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Chapter Text

I could write a better book than that Mezrich asshole half-asleep and in Latin. He thinks he's some latter day Hunter S. Thompson? Thompson would eat that fucker for breakfast and never look back. He writes shitty fiction and passes it off as neo-non-fiction. Sorry, but that's not how it works. See, fiction is fiction and truth is truth and no matter how nice a face you put on it, never the twain shall meet. Either tell the truth or tell some fiction but don't believe the lie that this is some world where they can all mix.

He told you fiction. I'm going to tell you the truth.

The truth starts here: there was nothing accidental about what happened.

It's gonna be a blog, originally, but it reminds him too much of being 17 and having a LiveJournal. Besides, Mark doesn't trust the Internet, it's way too insecure. So, he finds a little black and white composition notebook (how cliché, he knows) and starts writing. Pen to paper writing. It feels, well, good. Watching the words sprawl out on clean, white paper. There's something particularly empowering about it and it just ...flows.

It was the exact outcome his therapist, Laura, had envisioned when she suggested he take up writing as a supplement to talk therapy. He'd balked at first, but in the six months he's been working with her, Mark has come to trust Laura. When he decided he was going to go into therapy, he spent a long time hand-picking the perfect therapist for his issues and Laura's pretty amazing (hey, Mark hand-picked her, of course she is) so he's not going to question her too hard. And, well, therapy is Mark's big "go big or go home" gesture for fixing his life. Not that his life is terrible or anything, far from it, but Mark knows there's some unpleasant stuff pushing its way around under the surface: the stuff that makes him keep people at a distance when he doesn't really always want to, that makes it hard for him to feel intimate with anyone and thus makes him not want to have a significant other, much less sex, the stuff that gives him insomnia for days as he lies in bed and can't shut off the whirl in his brain. Mark wants to fix that, damn it, so it's not like he's in therapy to do things halfway. Laura says try writing it down? Mark's gonna try writing it down.

He just doesn't expect the story, his story to start with with the start of Facebook, is the thing. He thought maybe there'd be some stuff about his childhood or boarding school adolescence or maybe even with his daily life as the head of a multi-billion dollar company that's revolutionized the world.

But no - it's the start of Facebook that flows out of his pen on the neat, blue-lined paper and once the words start flowing, well, he just can't stop.
 
--
 
See, 'accidental' implies that I didn't know what I was doing, that everything that happened just happened. Which I guess makes for a good story if you're some lazy, uncreative wanna-be journalist who wants to make a metaphor about our 'modern times' and 'regular Americans' and shit. But that's not this story and, besides, I've always found metaphors to be for the incurious and uncreative.

So, no, there was nothing accidental, oops, isn't this crazy, who would have thought, golly-gee-whiz, about what happened.

Because, see, that's some lie that people want to say to make themselves feel better.Well, it just happened. Things spun out of my control. Before I knew it... But that lie does a disservice to all the things that happened because of sleepless nights, because of hours spent designing and creating and sacrificing and making. I won't dismiss that. I can't let a lie erase that.

So here's the thing: none of this just happened. I made it happen.

That's the part I'm proudest of.

And the part I'm most ashamed about.

Because - because of Eduardo.

He's gone through about five notebooks now: tiny scrawl on line after line, he watches the first book fill up and realizes he has more to say and before he knows it the second book is filled too and - it's getting easier to talk to Laura during therapy, to not dance around her questions with sharp comebacks and vagueness. And maybe that's going to help with all the other stuff writing is dredging up, all the stuff he hadn't even thought about when he started therapy. He just wanted a good night's sleep, you know? And now ... this.

The last thing, he means it, the very last thing, he ever expects is to come into his office one day and find Sean, sitting at his desk, reading one of his journals.

His blood boils. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

But when Sean pulls his eyes away from the journal he doesn't look mocking or ready to make a joke. His face is grave and his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Mark, man, I'm - I didn't - I'm sorry, but I -"

"Put it down," he commands, his voice iron.

"Mark," Sean says, his voice startlingly soft "Mark - we need - you need to publish this."

And that's how it starts.
 
--
 
So this is my mea culpa then? My apologia? This is the part where I pour out my heart and beg forgiveness for my sins?

Fuck that.

See, I don't believe in bullshit like confessing on your deathbed and thinking that makes it OK. Apologies, mea culpas, those don't mean shit. That's glib and surface and slick and who'd believe me anyway, yeah? Oh, I just bet Mark Zuckerberg feels bad, with his billion dollars and worldwide fame. Cry me some tears, poor baby! That shit is for lazy people looking for metaphors. Like me, sitting all by my lonesome in a room trying to 'friend' someone. OH - THE DELICIOUS IRONY or whatever. That's too easy for all this. That's intellectually lazy.

And false besides that.

I am not sorry. I am not sorry. I'll keep saying it forever, if you think that would help. I'm not sorry, Erica Albright. I'm not sorry, Cameron and Tyler and Divya. I'm not sorry, all you people who bitch about privacy controls while posting your whole life on the Internet.

I am not sorry.

Because for all that? I don't have anything to be sorry about.

But for how things happened with Eduardo Saverin? Who was my first investor? The first person who ever said "yes" to my idea? Who was not, contrary to what that Bambi-eyes motherfucker made you get choked up over in the stupid movie, my onlyfriend but was probably my best friend?

For that, I am sorry.

"We are not publishing my - my - that's not for - put it down," Mark tries to keep his voice calm.

Sean sets his journal down and looks at him. "Mark. You know it's not like I'm still President or anything. So, you know I'm only saying this as your friend but... I...you're a good writer. This is good stuff, Mark. People would want to read this notjust because of who you are - I think it could mean something to -"

And Sean is his friend. Mark can tell from the look in his eyes that he's being sincere. That this has nothing to do with business. But that doesn't mean it's a good idea.

"Sean, no," he interrupts. "They're - they're my private -"

Sean narrows his gaze. "Mark," he says, cutting him off before he can stumble along even further, "Mark, if you won't publish these I think... people ... there are certain people who ... Mark, these need to be read."

Mark's no fucking moron. He hears the name Sean won't say.

Eduardo.

Maybe that's how the seed for publishing was planted. Maybe in that second, when Sean said that in Mark's journals, in all those words he couldn't stop spilling, there were things that needed to be read.

Maybe it started with the name that wasn't said.
 
--
 
"...In this is your life (and it's ending one minute at a time) Mr. Zuckerberg not only re-invents his own mythos and takes control of his own narrative but fires off a manifesto for his generation. Brutally and unflinchingly honest, the man who invented poking has found a new way to 'poke' at our 21st century consciousness by demanding his audience face the ugly truths about their own lives. This is never clearer than in Mr. Zuckerberg's sharp and heartfelt writing about his former friend, Mr. Saverin. It's his regrets and reflections about what happened between he and Mr. Saverin that provide the memoir with its richest and most nuanced moments. Their connection, illustrated here by Mr. Zuckerberg as one of mutual give and take that was too often clouded by miscommunication, will read as achingly familiar to anyone who has ever drifted apart from a friend or a lover. It's not entirely clear which of these Mr. Saverin was to Mr. Zuckerberg, but it doesn't matter: Zuckerberg's muscular, fearless writing makes the heart of the matter clear."
-Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times Sunday Book Review

"...Ever since we heard the title Zuck chose for his memoirs, a gentle tweak on Fincher's work, we knew were in for a treat. Bowing at #1 on the NY Times hardcover list (great, more money ... just what he needs) the biggest revelation in the book isn't just that Zuck writes readable, gripping prose like a house on fire but that we've all got the "Facebook story" wrong because it turns out it's really a tragic love story about a guy who betrayed not his business partner or best friend but his big, unrequited gay love. Betcha no one besides Sorkin and Spider-Man 2.0 saw *that* coming."
-Brian Moylan, Gawker.com

"...we've been hearing how revelatory Zuckerberg's work was since the BEA buzz, but the last thing we expected was that it would surpass the prepub expectations. In what the preface makes clear are Zuckerberg's completely unedited journals we find, dare we say it, if not the great American novel a truly great American story. While it is a story of greed, ambition, betrayal, invention, and creation, it's also, clearly, a love story. It's this love story that makes the story so compelling. Would you trade changing the world and billions of dollars for a best friend who could possibly be more? Zuckerberg's not sure he has the answer and, by the time you've experienced the full-force of his exceeding talent, you won't be so sure you do either."
-starred review, Kirkus Reviews

"I mean, I wasn't the only one who read this wondering when he was going to get to the part when he sweeps him up and gives him one of those kisses that make your knees bend back, right? It's the push and pull relationship, which helps and challenges Mark in ways he clearly didn't really understand until he started work on these journals, that gives this work some real soul. It's a classic romance ... but where out HEA? We here at SBTB HQ agree: this is the romance of the year and our leads don't even know it."
-smartbitchestrashybooks.com

--

Well, these were certainly not the reviews Mark was expecting, he can promise you that.

++

Tyler Durden version (with meta)
Pulitzer Prize version (no meta)

Chapter Text

I realize the inherent problem here. If I was really sorry I'd stop talking about being sorry and regrets and do something about it. I'd look, closely and honestly, at what I had done and not just talk about how bad it made me feel.

But that's the point. I can't do anything about it. I can't be anything other than sorry.

Yet I am not sorry for Facebook. I am not sorry for the creation and design and invention - I am not sorry for any of that.

But for Eduardo: I am sorry. I am sorry we didn't do a better job actually talking. I am sorry for all the things I almost said but just assumed you knew because, well, you always knew. I am sorry that I thought business was just business, that I was never as clear as I thought I was. I am sorry that I didn't know the costs of things, and I mean that in every literal and figurative sense you might imply. I am sorry I took for granted all the times you were waiting for me and checking on me and thinking about me.

I can't do anything but say sorry, but be sorry - but that word is starting to lose all meaning isn't it?

I'm sorry.

But so what?

Mark is in hiding.

He didn't really know what he was expecting when the journals were published. Maybe nothing. Most likely a few trend pieces, some solid but unremarkable sales figures, and a handful of reviews on tech or business sites or something. Paparazzi? TMZ? The cover of People magazine? OPRAH making it the first selection of her OWN Book Club?

No. No, Mark had not expected that.

So, he's in hiding.

--

He leaves Palo Alto. Considers going home, maybe, but his Mom has been leaving gentle messages about "if there's anything you ever need to tell us, sweetie..." so he rejects that. Besides, it'd be too easy to find him there. He wants to disappear to Bora-Bora but he still has a multi-billion business to run, so he'd better stay at least on the same continent. He decides the easiest place to get lost in New York, so he rents an apartment under a fake name and tries not to be obsessive about the coverage. (he's going to pretend he didn't just read an article that seriously suggested he had a shot at a National Book Award OR saw that there are photographers from TMZ trying to chase Eduardo down in Singapore.)

--

He doesn't mean to go into the bookstore. He really doesn't. He's out for a walk because he's been in his apartment so long that he's kind of worried he's forgotten when fresh air smells like and, also, he just got an email with the latest sales numbers (Oprah doesn't care if he won't come on her network and do an interview, she's still telling the world that his book is a "revelation about love and connection, an instant American classic.") and he thinks he might vomit.

But he sees his book in the front fucking window and it's part of a read-alike display, so he'll just duck in for one minute that's all because, oh my god, have they put his book and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius together?

He's slouching in the back of the store reading over the store's if you like... list when he senses someone too close to him. He whirls around and sees someone dodging between the shelves. What if it's a reporter? He has to see.

"Hey," he calls out, rushing forward.

The guy stops dead in his tracks. "Hey," he repeats, dumbly. "Who-"

The guy turns around. When he turns to face him, Mark has to take a step back. Great.

"Hi," Jesse Eisenberg waves faintly, blushing slightly.

"You've got to be kidding me," Mark mutters.
 
--
 
Now is the time when I talk about the movie: about the way some guy was nominated for an Oscar and made his Hollywood bones off a very detail oriented performance of ... me.

It didn't bother me as much as I thought it would at first. Sorkin at least made something close to art, something that had narrative and drive, than the tone-deaf mess Mezrich vomited up. It got a lot of things right and a lot of things wrong. There should have been a lot more of Dustin Moskovitz, I can tell you that. (Dustin would here want me to say they should have gotten someone much hotter and famous-er to play him.)

Maybe there were moments when Eduardo and I looked at each other and felt the world burning up unsaid between us. Or maybe it only felt that way afterward, maybe it only looked like that if you were observing from afar.

But come on people - are we really making biopics about people in their 20s? It turned out it was that I couldn't get past: this is the story of my life, Oscar-winning, generation-defining, a movie that's not going anywhere in the canon of American film. It's my Hollywood moment and it's me between the ages of 18-23.

