped Dagger and said what had transpired was a psychic simulation—he had wanted to test Dagger’s commitment to marrying his daughter. The warlord told Dagger he’d passed, and Dagger and his bride had sex on the back of a two-headed unicorn.

The Many Brides of Ophiuchus VII had inspired many of Timothy’s late-night thoughts as he drifted to sleep thinking about Lexlitha on a two-headed unicorn. As Timothy reread Lexlitha’s email for the fifty-third time, he realized, like Colt Dagger, he was being tested. Lexlitha wasn’t testing his love for her. Timothy was being tested by those unseen forces of the universe the uninitiated called coincidence, but people like Timothy knew were really providence, as in Cape Canaveral Season 1, Episode 11, “The Wind of the Cosmos,” in which the crew encountered the personification of fate as portrayed by a very drunk Orson Wells. Timothy was being tested to see if he was serious about changing his life, if he would seize the steering wheel of destiny and guide the cosmic Honda Civic to a mid-priced hotel in Chicago.

Timothy interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles, then proceeded to type.

I understand what you’re saying. The real world is dark and lonely. I experience that loneliness every day. But when I’m with you, it doesn’t matter, even if it’s only in the game. What I’m trying to say is, you’re not alone. Not if you don’t want to be. Together, we can alleviate our troubles. Let’s cast aside the real world and, eventually, the virtual one. Let’s make our own world—one where we can be free to be ourselves. What do you say? I can stay a couple of extra days in Chicago after the tournament. Let’s just get to know each other and see what happens.

Yours in VR and IRL,

Derek

Timothy hit send and waited again. This time he received an immediate response:

I can’t believe you’re making this so difficult.

P.S. This doesn’t change anything about the tournament. I’m still going to compete, but you have to keep your head in the game.

Timothy folded his hands across his stomach and smiled. She said he was making this difficult for her. He was wearing her down. He was tempted to respond immediately but knew from watching Colonel Nathan Norris seduce extraterrestrial women for three seasons that he had to be patient. He didn’t want to be overbearing or frighten her into quitting the tournament. In Chicago, their interactions would be unfiltered by the digital game; that’s when his Norris-level seduction would start—involving scented candles, her bed quilted with rose petals, and then a weekend of making love to the Cape Canaveral soundtrack with the DJ Khaled remix. Timothy would respond in a couple of days, after their next training session. He pulled out his red pen and marked his students’ failure to grasp basic chemistry concepts, knowing he and Lexlitha would be together.

Just before he left his office, Timothy received an email from the organizers of the Cape Canaveral tournament. Included in the email were the tournament’s itinerary and where his team had landed in the rankings. They had been pre-ranked sixth out of fifty teams. What excited him even more was a surprise item indexed under the rankings. The tournament’s battlefield would be the soon-to-be-released game, Cape Canaveral: Infinite Cape. The world was rumored to be massive, with new weapons and gameplay options. Capestream commentators weren’t thrilled with this wrinkle. Most of the tourney’s participants considered it a disadvantage to battle on an unproven platform, but Timothy was elated. He was going to compete against the best gamers in the world and be one of the first people to explore the new digital terrain. And he’d be experiencing it with Lexlitha. He chatted about the email with his squad mates. He included Lexlitha in the group text, but unsurprisingly, she never responded.

Stan and David had booked a couple of hotel rooms. Although they were Chicago natives, they had convinced their parents they needed to stay at the hotel, saying it was mandatory for competitors. Because they were teenagers, their parents insisted on traveling with them but agreed to give them their space during the tournament. Despite this, Stan and David still made plans to sneak out and drink cheap tequila from Stan’s older cousin’s flask.

Timothy bounced through the door and tossed his keys on the table. He hummed the theme to Cape Canaveral II: The Ambassador’s Revenge. (The film brought back the Coma Berenician ambassador from Season 2, Episode 14. The ambassador had spent fifteen years in prison plotting her revenge against Colonel Nathan Norris. Once released, she lured the crew to an isolated mining colony, where she placed them in elaborate death traps. The twist came at the end, when she realized she was still in love with Colonel Norris and sacrificed herself to save him from being burned alive by a robot chef that had been reprogrammed to make pancakes by pouring lava onto a giant skillet instead of batter.)

