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My novel is about a heartbroken, modern-day science teacher who is wooed by a man who claims to be Shakespeare. 1 Joy looks up at the autumn sky and sees a sign: a white “H” within a bright green square, a logo that reminds her of summer vacations. “Who knew we had a Holiday Inn?” she says to Fredrico. “Who cares?” She could change the subject to something more relevant to him—like the spa facilities at the new Ritz Carlton, or his resemblance to a 1970’s George Harrison—but instead of working that hard, she lets the conversation drop. The restaurant is just a few blocks from his West Village apartment, and she wants to relax and take in the unseasonably warm weather before dinner. Along the way, her thoughts return to summer. She doesn’t intent to talk about her memories. Or her parents—Joy never does that—but after a few minutes of silence, she finds herself reminiscing aloud, conveying more about her childhood than she’s shared with Fredrico over the entire five years they've been together. She tells him about Destin, Florida, a beach resort about two hundred and fifty hundred miles from New Orleans, and the Holidome, a tiki-themed Holiday Inn where she and her parents used to stay. To her, it was the best place ever. Her mom and dad would watch from the bamboo-covered bar all day while she swam in the indoor pool or played video games. With plenty of other kids around and a seemingly endless supply of quarters, there was no need to go outside. “I guess I didn’t spend a lot of time looking out the windows”—she laughs—“because when I was ten, Mom confessed we never got to Florida.” “Huh?” Fredrico says, lifting his head from his phone. “The Holidome was in New Orleans, less than eight miles from home. Dad would get on I-10, drive around in giant circles, and wait for me to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ As soon as I did, he’d say, ‘Yes, we are!’ and turn onto the hotel exit.” “That’s nuts.” “No, it was brilliant!” Almost thirty years later, Joy’s still impressed by her parents’ efficiency. In her mind, the Florida ruse isn’t much different from Santa Claus, but apparently, Fredrico disagrees. “You should be much more fucked up,” he tells her. “What do you mean more fucked up?” “Less trusting,” he says, but she can tell he's holding back.