Now how's that fair?

Even every single element were true - how can that be my whole story?

"Well, um, hey," Jesse brings his voice to a whisper and shifts around from foot to foot, nervously.

By the time Mark met Jesse on the set of Saturday Night Live he'd already started the journals and therapy was going much better. Laura said maybe this could be a positive step in owning his story, in not feeling dominate by other people's narratives. Also, it sounded totally fucking fun.

It was fun, actually. Jesse looked like he was going to cry but then he smiled at him with such relief it made Mark feel, well, really good. Andy Samberg said, "All hail the Zuck!" and Mark got to say the stupid joke about poking and he watched from the side stage and tried not to feel slightly unsettled by how sometimes Jesse Eisenberg moved just like him.

Overall, it had been a fine night and he'd even been cool and sent Jesse a bottle of champagne the day after the Oscars with a We're still cooler note. Which was pretty awesome of him, you had to admit. So why's Jesse Eisenberg now staring at him in this bookstore like he wants to run away? Were his journals that bad?

"So, you're - media, uh, sucks," begins Jesse in a frantic tone. "Anyway, good to - what a random coincidence, right. Uh - um - the book, yeah, it's really well-written, so, well, I'd better go and - uh - this was -"

He's talking so fast he's practically choking on the words and he keeps shifting his gaze, nervously, to the right.

"Jesse?" Mark says, unsure of why he's unsure, of why this all feels wrong. "What's -"

Before he can say anything, he hears a British voice from behind him and sees Jesse Eisenberg squint his eyes up and wince. "Hey Jess, who're you talking to?"

He turns to see Andrew Garfield standing behind him. His eyes goes wide with shock when he sees Mark and he takes a quick step back.

Mark really, really means to play it cool. Instead, all the anger and frustration of the past few weeks bubble up inside him. "You," he spits out, stepping towards Andrew Garfield. "You and your 'I'm the ex-girlfriend, cuddle at night and watch reality TV' and your ... your ... Bambi-eyes! You!"

Before he can stop himself he's decided he's going to punch Andrew Garfield in the face, Spider-Man be damned.
 
--
 
I am not an evil genius.

(I might be an actual genius but that's such a arbitrary term, don't you think?)

No part of what happened with Eduardo was part of an elaborate scheme. I know the timing makes it seem otherwise. I know when you lay it all out, when you look at it in a list, it seems like it was a big con but, please, I'm no Machiavelli.

It all just piled up: decision after decision that seemed so small at the time, but each one was leading, building. Looking at it now, it was like code...and you'd think I'd know better.

It wasn't like a movie, a spy novel. It wasn't big, dramatic, circuitous, clever scheming. Which I know, how unsatisfactory.

But that's the truth.

Mark's never been in a fistfight in his life, but he feels so much anger over so many things coursing through his veins, he doesn't think that will be a problem.

Andrew Garfield is stumbling away from him, a disbelieving look on his face. Then Mark feels someone yanking him back. It's Jesse.

"Jesus, hey, Jesus!" he's muttering, pulling on Mark's elbows. "C'mon, Mark, c'mon. Think about it, man! Don't have enough press coverage yet? Want to see what happens if you get caught beating up the guy who played Eduardo in the movie?"

Press coverage. It goes through Mark like a shot. He imagines something worse than the media glare he's under right now, something more intense, something weirder. His hands drop down to his side and he turns away from Andrew Garfield, facing towards Jesse.

"I - he - you -" he's not sure what to say. He stares at Jesse who is looking at him with a mix of confusion and - God - is that pity? Mark shakes the thought off and tries to get his wildly beating heart under control, to just focus on Jesse. There's something inherently familiar about him in this moment, staring back at Mark. Is it the way he's standing, the way he has his head tilted, maybe? No, it's not that. It's something else. Mark concentrates harder, tries to clear his head, focus - focus - focus he tells himself. Something - it's -

"Are you - is - are we wearing the same fucking outfit?" Mark asks, disbelief coloring his words.

Jesse blinks a few times and looks Mark over. "Um - well - see I -"

From behind him, Mark hears a soft, low laughter. "Told you it was time to start buying clothes, not just stealing them from the set," Andrew Garfield murmurs.

Mark thinks that he might be going insane.
 
--
 
I had a lot of friends. I mean, I don't know why I'm telling my fucking journal this. It's not like I have to prove to my composition notebooks how totally cool I was or whatever. Besides, I have it on good authority geeks are totally sexy these days and nerds are the new cool and probably that's because of me. (well, not just me - but all the money and swagger helped. Yes, I had swagger. Yes, I knew I did. No, Justin Bieber, I did not need a coach. When you know you're the smartest guy in the room - well, it adds to the swag, OK?)

Whatever - I'm not proving anything to my journal or Mezrich or anyone in this fucking world. I had friends. Always. But even when I had friends, I only had one friend like Eduardo Saverin. It wasn't the money (but that helped. Remember no lies here) it was the belief. Eduardo believed it could be done.

This is the most important quality, I've discovered, in any friend - belief.

Eduardo always believed I could (even when he believed I shouldn't) and that - that's what I think I might miss the most.

It is definitely what I am the most sorry about.

--

"David wanted to recreate your wardrobe as closely - look, you're the weird one for still having clothes you wore in - we're getting off topic!" Jesse's pulling awkwardly on his t-shirt. talking a mile a minute, and clearly trying to get Mark to pay attention to him and not spin back around and start whaling on Andrew Garfield. Mark, looking at his evil twin who's really not that evil but is wearing the same damn outfit, is still possibly considering it.

"Look - we should - you should - if you want to - we need to leave. We gotta go. We can meet in private, if you want to - but why would you want to, oh God," Mark is suddenly concerned Jesse Eisenberg is having a full on panic attack in this bookstore and this is about to faint. Imagine the publicity on that. Before Mark can even get a single consoling word out, Jesse's speech rushes on, frantic. "This is the worst, this is -"

"It's brilliant, is what it is," Andrew mutters under his breath and Mark can't stop himself, he turns around and -

He ... sees Eduardo. In one split-second, in the way Andrew Garfield (Spider-Man!) is staring at him with wonder and maybe even a little bit of awe, he sees Eduardo, sees the way Eduardo used to look at him out of the corner of his eye, the way Mark used to pretend he couldn't see. Why'd he do that again?

And Mark doesn't want to hit Andrew anymore. He just feels so ... tired.

"You've never met him, have you?" Mark asks.

Andrew shakes his head slowly. "Never even heard from him. He won't - he doesn't seem to be interested in talking to me."

"Join the club," Mark shrugs.

Andrew looks at him as if he understands.

So, that's how the three of them end up in Jesse’s neat apartment, surrounded by cats and maps and staring at each other over Jesse’s retro kitchen table.

"Well, um," Jesse says, biting his lip nervously just as Mark feels himself subconsciously do the same, "this is awkward."
 
--
 
I feel like I am failing at this impossible to fail not really an assignment. Hmm, when I write it like that it seems weird. You can't fail a therapy assignment that exists to make you grow as a person, can you? Unless you don't grow as a person, I suppose.

That's what the point of this journal is, right? For me to grow as a person? But...it's more than that.

I think that maybe this exercise, the journal, is supposed to help me learn to tell the truth about what happened, about my role in it, about what I did and didn't do ... not to the world, but to myself.

I think maybe I can't do it wrong - maybe you can never do it wrong - if you just take control of your own story.

Mark lays his hands, palms down and fingers spread wide, on Jesse's cheap kitchen table. He's decided that maybe if he stays very, very still Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield will not be sitting on either side of him, Jesse practically twitching out of his skin with nervous energy as Andrew stares at him, his eyes growing wider every second. (which is a pretty neat trick - Jesus, that guy has eyes.)

But that doesn't work because Andrew says, "Um, so, your novel it's - it's brilliant, like I said. I love the way you took the story of you and Eduardo and turned it into a story about -"

Without thinking, Mark realizes he's clenched both his hands into fists. He feels a sudden swell of anger run through him - one that has nothing to do with Andrew Garfield, one that has no easily identifiable source. He feels angry and helpless and it's all backed up and before he knows he, he's banged his hands on the table, cutting Andrew off in mid-sentence and sending Jesse jumping about five feet out of his chair.

Mark says the thing he's wanted to shout from the top of the Empire State Building since the moment this whole thing blew up, since Oprah started calling and he made the cover of Star magazine and paparazzi started screaming at him "Mark, Mark, did you always know you were gay or was it your feelings for Eduardo that clued you in?!"

He says it too loudly, there in Jesse Eisenberg's rented apartment. "It's not...we're not ... characters in a movie - it's not a novel. It's a memoir. It's true."

"Yeah," Jesse says quietly. "I ... I thought about that sometimes during filming."

Andrew is nodding too, his eyes now downcast. "I mean - I guess, yeah, during filming. The movie, yeah. But not - not when I was reading." He looks back up at Mark and holds his gaze, steady and sure. "Your memoir man, it's bloody amazing. It's ... it's a work of art, yeah. It made me - I felt it. Not as characters, not as a novel, not as a made up story...but as - yeah, man, I felt your life."

And now it's Mark who has to look away from Andrew Garfield, shaking his head slightly and blinking hard against the sudden prick of tears he feels at the back if his eyes.

"I felt your life." Mark thinks this might be the best thing anyone could have ever said about his journals.

Mark swallows hard and turns to Jesse. He sees him looking right at Andrew as if it's just the two of them in the room, his face lit up with admiration and, well, something else, something harder to classify.

Well how about that? But before he can think about just why Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield were hanging out in a bookstore and are now staring at each other with an unnamable look, Andrew speaks again.

"And Mark? I bet Eduardo felt it too."
 
--
 
It's the big moments we want to remember - the big moments we imagine that the world changes in.

That's what made it so good in the movie, right? That's why Sorkin had to make up Erica Albright: for that amazing opening scene (of course I think it's amazing, I have eyes and ears, don't I?) for that BIG MOMENT when everything changes for "Mark" ... we want a big moment.

And you know? Sometimes there are big moments. I know, without a doubt, there were some along the way to making Facebook, to creating the company, to the way it took off. They might not have been as movie-ready, but there were big moments.

But, really, there were more small moments, more moments when one little decision changed the course of what happened. It was only in retrospect do they seem so damn big.

In the moment, in the second, they can be as simple as "yes" or "no" ... those can be the biggest moments of all, the ones that change everything, even if you don't know it.

There's a moment of silence in the apartment and no one moves. It's just out there, the thing Andrew said, and Mark doesn't know quite how to respond. So he asks something he's been dying to know for months and months.

"Why do you - why do you always do that? That thing where you - you talk about me and Eduardo like we -" Mark can't even phrase it correctly.

"Like he thinks the two of you are in love?" Jesse finishes for him, his voice knowing and maybe even a little teasing.

Mark nods, almost imperceptibly. He's not sure what reaction he's expecting from Andrew but it's probably not laughter. But that's just what Andrew does: laugh and grin at both Jesse and Mark.

"I ... when I read the script it seemed clear to me that ... I dunno. That what made it great was the way the two of you - loved each other but it got all tangled up. And maybe it wasn't, um, romantically but - it had real guts when it was a love story, yeah?"

But he's not looking at Mark when he says this. Mark sees that he's staring across the table and looking at Jesse with a careful, studied gaze and, yeah, a glint in his eyes that feels really familiar to Mark.

Andrew pulls his gaze from Jesse and looks to Mark. "And then I - I read your, um, journals and I knew I'd been right. I told Jess, I said, 'See, I told you all along,' and even he had to agree at that point because, Mark - I knew you loved him and were sorry. Can't you see it? Didn't you know that's what you wrote?"

No, no Mark hadn't. Not until that moment.

Mark swallows hard. "I - even if - even if all that was true - even if it is true - what am I supposed to do?"

Andrew's face does the impossible: break out into an even bigger smile. "Duh. You're going to tell him, of course."
 
--
 
I was walking past a bus stop the first time I saw the ad.

I mean, I was conscious of the movie - I knew they'd optioned it before Mezrich had even written the book (which really tells you quite a bit about the level of craft that went into that work of art, eh?) I knew it was going to happen, had been cast, all that stuff - but then I saw the poster.

My so-called face, the thin blue line of the Facebook bar with our font and everything and, those words, screaming at me, at the whole world: punk, prophet, genius, billionaire, traitor.

What would you do?

I stopped in my tracks and stared. I felt like I couldn't move, like maybe this was some kind of elaborate prank of piece of performance art. I didn't feel like any of those words.

Except maybe that last one.

That's when I knew that this movie wasn't going anywhere. That's when I knew that, one way or another, those words - this version of the story - were going to change everything.