Deborah tugged on the cork of a bottle of wine, trying to keep it from cracking. “You’re chipper this evening,” she said. “Did one of your computer friends ask you to the prom?”

Timothy pulled a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a sample of chardonnay.

“That’s mine,” Deborah growled. “I bought it on the way home from work.”

“My team has officially been ranked sixth at the Cape Canaveral tournament.”

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to that childish competition?”

“Do you consider one million dollars childish?”

“One million dollars? There’s that kind of money involved?”

“We talked about this last night.”

“You know when I’ve been drinking my memory’s not the greatest.” Deborah’s eyes glassed over, focusing on something in the distance. “If you win, we can get a new house. I can quit my job, stop going on the road.” (It had been a year since Deborah last traveled to speak. While she still spoke to a few groups around the state—mostly women’s Rotary Clubs and educational nonprofits—her main source of income was the advance she’d received for her unfinished book on universities and scarcity economics, as well as the royalties from her past four books, all arguing for colleges to alter their mindset regarding their budgets. Most days, Deborah attempted to finish writing her current book. Having been in the throes of writer’s block for two years, her day usually consisted of staring at a blank computer screen for fifteen harrowing minutes, then searching the internet for clips of airplane crashes.)

“Or I can quit my job and focus on my gaming career.”

Deborah took a gulp from her glass. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Previous champions have proven that if we win the tournament, my team will be guaranteed to be invited to more tournaments, which means more subscribers to my Capestream feed. Millions of people will pay to watch livestreams of our practices. I’ll make money off subscriber fees, ad revenue, and eventually, sponsorships. Then I can buy us a new house. One with a dedicated gaming room.”

“People will pay to watch you play video games every night? Not likely.”

“The top gamers make over $100,000 a year. And that number is likely to increase as the popularity of E-sports continues to grow.”

On the counter, a green splotch of mold grew in a brown loaf of bread, its spores spreading across the surface.

“You know what?” she said. “You can’t go.”

“What?” Timothy said. “This isn’t really up to you.”

“We’re partners in this marriage, and I need you here that weekend.”

“For what, to pull the blanket over you when you pass out?”

Deborah glared at Timothy. She took out a carrot, whacked it against the cutting board, then chopped it as though she were intent on destroying it.

“You’re not going, and that’s final,” Deborah said between whacks.

“I’ve never said a word—not a single word—about you drinking every night, even if it bothers me.”

“Why would it bother you? It’s my life.”

“It’s our life. Or at least it used to be.”

Deborah swirled the yellow liquid around in her glass; it left a syrupy smear as it dripped down the side. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she said. “We used to be close, and then…”

“I think about him too,” Timothy said. “Every day.”

He wrapped his arms around her. She set her glass on the counter and hugged him back. They hadn’t held each other like this in two years. Her body against his was warm and soft.

With her head on Timothy’s shoulder, Deborah asked, “What would you say if I made an appointment with a therapist? For both of us.”

“If it means I get you back,” Timothy said, “of course I’ll go.”

They held each other in their kitchen among the silverware, toaster, and cheese display platter they had received as wedding gifts. Deborah sighed in Timothy’s ear. It gave him goose bumps to hear how his touch could still comfort her. It reminded him of evenings early in their relationship, when they would lie in bed, arms and legs pretzeled, content. It felt good, familiar.

Timothy put the cork back in the wine bottle, and Deborah poured what was left of her glass down the drain.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Timothy said. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

They went to a soup restaurant downtown. Deborah despised soup, wondering why someone would throw water on a perfectly good meal, but they went there because the restaurant didn’t serve alcohol.

Timothy and Deborah returned home laughing like they had on their first date. The bottle of wine sat on the counter in the kitchen. Deborah stared at it. Timothy, determined not to lose her, grabbed her and kissed her.

“Why did you do that?” Deborah asked.

Timothy couldn’t tell her it was because she was sober and he wasn’t feeling uneasy around her for once, so instead, he said, “You just look so beautiful right now.”

“With soup on my blouse?”

“I didn’t even notice.” Timothy kissed her again. This time, she didn’t say anything.

Timothy led Deborah into the bedroom, kissing and undressing her. They made love that night for the first time in two years. Afterward, Deborah curled up next to Timothy and fell asleep while he stared at the ceiling feeling guilty, as though he’d cheated on Lexlitha.