And maybe that was even the moment that writing all this down and telling myversion became inevitable.

Mark makes a small, half-strangled noise and looks at Spider-Man as if he's gone completely crazy. Oh my God, maybe he has. Maybe he's gone completely around the bend and he thinks this is a screenplay or something and he's still the break-out star and - no - he thinks he's the director and he doesn't understand that this is Mark'sactual life and -

"He's not crazy," Jesse says, steadily, as if he can read Mark's mind.

Andrew laughs as if Jesse is being completely ridiculous. "Of course I'm not. It's onlylogical."

"But - I can't - it's not - you think I should just call him up and -" Mark fumbles, almost in awe of the blithe and assured way Andrew is staring right at him.

"Oh no, you can't call," Andrew shakes his head. "You'll have to do it face to face."

Eisenberg, that asshole, has the gall to laugh.

--

"He's in Singapore," Mark hisses. "You think I should just hop on a plane to Singapore?!"

"How do you know he's in Singapore? You're supposed to be in Palo Alto, not sitting at Jess's kitchen table. Maybe he's on the lam too. You could probably find out, right?" Andrew asks.

"I mean, I guess, technically I could but -"

"So then what are you waiting on?"

Mark stares at him, incomprehensibly. "He doesn't believe in wasting time," Jesse says kindly, shrugging at Mark. "I, um, you know it can actually be, his decisiveness I mean, it can be, uh, a good thing." He bites his lip and, Jesus, is he blushing?

"I don't even know where - I don't have my computer and my phone can't -" Mark defends.

"Oi, I can fix that!" Andrew calls, leaping from the table and heading out of the kitchen towards the back of the apartment.

Then it's just Jesse and Mark alone at Jesse's table. Mark starts to puzzle several things out at once. The blushing. The bookstore. The big eyes, the way they're almost finishing each other's thoughts. He thinks of all the press about the movie he tried so hard not to watch - all the teasing and the red carpets and - the blushing.

Mark drums his fingers on the table and tries to sound casual. "So, are you and him -"

Jesse goes beet red and looks away. Andrew interrupts Mark's sentence. He's marching back into the kitchen holding a MacBook Air. "This one," he gestures towards Jesse "doesn't have a computer, of course, but here's mine. You can use it, yeah?"

"You keep your computer here?" Mark asks, his gaze on Andrew unwavering.

Andrew's not phased. He gives Jesse what can only be described as an adoring grin. "Among other things," he says, his voice assured. Jesse, if possible, gets even redder.

Andrew holds the computer out to Mark and Mark, ridiculously, thinks of the Garden of Eden and a whole other apple.

"So," Andrew says, temptingly, "you gonna find him or what?"
 
--
 
I wanted to see if I could do it.

There's so many things I wish the movie, the book, the cultural conception of this all recognized - I wanted to see if I could do it.

It wasn't that my feelings were hurt, that I was drunk and blogging, that I was sad about a club, that I am a soulless automaton who stole ideas and stabbed people in the back without blinking twice and all while doodling on a legal pad.

I just wanted to see if I could do it.

If I could make all the code work, if I could fix the problems that existed in all the other sites, if I could hook people and get them coming back, if I could make the design functional and appealing, if I could really, actually do it.

And the thing is? The thing that none of the stories about what happened, about what I did, bother to understand?

Sometimes that's reason enough.

It feels good, Mark has to admit, to have his fingers on a keyboard, to have his mind occupied with code. He might even admit that it feels especially good to be doing something illegal, a little bit of hacking that cracks the world of information open for him.

Jesse and Andrew don't exist anymore. There's no more reporters screaming his name or reviewers speculating about his hopes and dreams. It's just him and information he's looking for. The information that will tell him Eduardo is in Singapore, the information that will let him shrug at Andrew Garfield's earnestly imploring eyes, the information that will prove that Eduardo doesn't care about his journals, that he never even read them. It will unlock everything, it will give him what he needs and then this can all be -

"Fuck me," he mutters.

He doesn't even realize he's said it out loud until Andrew jumps up and says, eagerly, "What? Did you find something? What is it?"

"No, I, nothing," Mark says, trying to close out the window. But of course, Andrew is right behind, leaning in to peer at the screen.

"Bloody hell did you - did you hack...is that the British Airways site?" Andrew's voice is awestruck.

"Um, British Airways is his favorite, um, nevermind -" Mark reaches up to slam the MacBook shut, but he knows it's too late. Andrew might sound awestruck, but Mark has a feeling he's taking in everything.

"You liar!" Andrew shouts, his voice absurdly pleased. "I - you - I saw that! He - he's - he - Eduardo is -"

Andrew wheels around to stare at Jesse. His face is exultant. "He landed in New York City two days ago. He's here!"

Jesse groans as if he knows something Mark doesn't. "Oh man. You want us to go find him, don't you?"

"Us?" Mark says, his voice pitched. He looks over at Andrew, who's practically hopping up and down.

"Of course!" Andrew answers. He pokes Mark in the back. "Do your crazy hacking thing and find out what hotel he's at. We have to go -"

Mark really does hate himself for what blurts out of his mouth next. "He's not at a hotel. I know where he'd go."

Jesse runs a hand through his hair. "He gets one day off from being Spider-Man andthis is what we're doing," he sighs.

Andrew's grin gets even wider. "Come on then, author-man, let's go."
 
--
 
"I have to use the restroom!" Mark shouts, jumping up and practically pushing Andrew over.

Jesse rolls his eyes and points towards the hall Andrew had headed down. Mark barrels gracelessly down the hallway. He pushes the bathroom door open but doesn't go inside. He stands in the hallway doing some nervous breathing instead. So it's not like he meant to listen to Andrew and Jesse, but he can't ignore the snatches of their conversation he hears from the living room.

"...crazy," Jesse says, "he's not ready...photographers following us as is, him too and if they see..."

Andrew's voice, rising in between. "We'll split up and meet...this could be important...don't we owe...it would be spectacular, Jess...don't you..."

Mark taps his foot, tries not to listen. Maybe he could sneak out of the bathroom window. Is that a real thing people do? No, crazy Andrew Garfield would probably chase him down and drag him out of - wait, are they not talking anymore? Has Garfield convinced Eisenberg they should sneak out and find Eduardo on their own because Mark is trying to climb out the bathroom window? That sounds like him. Great, that'd be just great.

Mark edges back down the hallway towards the living room. He doesn't want to spy on them, he really doesn't, no more than he wants to eavesdrop, but he figures if he can just get a really quick glimpse at what they're doing -

kissing, they're kissing, pressed up tight against each other, Andrew pulling Jesse in close, hanging on to the flimsy t-shirt Jesse is wearing that matches the very same one Mark has on. Mark has a sudden flash of doing that same thing, himself, to Eduardo. It gives him a strange sense of deja-vu mixed with vertigo. This is fuckingweird.

"Ah!" Mark shrieks, almost against his will. He rushes back into the living room, shaking his finger. "I knew it! You two - you -"

Jesse and Andrew don't jump apart dramatically or anything, they just take a single step out of each other's arms.

"Um, I know, uh, it's a complicated situation that, uh -" Jesse bites his bottom lip.

"Yes, it's what it looks like," Andrew shrugs, smiling. "We're friends and we kiss and we're a little bit in love and it's fucking fabulous. Now if you get your shit together and tell us where Eduardo is the three of us can all meet up there to see if you can find something fabulous yourself."

Mark thinks about it, he thinks about his journals, he thinks about all the things he didn't quite realize he was writing and saying and meaning until the whole world apparently saw it. And maybe the person who saw it first was the guy now standing in front of him: Andrew Garfield, who since the second he picked up that script that was ostensibly about Mark's life has been talking about break-up scenes and ex-girlfriends and Mark and Eduardo moving in together.

Then Mark thinks about how, really, it was that version of the story of his life, the one that blew up and was everywhere and labeled him a punk-genius-billionaire-traitor, that probably started him on the path of finding the words to tell his own story.

He got himself here. He wrote himself here. He wants to go the rest of the way.

So he tells Andrew Garfield the address.
 
--
 
I was his friend too, you know.

Does that sound defensive, like I am trying too hard - do you not believe me? If Ireally cared ... a true friend would never do what I did, right?

For the longest time, I believed that. For the longest time, I said that to myself. In a way - in a way I said that to make it easier on myself.

"You weren't really his friend, not ever, you were a bad friend, because you put business over his friendship and so you were never his friend and so this is really more like a business relationship that went wrong and that happens sometimes, but it will pass and you won't really miss anything and he certainly won't miss anything, because you weren't really ever his friend."

But I was. I was his friend. I might not have been the best friend, not always, but I was his friend - I knew his stories and I wanted him to be part of mine. I did go to him first and not just for the money. I did ... I knew what it meant to his father, that was true. I knew that, I went to him, because ... because he was my friend.

But because I was his friend too.

And I think, now, that maybe I miss being his friend just as much as I miss him being my friend.

They've exchanged numbers and GPS'ed the address and plan to leave Jesse's apartment one at a time before they'll rendezvous and, who knows what, text from a block apart outside Eduardo's high rise ("He loves New York," Mark explained almost sheepishly. "He always did. I found out he bought - I mean, Chris told me so it wasn't - anyway, that's where he'd go.") and then make some kind of plan to ambush Eduardo. Gee, when Mark phrases it like that it almost seems weird. ("It's like a caper," Andrew says, still beaming. "A caper for love.")

Andrew leaves first. He points at Mark. "Show up or else I'll go talk to him myself without you." Mark knows it's not a threat, it's a promise.

Then it's just him and Jesse, awkwardly shifting around with their hands shoved in their pockets. Jesse's changed into an outfit so they don't look alike but Mark feels weird about how closely their body language is mirroring each other. He stops rocking and looks over at Jesse, who seems to have noticed too and gives him a chagrined shrug.

"So, you and him -"

"We are." His voice doesn't shake now, it's clear and steady.

"That's ... I didn't ... maybe that's why the movie was supposed to happen."
As soon as Mark says that, it feels like a stupid thing, but also maybe a right thing.

Jesse seems to agree. He smiles. "Maybe. Or maybe," he gestures between them, towards the door Andrew has bounded out of. "Maybe this was."

And maybe Mark smiles a little at that. Maybe.

--

To: Andrew, Mark
OK, now we're all here and we inconspicuously look like impoverished 20somethings who are casing this luxury building, no big deal. You ... someone has a plan, right?

To: Jesse, Mark
Yes, the plan is he goes and talks to him and asks him what he thinks of the book and we make sure he doesn't run out the other door.

To: Andrew, Jesse
THAT'S the brilliant plan?!

To: Jesse, Mark
It doesn't have to be brilliant. He's read the damn book. You just have to tell him. So get moving.

To: Andrew, Mark
I certainly don't have any better ideas. You got us here. Get in there.

And, in the end, that's what it comes down to, Mark guesses. Though he certainly had some help from the dude who has an Oscar nomination for playing him and his eager boyfriend who is going to be Spider-Man, this is on Mark. And, actually, he can admit he's glad it's on him, he's glad he's had these two guys pushing him forward.

But now? He has no other options but to go ask Eduardo what he thought of the book.

He walks inside.

So, what would you do?
 
I know you think you have the answer.  I know you think it would be easy. 
 
Maybe you think you just say “I’m sorry,” and then it’s all over.
 
But this is a billion dollars, you know.  Several billion dollars, actually.  And it’s about … it’s about something that changed the world and that was a something we made, the two of us, that I cut him out of.  It’s about the deepest betrayal you can ever imagine.
 
You can’t just walk up and say you’re sorry about that.  It doesn’t – it’s not … it can’t be that easy.  Because if it’s that easy …
 
You can’t just say you’re sorry.
 
Can you?
 
The guard at the door doesn’t even look up.  At least Mark doesn’t have to worry about being incognito, this guy is so bored Mark’s not sure he’d react if Beyonce walked in.
 
“Um, I…I’m here to see Mr. Saverin,” Mark chokes it out, his pulse racing.
 
The lobby is entirely deserted.  Assuming the tabloids, heck, regular reporters are trying to find Eduardo – they don’t know he’s here.  Mark wonders if he’s tricked them into thinking he’s somewhere else and he has a sneaking suspicion that were he to hack into the name or corporation that Eduardo bought this place through it would be hard to trace it back to Eduardo unless you knew what you were looking for.
 
No matter, the security guy keeps flipping through the magazine in front of him, still not sparing a glance.  “Mr. Saverin isn’t taking any - ”
 
“Just – can you just – just call up and tell him – if he doesn’t want to see me I’ll go.  Um, can you, uh, just - ” Mark’s worried he’s starting to sound a little frantic, which is no way to get yourself in the door, so he takes a deep breath and goes for nonchalant.  He pretends, in fact, that he is a big movie star.  That he’s an Oscar nominee, that he’s the lead in a new Marvel tentpole film.  His tone is cool.  “Look, I know he’ll want to see me.  If you’ll just call up and tell him I’m here, I guaranteehe’ll want to see me.  If he doesn’t, I’ll call him and have him come down here.  This way just saves him the effort of coming down to get me, which he’ll thank you for.”
 
It works.  The security guy actually stops flipping the pages and looks up at Mark, who has schooled his face into a blank expression. 
 
“Fine,” he says grudgingly.  “Name?”
 
“Tell him Tyler is here to see him.  Tyler Durden.”
--
 
Thank God the security guy wasn’t a movie buff is the only thought running though Mark’s brain as he rides the elevator to the 31st floor.  He wants to think about what to say or how he’ll react or imagine what Eduardo might do – besides close the door in his face – but he can’t stop thinking about the bored way the security guard hung up the phone and told Mark “Mr. Saverin says to take the elevator to the 31^st floor,”before he returned to flipping through his magazine.  Mark wants to plan out what he’s going to say but he just stares at the numbers lighting up and twitches, waiting for 31 to come up.  Mark assumes that Eduardo owns the 31^st floor and, when the elevator doors open, he’ll see his door, walk over to it, knock, and – well, say the thing he hasn’t thought of yet.
 
He doesn’t expect that when the doors slide open in the 31^st floor, Eduardo will be standing right in front of him, arms crossed, an inscrutable expression on his face.
 
--
 
“I – uh – hey.”  Mark says, stupidly.
 
Eduardo doesn’t react and his expression doesn’t change.
 
“So – uh – yeah – thanks for agreeing to – uh, I mean , it’s good to, um – hey.”
 
Slowly, deliberately, Eduardo recites, “If I was really sorry I'd stop talking about being sorry and regrets and do something about it. I'd look, closely and honestly, at what I had done and not just talk about how bad it made me feel.”
 
Well, at least that answers that question. 
 
Mark recognizes it at once.  It’s Eduardo quoting him, his book. 
 
“Oh,” Mark says.  “So, uh, I’m guessing you – uh, did you read it?”
 
Not that Mark is expecting anything (really) but if he were the very last thing he’d be expecting is Eduardo’s posture relaxing, his shoulders slumping almost comfortably, and his mouth turning up in a small smile.
 
He never expected for Eduardo to laugh.
 
“Did I read it?” He throws his hands up in the air. His words rush out. “Mark, your fucking book has achieved full media saturation, it has total brand recognition. Do you get that?  Why do you think I’m in New York in my doorman building not seeing anyone?   People want to know what I … you know I’m in your book, right?  I – have Iread it?”
 
“Well, um, I…OK.  Yeah, when you put it that way it is kind of a stupid question.”  Mark shrugs uncomfortably.
 
Eduardo laughs again, but the weirdest part is, it’s not really a mean laugh.  It’s – it’s a sound Mark recognizes, a disbelieving almost indulgent sound from another life.  It makes Mark stomach clench with something that feels like hope.
 
“Have I read it?  Mark,” Eduardo rolls his eyes, “that’s like saying ‘Did you know they made a movie about us?  Have you heard about it?  Oh yeah, it was nominated for eight Oscars and made $250 million.  Oh, and the guy who plays you is Spider-Man, do you know him?’”
 
“I just met him today,” Mark blurts out, completely against his better judgment.  All the color drains from Eduardo’s face.
 
“You – I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
 
“He’s – he’s out in front of your building with his … his boyfriend.  Me.”
 
“You’re dating Andrew Garfield?” Eduardo’s voice pitches high with disbelief and his face is now pinched in anger.
 
“What?  Me – no!  Jesus,” Mark is frantic.  “Not me, no, Andrew thinks you and I – I mean, uh, the boyfriend, it’s Jesse Eisenberg.  ”
 
“Jesse Eisenberg!” Eduardo gasps.  He mutters, almost to himself, “Is this real life?”
 
Mark nods.  “My thoughts exactly.”
 
Eduardo gives him a sideways glance and Mark sees his face break out in a small smirk.  That feels familiar too; conspiratorial and close.  Mark feels that same bloom of hope in his chest.
 
“Wait,” Eduardo says, “did you just say they were outside my building?”
 
--
 
Eduardo invites him in.
 
It’s possible that Eduardo invites him in just to hear the story of how Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg are dating and standing outside his apartment building.  Who wouldn’t want to hear that story?  But what does it matter?  Eduardo invites him in.
 
They sit across from each other in Eduardo’s sprawling, elegant living room.  He has a living room set that Mark is sure is ridiculously expensive because it doesn’t lookexpensive and a wall of floor to ceiling windows that have a beautiful view of the city.
 
So they sit in Eduardo’s very expensive chairs and Mark tells him the story.  Well, OK, Mark tells him most of the story.   He tells him about coming to New York to hide from the press, about running into Jesse in the bookstore, about being at Jesse’s kitchen table, about how Andrew insisted that finding Eduardo could be a thing, about how he caught them kissing, and finally, about how before he knew it – there they all were.  He does not tell him about hacking British Airways looking for his name and he certainly does not tell him about how Andrew Garfield and considers this a secret mission of not just reconciliation but true love. 
 
“OK,” Eduardo says, sitting up straight in the chair directly across from Mark. “So the guys that played us in the movie ostensibly about us are an … item.  That’s … OK.  But what did that have to do with all three of you – how did it come up that you were going to try to find me - much less with them accompanying you … wait.   Wait a minute.”
 
Eduardo gets a look of deep concentration on his face. “You …” Mark can feel his scrutinizing gaze.  “Did you watch press, Mark?  About the movie?  About the fact that all of a sudden you and I were, like, movie characters?  Did you ever read any of the - ”
 
“No!” Mark practically shouts.  “I barely even knew – no!  And even if I – no!” He jumps up from his seat and walks over to Eduardo’s huge windows, he looks out at Manhattan, doesn’t know what he’s doing here.  With his back to Eduardo, he practically whispers his next two words.  “Did you?”
 
It feels like an endless moment of quiet.  Mark doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he hears Eduardo stand.  Eduardo walks over to him and then they’re standing side-by-side, looking out at the world and not at each other. 
 
When Eduardo speaks again his voice is low and rough.  “Yeah, Mark.  I watched them too.  ‘Can we be friends again?’” Eduardo parrots. “‘I’ll give you back as much money as you want. Let’s move in together and we’ll play basketball every day, and we’ll cuddle at night and watch reality TV.’”
 
Mark exhales shakily.
 
Eduardo’s voice is wonderstruck.  “They brought you here – he brought you here – theme brought you here because he thinks that …”
 
All this time, Mark thought that what he wanted to know the most, what he had to know, was what Eduardo thought of his journals.  But he sees now that was only partof the question he came here today needing answered.  It’s finally time, after 394 pages, a NY Times best-seller, and National Book Award chatter, to ask the other part.  After all those scrawled out composition notebooks, Mark is finally ready.
 
“Was he – if I’d said that, if I’d – was he right?”
 
And then, before Eduardo can say anything, Mark realizes he has the answer.  Maybe he’s had it all along.

--
 
I could fill up a hundred of these composition books with “I’m really sorry” and variations thereof.  Line after line after line of neatly lettered, genuinely meant apologies.  (and I hope by now it’s clear that they really would be genuinely meant.) And guess what that would get me, guess what that would achieve?
 
Nothing.
 
Because I see now – I see that none of this has been about my apologies, not really, no matter how genuinely I mean them all, no matter how much better it makes me feel (and it does make me feel a little better, which, whoa, point of the exercise or what).
 
All those lines, all those apologies, they don’t change anything.  They don’t undo anything.  They might make me feel a little better but even that’s fleeting.
 
Apologies, pages of them, they mean nothing without someone to hear them.  I thought that was what I was supposed to be “learning”  but maybe … maybe what I was supposed to figure out was that apologies are worth saying even if you’re not sure if anyone’s listening. 

--
 
He turns to face Eduardo, who is still staring determinedly out his window.  But Mark needs to see him for this part, so without hesitation he reaches out and grabs Eduardo’s shoulder.  As he expected, the touch is enough to startle Eduardo into turning and looking right at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.
 
“Eduardo, it doesn’t matter if – you did – or if it was about – that doesn’t matter.  I wish that – I should have – but it doesn’t really matter because either way.  No matter if he’s right or not or was right and isn’t right anymore I – I’m sorry.  No matter what, I’m sorry.”
 
That’s what Mark’s needed to say all along.
 
He releases Eduardo’s shoulder and steps back.
 
That’s it.  He’s done.  It’s over.
 
It’s over until Eduardo, his voice firm, says, “I’m sorry too, Mark.  Your book made me think and remember and reading it – we were young and stupid and we both made mistakes and…Mark.  I’m sorry.”
 
Then it doesn’t feel over at all.                                                            
 
--
 
They stare at each other for a long instant and Mark feels his heart beating so hard it almost hurts. 
 
“What…” Mark gulps. He has to ask.  “What did you think of the book?”
 
“It was,” Eduardo pauses, considering, “it was brilliant.”
 
“Andrew Garfield’s word,” Mark thinks stupidly, as Eduardo’s face lights up with that same goofy, radiant smile Mark has pretended he can’t even remember.
 
And then, goofy smile and all, Eduardo is reaching out for him and pulling him close for a hug.  It’s the Eduardo who was always reaching, always touching, as if to make sure Mark was still really there.  Without hesitation, Mark responds, wrapping his arms around Eduardo’s waist and squeezing as he hears Eduardo exhalelaughsigh into his ear.
 
“I meant it,” Mark murmurs.  “Even the parts I didn’t know – I meant it all.”
 
Eduardo hugs him harder.  “I know, Mark, I know,” he says, his voice soft.
 
--
 
After what feels like both a very long time and the blink of an eye, Eduardo and Mark break their hug.  Now they’re again standing shoulder to shoulder looking out Eduardo’s windows.  “It’s sort of funny,” Eduardo says.
 
“What is?” Mark feels loose, relaxed, heck, happy.  He feels the way he only thought you could feel after a hackathon where everything goes right.
 
“To think of them – Eisenberg and Garfield – down there skulking around with hats pulled low, waiting for you run out of the building or something.”
 
“Yeah.  Jesse is probably fidgeting so hard with the desire to leave your neighbors are gonna report him as a junkie.  And Andrew … Andrew is probably sending him texts from half a block away saying how exciting this ‘caper for love’ is and Jesse is - ”
 
“I’m sorry – did you just say a ‘caper for love’ – do you mean he still thinks – he thinks you’re up here and we’re - ” 
 
Mark ducks his head, curses his stupidity.  “I know,” he interrupts.  “It’s dumb, it’s so dumb, I tried to tell him that it was a ridiculous  …”
 
Before he can finish the sentence, Eduardo nudges him with his shoulder when Mark turns to face him, his protest dies on his lips.  Eduardo is smiling at him and, yes – really – yes, reaching out again for him.
 
But he doesn’t think it’s going to be for a simple hug this time.
 
Mark lets Eduardo pull him close, tilts his head up to meet Eduardo’s lowered head and yes – just like that – yes, closes his eyes for his very first kiss with Eduardo.
 
“We shouldn’t let him down,” Eduardo says gently against Mark’s lips.
 
Mark kisses back, not with a lot of style, he has to admit, but with plenty of enthusiasm.  “No,” he gasps as Eduardo presses their bodies even closer together, “he already got snubbed by the Oscars.”
 
Eduardo’s laughter mixes with his kisses and his roaming hands and Mark is pretty sure that no Hollywood movie could ever have an ending (an ending that really feels like a beginning) this great.
 
--
 
Mark’s never realized how much he’d wanted to mess up Eduardo’s hair until this moment, his fingers tangled in Eduardo’s hair as Eduardo arches into his every touch. 
 
“I want,” Eduardo says, his voice low and rough in Mark’s ear, “I want to take you to my bedroom and-”
 
“Yes,” Mark answers without hesitation, his blood burning, “Yes.” 
 
Eduardo laughs with delight.  “But we can’t leave Spider-Man and the Oscar nominee lurking around outside my building all day.”
 
Mark sighs with exasperation but then has a terrible image of tabloids discovering the two of them out there and then some jerk putting the pieces together about where Eduardo is and – and – well. 
 
“Fine,” he says, reluctantly pulling himself away from Eduardo’s embrace and reaching for his phone.  “Can I text them and tell them to come up here?  We can explain, I mean – if you want to tell, um, anyone, if you want to tell people, I guess, if you want  I didn’t think – uh…” he trails off, unsure of what Eduardo is going to want to share about all this with the world, much less with Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield. 
 
It’s as if Eduardo can read the hesitation on his face.  “Hey,” he says, reaching back out for Mark, circling his wrist and tugging him gently forward.  He smiles.  “We can tell – we should tell them first, I guess because, well, that seems right, I guess but…we’re gonna tell everyone, Mark, OK?”
 
Mark can’t stop his stupid smile in response or his stupid heartbeat racing. He looks right at Eduardo and nods his head back.  “That’s what I want too, Eduardo.”
 
Eduardo squeezes Mark’s wrist and holds his gaze.  His voice is steady, his smile fixed. “And, Mark, if you want, you can – you should –  I mean – I’d like it if you called me…”
 
Mark feels an unspeakable relief wash through him.  He cuts Eduardo off.  “Wardo,” he sighs, “Wardo.” It feels so good to say.
 
At that, Wardo’s face softens and his eyes light up.  “Yes,” he murmurs, looking away for a split-second.  When he looks up at Mark again, there’s a mischievous smile lighting up his face, “So, um, you wanna have some fun?”
 
--
 
Jesse and Andrew are banging on Wardo’s door so loudly he’s afraid they’re about to knock it in.  Wardo gives him a quick smile and Mark schools his face into a neutral expression and opens the door slowly.  Andrew is beaming from ear to ear while Jesse looks around furtively.  Without a word, Andrew pushes inside the apartment.
 
“Mr. Saverin?  Mr. Saverin are you in there?  Thank you for inviting us, Mr. Saverin!” Andrew crows as he moves towards Wardo’s living room.  Jesse rolls his eyes and follows.
 
Wardo is standing in his living room with his arms crossed. “My God,” Andrew says, staring at him with wide eyes.  “It’s really you,” his voice is wonderstruck.
 
“It’s really me,” Wardo says, calmly.
 
“Did you – did you ever get my emails?” Andrew’s voice is pitched with excitement.  “Did you get the letter?  I didn’t – I sent it to your firm and David said I shouldn’t but after we wrapped I figured – and Jess said it couldn’t hurt and – oh my God – you’re really real – you’re here and – did you like it?  Did you see it and think we did – and … did you … was I …”
 
Jesse nudges him slightly with his elbow, as if to get Andrew unstuck from his loop.
 
Andrew closes his mouth and stares expectantly at Wardo, who makes no move or gesture.  A moment of silence descends on the room but Mark has faith that Andrew won’t be able to help himself. 
 
Sure enough he bites his lip for only a second before blurting it out.  “So?” He drags his stare away from Wardo to look right at Mark.  “Did you – did you ask – did you tell him?”
 
“Oh, I told him,” Mark answers, making his tone remote and glacial.  “And he has something he wants to tell you two.  Go on,” he gestures towards Wardo, “go on and tell them, then.”
Wardo lets his expression relax and, without so much as another glance towards Andrew, he moves towards Jesse.  “I realize as Mark was talking something I’d known all along,” he begins, his voice rhapsodic.  “It was the movie, Mark’s memoirs, all the publicity, it made me see that I was … back in the day I was in love with Mark.”
 
Andrew gives a small fist-pump and half-whispers, “Yes!”
 
“But that was then.  In the now all that made me realize,” Wardo is still advancing across the room towards Jesse who seems to be cluing in that perhaps something weird is going on.  “I’m not in love with Mark now.  His book – it’s not anyone I know.  The movie – the interviews – I see now the person I want to get to know is you, Jesse.  I think you’re the one.”
 
Mark has to think of every line of boring binary he can to keep a straight face as he watches Andrew’s expression shift into one of total incomprehension and Jesse’s face go pale with shock and he steps awkwardly back from an advancing Wardo.  “Fuck!” Jesse curses as he stumbles back.  “This is – this is going to be worse than Tyra!”
 
Wardo opens his arms, moves towards Jesse.  “Jesse, you’re the Mark I loved!”
 
Mark decides this is the perfect time to step in.  “You two assholes ruined everything!” He shrieks, moving towards Andrew in what he hopes is a somewhat intimidating manner.  “If you hadn’t made that movie, I wouldn’t have had to publish my journals!  You did this!” As Wardo moves towards Jesse, Mark makes for Andrew.
 
Andrew is still staring, bewildered, and Jesse gives a short yelp and trips over his own feet, sprawling out on Wardo’s thick, plush carpet.
 
That’s when Andrew starts laughing.
 
“Stop laughing! This isn’t-” Jesse shouts as he stumbles back.
 
“They’re fucking with us, Jess,” Andrew gasps out between laughs, staring right at Mark with something like wonder in his eyes. “They’re fucking with us … which means that they … that …”
 
Mark can’t help it, he stops in his tracks and grins back at Andrew.  Wardo has stopped advancing on Jesse too and takes a few steps to stand right beside Mark. 
 
And Mark knows it’s stupid but he has a split-second of holding his breath, unsure of just what Wardo will do now – now that there are people there, now that it’s gonna bereal  - now that there’s no turning back.  Is any of this really happening?  Is he really a NY Times bestselling author?  Are Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield currently standing in Wardo’s apartment?  Can Mark actually say Wardo?  Did Wardo really read his book, did he really understand it and can it really be true that – that –
 
Then Mark feels Wardo’s arms snake around his waist.  “Yes,” Mark realizes, “Yes.”
 
“I really liked the movie, Mr. Garfield,” Wardo says, pulling Mark close and smiling.  “And I believe there are a few things I have to thank you for.”
 
“Bloody brilliant,” Andrew enthuses.
 
--
 
Mark stands in front of Wardo’s huge windows and watches Jesse and Wardo wrapped up in a conversation full of hand gestures and emphatic nods.  Andrew stands behind them, listening intently.  Mark was expecting Andrew would corner Wardo and try to ask him a thousand questions but Wardo’d reached a hand out to Jesse to help him up, apologizing and laughing, and the two of them had fallen into a quick conversation that had rapidly progressed.  Mark felt a weird feeling that prickled like déjà-vu, watching the guy he’d jokingly referred to as his “evil twin”, the guy nominated for an Oscar for playing him in a movie, talking so easily with his real-life Wardo. (who was now his real-life … well, his real-life … someone.)
 
In a gesture that is both casual and intimate, Andrew places a hand on Jesse’s back and rubs a small, quick circle there and then walks over to Mark, leaving Wardo and Jesse to their conversation.
 
“Hey,” he says, still grinning that delirious grin that won’t stop.  “Aren’t you glad I’m not one of those people who loves to say “I told you so?’”
 
Mark laughs a little, feels a delirious grin of his own.  “At this point, I really wouldn’t mind. I – uh -” Mark pauses, not quite sure how to say what he wants to say next.  “Um, but Wardo was right, we should both thank you for, I mean, we owe you so - ”
 
Andrew waves a hand.  “You don’t – neither one of you – the movie, that was your story, you know?  Part of your story?  Without your story, without that – without your story … that changed everything.  That changed my … everything.  I wouldn’t have met Jess, I wouldn’t have all these fucking chances and – it changed everything.”  Andrew’s voice trembles slightly with emotion on the word “everything” and Mark notices his eyes are suspiciously bright. 
 
Andrew takes a big breath and then continues. “I dreamed that I’d find a way to … to tell you, to do something, but I never really thought I’d get a chance.  Then you wrote your book, Mark.  Then you told your story and I felt like maybe the movie had helped make that happen.  I thought that could be the way I’d … when I read your journals, Mark, I knew that – I knew that, for you, there was going to be more.  When I saw you today in the bookshop I had this feeling like it was a chance for me to help with the more and I – I – but you – you don’t owe me anything.”
 
Mark feels a flush creep up his face.  He ducks his face away from Andrew, unable to meet his unwavering and sincere gaze. 
 
“It wasn’t…” Mark says softly.
 
“It was,” Andrew insists.  “It really was.”
 
In that second, Mark allows in his head that maybe it was.
 
--
 
“So what are they talking about anyway?”  Mark jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointed towards Wardo and Jesse.
 
Andrew laughs.  “Besides their newly found best friendship?  By now, who knows?  When I left Eduardo was telling him all about his favorite spots in Rome, since Jess is headed there for work soon.”
 
“Rome?” Mark asks.  “That’s pretty far away.”
 
Andrew shrugs. “It’s one of his oldest dreams coming true.  How could I try to stand in the way of that?  Why would I wanna?”
 
“But aren’t you afraid that-”
 
“No, not at all.  There are some things that are bigger than distance.”
 
Bigger than distance. 
 
“I’m still going to get him to move back to the States,” Mark answers immediately, knowing he doesn’t need to elaborate, knowing that Andrew Garfield will understand completely.
 
 “Oh, Mark,” Andrew says, his voice happy and knowing.  “I’m so glad to have finally met you both.  I hope you,” Andrew reaches out and grabs Mark’s shoulder, squeezing tight.  “I hope you make the most of this chance, that you live up to your journals.”
 
Mark nods, relaxes into Andrew’s grip.  “I’m going to try.  I’m really going to try.  You know what they say: with great power comes great responsibility.”
 
Andrew laughs and Mark – Mark can’t help it, he joins him.
 
--
 
There are handshakes at the door, lots of conversation over each other. 
 
Then, without any warning, Andrew pulls Mark into a hug. 
 
“Thank you,” Mark says, meaning it in ways he can’t quite articulate. 
 
“No,” Andrew tells him, “thank you.  This was the best day off from shooting ever.”
 
When Andrew breaks the hug and steps back to Jesse’s side, he twines his fingers with Jesse’s.  Jesse gives Mark and Wardo an awkward but sincere smile.   
 
Mark feels Wardo’s hand reach out for his and he gladly opens his palm and holds on.  He realizes that now, standing across from them; they’re mirroring Andrew and Jesse.  It feels oddly … right.
 
“So, uh, yeah,” Jesse looks right at Mark, “me and Eduardo we, uh, he said there were some places, um, so I thought it sounded -”
 
“What he means,” Wardo interrupts, “is that we decided the four of us should meet up in Rome.”
 
Mark knows there’s only one appropriate reply.  He squeezes Wardo’s hand and says, “Bloody brilliant!”
 
--
It’s something else, you know, to have “your story” out there, in the world, as told by so many voices that aren’t your own.  It’s something else to look up at a giant screen and see actors playing out your life, making something dramatic and epic out of your actions and deeds and, yeah, mistakes and regrets too. 
But – but maybe real life is dramatic and epic enough even without a movie version.  Hell, I don’t know.  Maybe those actors playing out your life have a life and story all their own and maybe that’s the point – we can all be the stars of our own stories, even if there aren’t Oscars and a few hundred million dollars involved. 
 
Was this my manifesto?  Was it my mea culpa? Was it my memoir?
 
Maybe it was a little bit of all that – and maybe it was something just a little bit more too. 
 
Maybe it was just my story – maybe it was just my voice.
 
I hope someone hears it.  I hope someone feels it. 
 
I hope it’s you.
 
--
 
Rome is lovely in the Spring.   

Chapter Text

"New York Times Best-selling author Marky-Mark, it's me. Chris called and told me you'd gone into full lock-down in the house after some reporter cornered you while you were out getting shrimp lo-mein. Did you know you're on the cover of both Publisher's Weekly and Star magazine this week? I don't know if that's ever happened before. Anyhow, um, I finally - Mark. I always knew you loved reading and shit but - Mark; you're a really good writer. They - your journals - it moved me, man. I was trying to be sarcastic there at the start but...fuck. Mark, I really think, uh, you need to call him - you need to - Mark. Mark, come on, call me back."

"Mr. Zuckerberg, this is Marylin Delpy from Ableman & Connors & Smith. First, congratulations on the sales. I believe I read in the Times you're the best-selling stand-alone title of the year so far. Second, I understand that you have questions about slander and libel you wish to discuss about some of the press coverage and in regards to some of the paparazzi attention you've been receiving. We'll be happy to follow up, but I must warn you that, especially now with the prominence your book has brought you, you're more a public figure than ever, which does make things difficult. But please feel free to contact me at your earliest convenience about these matters. Also, um, on a personal note, Mr. Zuckerberg, I just want to say, um, well, I don't know if you remember, I'm sure you don't but - uh, I read your book and - it was really beautiful, Mr. Zuckerberg and, um, I don't think you're trying to be an asshole anymore."

"Hello Mr. Zuckerberg, this is Oprah Winfrey. I hope you're doing well. I've spoken with your publisher several times and understand that you're not interested in appearing on my network to do publicity for your book but I wanted to speak with you about it personally. Your book is amazing, Mr. Zuckerberg. I'd love to do something with your cooperation as you see fit, but I want you to know I plan on selecting and featuring your book regardless, because it's so compelling and important that I want to share it with as many people as possible.  I think your book speaks to America, Mr. Zuckerberg.  I hope you'll want to join me in the conversation you’ve helped start. Please get in touch with me when you've had some time to think this over."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't have spent two months dodging my calls and ignoring my emails, Mark. I know I'm not your head of PR anymore but I thought we were at least still friends and I do know a thing or do about public relations, you know? We could have avoided this…mess. Mark - look. I tracked down Sean and he's completely convinced publishing the journals was the right decision and, I don't know, maybe it is. It's - God, Mark - they're really good. But … I don't know if this is the way you want to, um, tell him. Just - just call me, OK? Let me help you out, please? Mark, please."

"Mark, its Laura. I just wanted to let you know that times of crisis are the worst times to be missing therapy. I - I just finished, Mark. I know you wanted a definite answer from me on if you should publish, but as I said, that had to be your decision alone. I want you to know, Mark, as a work of art, well, it's fantastic. And for you, personally, Mark this is a true breakthrough. And that means we have a lot to discuss. If you don't call to reschedule, I will be making a home visit. Congratulations, Mark, I think the real work can begin now."

"Mark, it's me, your mother. I - your father and I - Mark, honey, we’re so proud of you. Your book - oh, it's so lovely. And sweetheart, if there's ever anything you need to tell us - you know that we love you no matter what and all we ever wanted for you was - we always wanted you to be happy and, and  - we always thought he was such a nice boy, so if you – Mark, honey, can you call home, please?"
 
--
 
Mark keeps avoiding every call, no matter how urgent or pleading the message. Why does everyone keep skirting around...around Eduardo's name? That's not the only thing in his journals, OK? Why's everyone sounding so fucking delicate about this, tip-toeing around maybe hurting his feelings?

He just doesn't feel like talking to anyone. His feelings aren't hurt, it's impossible for his feelings to be hurt.

That's why he doesn't feel anything at all about the fact that it seems like every person in the whole world, save one single person, is calling him and wanting to talk.

He has nothing to say to anyone who is calling and he has no idea what he'd say to the person who isn't calling ... so voicemail it is.
 
--
 
Every time I see yet another book coming out telling me to take up arms against my technology oppressors and free myself from the digital world that's turning me into one of those human batteries from The Matrix I want to find the author and punch them in the face. And I'm not a punching kind of guy.

You Are Not A Gadget: A Manifesto, The Shallows: What The Internet is Doing To Our Brains, Alone Together: Why We Expect More From Technology And Less From Each Other ... why not just publish them all in one big omnibus called Trendpieces For Dinosaurs: The Internet Is Bad!

So here's MY manifesto: "the Internet" (like it's all some big amorphous unit, like 4chan and Dooce and BoingBoing and Etsy and Fandom Wank are all the exact same) is what YOU make of it.
 
We should expect amazing things from technology, because technology is us.
 
And if you think the Internet is ruining your friendships and pulling you away from people and turning you into some shallow thinking, short-sighted, vainglorious asshole? Then guess what? You are to blame for that, not the nice, shiny machine in your house.

And, yeah, *I* knew that all along, even as I was changing the way we communicated online, even as I was inventing new meanings for the word "friend", even as I helped shape the technology of communication in an entirely original way.

I always knew I was an asshole, I really did, I won't apologize for that or act like it's some surprise. I can be single-minded, stubborn, heedless and careless. Technology, Facebook, "the Internet" had nothing to do with that. It's just part of my personality, part of my manifesto, part of who I am.

I always knew I was an asshole.

I just never really thought it would cost me Eduardo.

Publish them.
 
Why not?

Sean wouldn't let up about it after he found that first notebook in Mark's office. And he did all his Sean persuading and Mark started looking at the neat pile of composition notebooks stacked up in his office and he started thinking about the questions Laura was asking about "Well, Mark, has writing helped you get a better grasp on why you're hesitant to let people get close to you?"

Maybe it had.

So, publish them. It'd be - it'd be this cool, underground, obscure thing. He make them 'zines, hire some people to hand-letter 50 copies or something. Or, better still, he'd go with some independent press. Copies would get passed from hand to hand of people he knew, maybe people in their industry, people who might care about the details of the story and maybe - maybe - someone would -

But that's not quite what happened. He went with an independent press alright, and they started with a small run. But that didn't stop people from getting a handful of advance review copies. And from the second the first one hit a reviewers hand, it grew and grew.

Mark, Mark who delightedly watched FaceMash crash the Harvard servers in one night, should really have been expecting that.

Now everyone was talking, now his words were everywhere and inescapable.  Yet, somehow, it seemed like they still hadn't made it, hand from hand, to one person whose opinion Mark found he craved more than any other.

The whole world wanted to talk to Mark about the journals but Mark just wanted to talk to Eduardo.
 
--
 
I always thought at some point, I dunno when, but at some point - I would stand up and say "This is fucking crazy!" and Eduardo would say, "God, I agree totally!" and we'd both laugh and - I don't know. I really thought that would happen, some version of that. That Eduardo and I would look at each other and realize how stupid this all was. Maybe during the depositions, maybe six months after, maybe the day he sat down to sign the settlement papers and didn't even look up at me -

and now I think I maybe sound delusional.

That was never going to happen, right? I know that, I knew that from the second he sat down in the old Facebook offices and unwittingly signed the papers that cut him out. I knew. I knew he'd be mad, of course, I knew he'd -

But it was only business. Business was business and he didn't seem to want to be a part of the business anymore, he wasn't doing what needed to be done and business is only business.  It wasn’t like we were cutting him out totally.  It was just a reduced share to match his reduced interest, I told myself.  It was just business…but that thing – our friendship, our connection, that thing that Eduardo and I had: it was more than business.

I kept waiting for him to see that: for the moment when that would become glaringly obvious and we'd both laugh and things would ... be fixed.

Yeah, I just read what I wrote. Totally fucking delusional. But also true. So I am leaving it in because, if nothing else, it shows that you even when delusional I'm trying to tell the whole truth. But that begs the question, of course, if I'm being honest about it ... does it still count as being delusional?

It's not that he's so super famous that people chase him for pictures in the grocery store or anything but Mark knows people know who he is.

So, at first, when the pizza delivery girl says, "Holy shit, you're Mark Zuckerberg!" he doesn't really think anything's strange about it.

But then he remembers why he's ordering food in under a fake name and why, for the past three weeks as what can only politely be called a media whirlwind has built up around him, he's been working out of his home office and only going outside in his backyard.

"I - uh -" he reaches out for the pizza, thinking maybe he can grab it from her and stumble back into the house.

"Fuck, man," her voice is filled with awe. "Your book - wow - it - I think it changed my life."

"Um - I - thanks?" His voice is questioning, as if he's not entirely sure what he's saying thanks for and, well, that seems about right.

She's holding onto the pizza for dear life, staring at Mark with stars in her eyes. "The way you just - like - cut through the bullshit and told the fucking truth man, no matter what, no matter how bad it made you look or how much it sucked - it's amazing."

"Yeah - I - wait, what? I mean, um -"

"It's more than radical honesty or a fearless moral inventory, you know?" Her voice is rhapsodic by now. "It's something totally new. It's beyond that. It's taking your life entirely into your own hands, owning it. I read the whole book in one sitting - I'm already passing it around to my friends. Just - it's fucking epic, Mark."

She says Mark like she knows him, Mark thinks, not in a creepy way, but like she's talking to a friend. She's gotten something from his journals he's not quite sure he was getting himself.

But isn’t that what they'd all been about? Telling the fucking truth, yeah. Telling the truth as therapy, telling the truth as a way to dig deep into what was wrong in his life, to find out what he could do to fix it.

It was just maybe, until he'd written it all out like that, he hadn't quite known the whole truth.
 
--
 
"Well, uh, I'm glad you - er -" Mark still doesn't know how to respond, but the pizza girl is stepping forward and holding his pizza out to him, a huge smile on her face.

"And Wardo - Eduardo - Mark, that's so beautiful and awesome and brave of you, man. Have you - I hope he – not that I expect you to answer…it’s just I feel like I know your story so I have to ask: what's he said about it?"

Mark, seizing the opportunity, snatches the pizza from her and backs into his house. He's so glad he paid ahead of time. He really does mean to shut the door in her face, rude though it may be, but instead he finds himself blurting out to this total stranger, this person whose name he doesn't even know, this woman who could be some kind of plant from The National Enquirer for all he knows, the thing he hasn't said to anyone, from his mother to his closest friends.

"He hasn't - I don't know if he's even read the book. I don't know what he thinks about it because he hasn't said anything about it or contacted me at all."

The simple, plain truth - no bullshit. That's what she wanted, right? So why's she got that quizzical look on her face? "So why don't you just call him and ask him what he thought?" She says, as if it were the most obvious, the simplest thing.

"It's m-m-ore complicated -" Mark stutters out.

"Not really. Your book is about admitting your mistakes and owning your victories; it's about standing up and speaking up. I got that, why didn't you?"

Yes, why didn't he?

"I'm, look, Pizza Girl," he wishes he knew her name, "I'm glad you liked the book, I'm glad it meant something to you. That's what I hoped - anyway, thank you. I mean that, Pizza Girl. But...there's more to the story than -"

She shakes her head at him and smiles, still kindly, still with great affection, Mark can tell. "No, there isn't. And if anyone should know that, it you. You wanna know what he thinks? Don't wait for the sequel, Mark, just ask him."

"I -"

"My name is Amy. And, seriously, thank you."

Mark is pretty sure if he wasn't holding the pizza, she'd lean in and hug him. He has a wild moment of considering dropping the pizza and reaching out to hug her anyway. This is the first human conversation he's had in weeks that makes complete and total sense.

Amy nods her head at him and smiles one last time then turns and walks back to her car. Mark walks all the way into his house and shuts the door behind him, pizza essentially forgotten though it is still hot in his hand.

You wanna know what he thinks? Just ask him.

It almost sounds like a line from his journals: diffident, aggressive, pointing out the obvious with a hint of scorn.

Maybe Mark's book really is turning into a movement, into something that can be bigger than gossip sites, Jay Leno monologue jokes, and Internet memes.

Maybe Mark should take his own advice.
 
--
 
I started this journal as a part of therapy. I don't know if I'm supposed to say that. But then again, the entire point of the journal was to get me to "feel more confident and relaxed in letting the full range of my emotions show" which means, I'm pretty sure, that I can say whatever I'd like.

So: I started this journal as part of therapy. And I started going to therapy because, well, because I wanted to become more confident and relaxed in letting the full range of my emotions show.

Yeah, I see how empty and fake that sounds. It doesn't mean anything, it's a string of buzzwords all rolled together. Let's try better, let's be honest.

I started going to therapy because I woke up one morning and felt like the world was closing in on me. And I didn't know what had happened to make me feel that way - but I knew I wanted to do something about it.

I was honest about it from that second. I found a therapist, I started going, I waited for it to work.

It wasn't working.

So she suggested I start these journals and, whaddya know, they worked. Were working. Are working.

I know, now, why I started writing about Eduardo, about the start of Facebook, about everything I regretted and everything I didn't, I know why that was the beginning of the words that started spilling out.

It's because the thing I regret, the thing I am sorry about - that's what was making the world feel like it was closing in on me.

Eduardo.

I can be honest about that now, since I started this journal as part of therapy, since I am slowly but surely feeling more confident and relaxed in letting the full range of my emotions show. The world was closing in on me because of what I did to, that is to say, what happened between Eduardo and me.

More than that: it's that I just don't know what the fuck there honestly is to do about it.

The pizza is cold on the counter and the phone rings three exact times before Eduardo picks up.

Before Eduardo can say a single word, even hello, Mark blurts it out, the question that's been burning on his tongue from the minute Sean said these need to be read. "What did you think of the book?"

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Eduardo answers, his voice sounding dazed and disbelieving and, perhaps not surprisingly, that is almost exactly the answer Mark was expecting.

--

"I'm - I'm sorry, did I - I didn't think of time zones or anything - are you, were you - what time is it in Singapore? I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" Mark thinks this is a safe thing to say, a neutral thing.

"Singapore?" If possible, Eduardo's voice sounds even more disbelieving. "You think I'm still - Mark do you have any idea? Your - since you - Singapore? The book was published simultaneously in Chinese, did you know that? They were selling knock-off translations in Malay and Tamil on the streets, Mark!" Eduardo's voice is pitched and verging on frantic now. "There were reporters and fucking paparazzi everywhere! Outside my apartment building, outside my work, trying to talk to my friends, my secretary, my god-damn doorman! They were following me whenever I went out: chasing me, shouting questions to get me to react, asking if I felt the same way, asking if I had always known that you, you," Eduardo pauses to take a shaky breath. "Singapore? I couldn't stay in Singapore!"

"Oh," Mark says, grasping for straws at what to say next. "Oh, hey, uh, sorry about that. I didn't - um - so, where are you?"

There's silence on the line and Mark is afraid that maybe Eduardo has hung up on him. But then he hears Eduardo's uneven, reedy breathing on the other end and he knows that, at the very least, he's still on the line.

"I'm in the last place anyone would ever think to look for me, Mark. I'm in Palo Alto."
 
--
 
If I had it all to do over again -

I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.

Oh wait, that's not what you want me to say, is it? That's not what you expect me to say, is it? You want me to say that if I had it all to do over again, why, I'd do it all differently, why, I realize now all my mistakes, why now I see the terrible, terrible cost and I would trade it all, change it all, in one eye-blink.

Bullshit.

Yeah, I see my mistakes. Yeah, I see the cost. Yeah, I didn't think it was ever going to end up like this. But...

I changed the world.

I can't, well, I don't want to undo that.

I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.

And even if I would, even I wished I could? That's the past. That's then. Wishing to do things differently then is useless.

So I think maybe ... maybe the point of all this, not just these journals but ofeverything, is figuring out what to do now.

"Oh," Mark says, thinking of Eduardo in the same continent, the same state, the same fucking zip code as him. "Oh, well, do you want to come over then?"

"Come...over?!" Eduardo sputters, as if Mark is speaking some Martian language.

"Well, you obviously want to talk to me, since you answered your phone and have not yet hung up. And if we're going to talk and you are in Palo Alto why not talk in person instead of on the phone?" It's logical. Surely Eduardo will see the logic in that.

"I - in what world - how do you - did you know that we were on the cover of the World Weekly News with their alien with the headline ALIEN REVEALS SECRET FACEBOOK LOVE CHILD? Did you know that, Mark?"

"No, but that is way cooler than the rumor I might win a Pulitzer Prize."

There is, again, total silence and Mark can't even hear the rasp of Eduardo's breath anymore. He's pretty sure he's disconnected. Maybe he should have said National Book Award instead of Pulitzer, that's less intimidating, isn't it?

Then, just as he's about to hang up the phone and call the pizza place to have Amy fired (he will buy the pizza place and fire her himself if he has to) he hears Eduardo swallow once and then start laughing.

"Pulitzer Prize!" he gasps, "Steinbeck won the Pulitzer Prize! Faulkner - Updike - Harper fucking Lee!"

Mark just listens to the sound of Eduardo's laughter, lets it roll over him in waves.  It's real laughter. Yeah, maybe it sounds slightly hysterical, but it’s still, real, genuine, laughter, not mean, not mocking - just laughing.

It sounds so fucking good to Mark.

"I could - I could be Harper Lee," Mark says, slowly.

"Oh my God!" Eduardo wheezes, choking the words out between guffaws, which, OK, makes Mark feel slightly ridiculous and relaxed and so he laughs too so then they're both laughing and -

and that's when Mark knows he'll come over.
 
--
 
He didn't just give me the money, you know. It wasn't like a present or a gift or anything. I mean - I think that point is worth repeating? He was an investor. He wasn't just - he didn't just -

OK, so, there are court transcripts. The movie - the book - there are court transcripts of what was really said. It's not the whole story, it's not even the tip of the whole story and - but, yeah, they exist.

And, yeah, the "point" that I could have gotten money, maybe even more money, from other people, from other investors? True. (it's also true that other people invested money, like me and my parents, by the way.)

But this part is true too - I chose Eduardo.

Chose him to be an investor, chose him to be a partner, chose him. For a lot of reasons: because he had a good head for business, because he knew a lot about money and markets and investments, and because he believed in me, my idea, myvision. He was my best friend. And I chose him. I don't regret any of that.

But it wasn't a present, it wasn't a gift. And when I forgot that, well, I paid the price for forgetting.

He was my best friend. But he was also an investor. I needed to remember that.

Mark hears a loud whumph in his backyard and he quickly flips on the lights. Through the glass doors that open out on his rather large backyard (he has a pool. Not like he swims in the pool a lot, but having it is sort of a requirement.) he sees some movement in his azalea bushes. Mark blinks a few times to make sure he's not hallucinating. Nope, he's not.

Eduardo Saverin is standing in his azalea bushes, ducking underneath a tree, smoothing out what looks to be a very expensive suit.

His eyes meet Mark's and, through the door, Mark waves.

Mark flips off the lights and, taking a deep breath, walks outside.

--

"Do you think I should just waltz through your front door, Mark?"

"Um, well,"

"See, I have a feeling that if reporters figured out where I was in Singapore and chased me down when I was getting coffee there might be one or two outside your house. Since you are, you know, the author of the book that's currently outselling sparkly vampires."

"Uh, well, they were there yesterday but -"

"So what do you suggest, Mark? That I take a cab, get dropped off a few blocks away, and climb over your back fence?"

"There aren't any reporters in the backyard."

--

Before their phone call that night, he hadn't spoken to Eduardo in over a year. He hadn't really spoken to him since before the lawsuit, since before it all went to hell and they stared at each other over a conference table. That was years.

And he can't remember the last time the two of them stood, side-by-side, alone together.

Now here they are, in the moonlight, standing by Mark's pool.

"I'm glad you -" Mark starts.

"Yeah," Eduardo cuts him off.

"So, uh," Mark knows he should ask something else, anything else, but he has to ask, it's burning his tongue, he has to know.

Mark wants to know the same thing it seems everyone else in the whole world wants to know.  He repeats the question he first blurted out over the phone.

"What did you think of the book?"

Mark can hear every sound of the night around him: the hum of the pool filter, crickets and insects, a dog a few houses down barking. Eduardo's breathing is ragged and uneven. For an endless minute, he doesn't say anything.

"I - Mark - you're a very talented writer ..." he trails off and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "I liked it, Mark. I really liked it."

And then the only noise Mark can hear is his own heart beating and it's so loud he almost misses the feather-light touch of Eduardo reaching over and brushing his fingertips along Mark's.

Almost.
 
--
 
You make mistakes.

Everyone makes mistakes.

I think this is one of those lessons you learn in kindergarten, along with how to line up and not push. Oh god, have I turned into one of those idiot motivational posters? Should I include a picture of the "hang in there!" kitty?

It's OK: everyone makes mistakes. I hope that we learn early on that we shouldn't be defined by these mistakes - even the big ones, the REALLY BIG ONES. But look:

Everyone makes mistakes.

I make mistakes.

See how different that is? See how it changes everything you think you learned in kindergarten and everything you repeat soothingly to yourself time and again about the things you've done wrong?

I make mistakes. I made mistakes. They don't define me, they aren't the whole story, they don't even have to be the end: but they are mine and I made them and that's something no kitten poster can ever address or resolve.

Only I can.

The last time Eduardo touched him? When was the last time Eduardo touched him? He doesn't know - he can't, he hasn't let himself think about that. And maybe that self-imposed blank space has been part of what's waking him up at night, part of what sent him out to find Laura, to start writing it all out. Maybe he needed to remember the last time Eduardo touched him, the last time his fingers brushed against Mark's skin and Mark felt - he felt that frisson of excitement and want run through his body.

Mark wants to know what Eduardo thought of his book, what parts he liked, what parts surprised him, what parts he hated. Mark wants to talk to Eduardo about the crazy reviews, about what he thinks it's like to win a Pulitzer, and just about what his every god-damn day life is like. And - and Mark wants Eduardo to touch him. He really does.

So he has no idea why the slight brush of Eduardo's fingertips sends him skittering away, jumping out of Eduardo's reach and away from his side.

"Um - uh - hey!" he says, as he steps back and away from Eduardo. His voice is too loud and it sounds strange even in his own ears.

Great. Just great. Now Eduardo's been insulted and he's going to hike back through Mark's azalea bushes and back over his fence and Mark's never gonna see him again or find out what he thought of his book and -

Eduardo laughs, a rich, sweet sound in the darkness. Mark turns to stare at him, unsure of what he might see in his eyes.

"You want to run away now?" Eduardo asks, his voice rough. He walks towards Mark. "Three hundred and ninety four pages later, you want to run away? After asking me to climb over your fence, you want to run away? Half a million hardcover sales in two days, you want to run away?"

Eduardo has easily closed the gap Mark put between them when he jumped back. Now Eduardo is standing right in front of him and Mark has no idea what's going to happen next.

When Eduardo touches him this time, it's an entirely new touch; the way he grabs Mark's elbows and pulls him quickly towards him, this is like nothing Mark's felt or even, really, imagined. 

Mark feels Eduardo's next words against his cheek. "I read every word Mark, every fucking word.  And you can't run away anymore."

And before Mark can assure Eduardo that, in this second, running away is the very last thing on his mind, Eduardo is kissing him, hard and fierce.
 
--
 
In the end what it comes down to is this: all I have are the choices I made.

And some of them were excellent choices - smart and prescient and flawless in predicting how people want to communicate. Why lie about that? I didn't do it all on my own - let's not get too narcissistic - but I did it, I created it, I chose it.

But some of them, some of them, were very bad choices. Eduardo...letting him sign and then not saying anything for months - letting so much happen unspoken between us - those were bad choices.

But those were still my choices.

I'm just as responsible for the bad as I am the good and it's time to stop pretending otherwise; it does both sets of choices, it does me a disservice.

I think that might be the only way we ... the only way I can ever start making better choices.

It's a wild, desperate, hungry kiss. Mark leans it into immediately. He wants to swoon, the very thing all those reviewers accused him of wanting. Eduardo curls a hand around Mark's neck and Mark stands up on his toes to get even closer to Eduardo.

It's a wonderful, luminous moment Mark was absolutely not expecting and absolutely waiting for. When Eduardo pulls away for a second Mark realizes he's panting a little and Eduardo makes a noise that a mixture of a laugh and a groan, but the good kind of groan, the kind that sends a jolt of anticipation down Mark's spine and fuck he's already hard.

And it's in this overwhelming moment, when he can practically sense Eduardo’s heartbeat racing in time with his own and he knows, he feels, what Eduardo thought of the book that Mark sees stars, a blinding flash of light and - that is not a metaphor.

"Oh fuck," Eduardo mutters.

Cameras are flashing from above his fence and from in his tree. In his tree. (They fucking climbed into a tree to try to get pictures of him, Mark thinks, dazedly.) That's when the chorus of shouts begins. At least three voices all calling out at the same time, a tangle of words.

"Eduardo? Mr. Saverin? What are you doing here? Why are you holding Mr. Zuckerberg that way? Eduardo? What did you think of the book? Mark - Mark did you invite him over here to -"

Before the cameras can flash again Mark feels himself being tugged towards his house. Following Eduardo's lead, he shields his face and runs for it.

--

"They must," Eduardo gasps as he paces back and forth in the relative security of Mark's living room, all the drapes and curtains drawn and shutting out whatever madness Mark is sure is blooming outside his house, "they must have followed me from the hotel or -"

"Or they were just waiting in my fucking tree this whole time. How fucking bizarre is that?" Mark asks, rhetorically, running a nervous hand through his hair.

Eduardo stares at him with disbelief. "Really Mark? How do you not get this yet? The book – your book is - you've sold millions of copies. We're - it's everywhere: magazine covers, gossip websites, blogs, you name it. People want to know if…" he trails off for a second and then locks eyes with Mark. "They want to know if you were serious or if … it was just some gimmick to change the story out there and … and get better buzz and PR for yourself and the company. People want to know if ... if you meant it."

When he finishes, Eduardo's eyes are suspiciously shiny and he's stopped pacing.  Mark has a feeling Eduardo isn’t talking about “people” at all.

"I meant it," Mark says, fervently, crossing the handful of steps to where Eduardo is standing. "I meant every word, I meant everything. I had to say it because it was all true and even if you never - even if you didn't - "

Then Mark thinks of Eduardo's mouth, warm and willing and opening under his, and he knows that Eduardo does.

So he says, whispers really, the thing he has been too afraid to say. "I meant it, Wardo."

And this time it is Mark who does the pulling forward, who presses mouth to mouth, but the result is the same, because Wardo is kissing back.
 
--
 
Slow down.

This probably isn't the first piece of motherly advice I received. Probably she said 'Don't touch!' or something like that first. But slow down is what I remember first. And from that moment, it's what I heard the most.

Slow down. Think it through. Consider the implications. Don't rush. Slow down.

All my life - I wanted more and faster. All my life - I knew that being first was important. All my life - I wanted to know what was going to be next: the next line of code, the next thing I was going to create, the next move in fencing.

I never did listen to my mother's advice.

Sometimes, thinking back on it, I wonder if that would have changed everything or even anything. What if I had slowed down and thought everything through, really considered it? I always thought about the next move and yet I never thought about the implications of the dilution, of what would happen when Eduardo found out, about how he'd react, about how it would change everything next between us.

Would that have mattered? If, for once, I would've slowed down?

Eduardo is sucking (rather desperately, if Mark is being objective) on Mark's lower lip as Mark pulls at his stupid, fancy suit jacket, shoving it off his shoulders. He doesn't want to think of how often he's imagined mussing Eduardo like this: making him come undone and look sloppy. He's gonna get off this suit jacket and rip the buttons off that $500 shirt and -

"Wait, God, wait," Eduardo says, pulling himself away from Mark's grasp.

"What, why? No stopping!" Mark pants, his voice a little too wild for his liking.

Eduardo is staring at him, pupils blown wide, shaking a little as he backs slowly away. "We, Jesus, Mark!" Eduardo huffs. "We haven't even talked about ... I don't even knowwhat those asshole paps got a picture of out there but you can bet it's just going to make the feeding frenzy regarding your New York Times best-seller even more intense so we'll be - we'll be – hounded, everywhere we go and everything we do - this is crazy, Mark."

And, yes, thinking about it Mark realizes that this probably is crazy. If he thought it was hard to go about his daily life before, once the picture of him and Eduardo doing ... whatever it was they got a picture of them doing hit the news it was going to be impossible. It wasn't just going to be pizza girls after him; it was going to be the world. How were he and Eduardo supposed to have - to try anything in that fishbowl glare? And even if that weren't a factor at all ... the idea of him and Eduardo, after all this time, after all these fuck-ups, yeah - it's still crazy.

Mark knows all that, he really does. He just doesn't care.

“Wardo, the book, my journals, I wrote them, I did that for me. I had things to work through and they helped me, they really did. But I published them - I didn't care about the publicity, I didn't care about the reviews, I didn’t care if anyone bought it at all because you know I didn't care about the money - I published them so you - because I wanted you - I published them for you."
 
As soon as he says it, he knows it's true. He wanted Wardo to read the journals. They were more than apology, more than an explanation, more than justification. They were his whole story and, more importantly, even if he hadn’t really known it, hadn’t really dared to hope, they were telling the story of what he wanted to happen next.

(This, as Laura would say, is a breakthrough moment for him.)

Mark gulps, decides he wants to keep breaking through. "I didn't care - I don't care if every paparazzo in the world has abandoned the Kardashians to stand outside my house 24 hours a day. I don't care if Gawker's daily chapter by chapter recap keeps getting hundreds of thousands of page views. I don't care if I win the Pulitzer fucking Prize. I still - I still want to try - I still want you around. Um, I still want you aroundme, I mean, to see what we – to see if we can…it was for you, Wardo. I published them for you and that's all that really matters to me.”

"Oh, Mark," Wardo breathes, his eyes full of an emotion Mark doesn’t dare to name and his voice low and sweet.

He walks back into Mark's arms, which Mark guesses he'd always had open. "Thank you," he whispers into Mark's neck. "Thank you for the book, for your story.  I loved it."

This is Mark's favorite review by far.

Then they're kissing again, no longer frantic with a hint of desperation around the edges. Now it's thorough and leisurely, as if they have all the time in the world, as if this is just the beginning of another story.
--
 
Mark wakes up, heart pounding with a half remembered dream that verged on a nightmare, panic racing under his skin.
 
This is how – this is how it started: this was the feeling of the world pressing down on him, the one that made him know that something was off in his life, that kept sleep at bay, that made him find Laura and –
 
He takes a few gulping breaths, reaches a shaking hand out to click on his bedside lamp.  He fumbles for the thing sure to calm him down: the blank book by his bed, there solely for this purpose.  He’d been surprised how much comfort he’d found in just the ritual of writing: opening the composition book to a blank page, uncapping the pen, flexing his fingers around the pen and then watching the lines scrawl out. 
 
He begins.
 
A dream. 
 
For so long I told myself that I didn’t know where the insomnia came from.
 
But I did.  It was dreaming.  It was the dreams I couldn’t stop.  There were the abstract ones.  The ones where the world was hazy but I knew I was in it alone.  The ones where I was in a box with walls that were slowly, slowly, slowly closing in on me.  And the ones that were realistic too, a jumbled mix of good and bad.  There were the ones where Eduardo and I made up.  There were the ones where Eduardo smashed everything over and over, his eyes wide with emptiness.  Even the ones where I threw the papers out before he could sign them and told him, “We need to talk about this,” and then we actually did. 
 
I hated those, the ones sharp with clarity, the ones that seemed so real, I hated those the most. 
                                                                                           
I hated them because I almost believed them.
 
As always, writing has calmed him down: stilled his shaking hands and slowed his heartbeat.
 
Mark looks down at his notebook, the paragraphs he’d written and listens to the silence of his bedroom.
 
A dream.  It was – it was – he had –
 
“Hey,” Wardo says from beside him, his voice sleepy and bleary.  “What’re you doing up?”
 
Mark closes his notebook and sets it back down on his nightstand. 
 
He thinks of what the right answer is, what he can say to explain just how much the notebook and the writing, the lines and lines of words, mean to him.  But then Wardo read his journals didn’t he?  Maybe Mark doesn’t have to explain.  Maybe Wardoknows.
 
Wardo sits up in bed and wraps and arm around Mark’s waist, pulling him back.  He places a soft, open-mouthed kiss on Mark’s shoulder.  
 
“I was writing,” Mark says simply.
 
Wardo’s laugh is feather-light across his skin.  “Working on a sequel already?”
 
Mark considers.  He leans over to and switches off the lamp, throwing the room into darkness.
 
“I think so, yeah.”
 
“Write later, Hemingway.  Sleep now,” Wardo teases, gently leaning back towards the bed and taking Mark with him.
 
Mark is more than willing to fall back and then fold himself up in Wardo’s arms for the second time that night. 
 
“I think the first thing you need to mention in the sequel,” Wardo says drowsily, pulling Mark even closer, “is how you’re the little spoon.”
 
In the dark, Mark closes his eyes and smiles.
 
He can’t wait to wake up
 
++
 
All we originally had on the story were some blurry pics that some sleazes from X17 was shopping around and swearing they were legitimate.  But things got really exciting when we received a email claiming to be from Zuckerberg himself about the matter.  Once we verified that he was for real we can follow up with the following official statement.  (and we quote!)
 
"Yeah, someone was leaning over my fence and onto my property the other night.  That was trespassing and invasion of privacy and I will use the full force of my considerable wealth to prosecute and drive into bankruptcy anyone who tries to sell the pics.  Let me know if you get any buyers.  Additionally, from here on out, I willpersonally ruin the business AND life of any asshole with a camera that tries to ambush me or Mr. Saverin.   And don't be a jerk; you know what counts as ambushing. As for the rest of it ... well, I guess you'll have to read about that in my next book."
 
OK, um, we're officially not interested in any paps photos: take them elsewhere, fellas!  (But, hey, we hope this show of good faith maybe gets us an exclusive if there’s ever anything you wanna come out with, Mark!)
-Perez Hilton
 
++
 
Less than a week after gossip blogs started spreading the word that Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg, author of the runaway best-seller this is your life (and it's ending one minute at a time) had "reunited" with Facebook co-founder (and major subject in Zuckerberg's book) Eduardo Saverin, indie publisher Res Ipsa Loquitur Press announced they have signed Zuckerberg for publication of the second set of memoirs.  Most industry assumed Zuckerberg would not write any more non-fiction and conventional wisdom held that if he did he’d most likely go with a major publisher.  The decision to stick with Res Ipsa Loquitur was almost as surprising as the announcement of another work from Zuckerberg, who, besides selling almost two million copies and receiving glowing reviews,  is already on his way to becoming a cult superstar. Neither Res Ipsa Loquitur or Zuckerberg would comment any further on the story.  A rep for Res Ipsa Loquitur said only, “We’re lucky Mr. Zuckerberg is so loyal.” The work is expected to be in stores by the end of the year and anticipation is already off the charts.  What could he be talking about this time?!
-galleycat.com
 
++
 
“Hey Dustin.  I know that you’re the youngest billionaire in the world and everything, but you’re not a New York Times best-selling author, so I think you have to call me back.  Anyway, I wanted to invite you over for pizza tonight.  Wardo is here and I thought we could Skype Chris and, well, it should be fun.  You will have to push through a few dozen reporters outside, though.  Unless – wait – hang on – Wardo says you could climb the back fence.  Call me back, I’ll see about getting you an autographed copy of my book.”
 
“Hello Ms. Delpy.  Thanks for calling back.  I think I’m going to need to have a sit-down with some people at the firm.  I am going to aggressively pursue a few reporters into bankruptcy to try to scare the lot of them.  I know, it’s pretty much hopeless, but why not give it a go, right?  Thanks for the compliment about the book and – uh – the other part too.  I’m trying new things now.  It’s…working out.  Anyway, please call me back.”
 
“Hello Oprah – um, Ms. Oprah, uh, Ms. Winfrey, Ms. Oprah Winfrey – uh – um – what I mean is – hello this is Mark Zuckerberg.  I’m … I’m flattered for your interest … I am always glad that people like my work, uh, that is – I won’t be doing any publicity for my book, even with your great offer. I think the work speaks for itself and, well, I don’t want to get in the way of that.  But, uh, I’m working on something new and – maybe we can – I hope you’ll like that too.  If you still choose to select my book, well, my mom will love that sticker.  If you’d ever like a tour of Facebook or lunch sometime, give me a call.”
 
“Hi Chris.  I – uh – I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before … before the book.  I was, um, I didn’t want to lose my nerve, you know?  Anyway, the point is I’m asking for your help now.  I am going to need some tips on handling publicity and the press in the next few, uh, well, for a while.  And very soon. Meantime, I hope you feel like Skyping tonight.  Dustin’s coming over and Wardo’s here and … it’d be great if you were here, at least virtually.  Wardo says – hah – Wardo says you have enough money to catch a red-eye.   Oh, and I want to set Dustin up with this pizza girl I met, so I’ll need your advice on that too.”
 
“Laura, it’s Mark.  Thanks for stopping by the other day; sorry I was hiding in my office to avoid you.  I just wasn’t ready to talk.  But I’m ready now.  Let’s set up a time to meet soon.  And, Laura?  I … I just wanted to say … for everything … thank you.”
 
“Hi Mom, hi Dad.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to avoid you.  I just had some things I needed to work out and – anyway, I’m glad you read the book and liked it.  But I’m…I’m…happy.  Really, I’m happy and I don’t want you to worry and – uh – I … we … me and Wardo, I mean, he – we – I think – do you want to go visit Oprah, maybe?  No – hang on…are you sure?  OK, fine. Wardo says … that is, uh, if you want we’ll, um, come visit.  So, give me a call back?”
 
++
 
wake up a different person
by mark zuckerberg
 
1.
 
This story starts with a pizza girl named Amy who told me not to wait for the sequel.
 
This story starts the morning I woke up and realized Tyler Durden had it all wrong – you could wake up a different person and that’d be just fine.  Better than fine, even.
 
This story starts a frigid night in Massachusetts, when my best friend believed in a crazy idea I had that would change how people thought about their social networks.
 
This story starts across a deposition table, when I had to look away from the eyes of my best friend because the betrayal in them made my chest ache.
 
This story starts in my backyard azalea bushes.
 
This story starts the morning I lost the Pulitzer Prize and Wardo laughed, kissed me, and said, “Still no Harper Lee, but I love you anyway.”
 
This story starts the first time I opened a blank notebook and started writing a story that didn’t yet have an end.

++
 
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY ANNOUNCES 97th ANNUAL PULITZER PRIZES IN JOURNALISM, LETTERS, DRAMA AND MUSIC

New York, NY (April 18)—The 98th annual Pulitzer Prizes in Journalism, Letters, Drama and Music, awarded on the recommendation of the Pulitzer Prize Board, were announced today by Columbia University.
 
4. BIOGRAPHY
 
For a distinguished and appropriately documented biography or autobiography by an American author, Ten thousand dollars ($10,000).
Awarded to “wake up a different person,” by Mark Zuckerberg (Res Ipsa Loquitur Press), a gripping, incisive, and moving portrait of one man’s personal journey through success, loss, love, and ultimately reunion, that also masterfully illustrates and captures the current American consciousness and character.
 
++
 
(wake up a different person – dedication page)

This one is for my big spoon.