As Stuart Bloom In TBBT

April 2011. Fourth shop. Grand opening day.

The space looks perfect. 3,000 square feet. Windows. Light.

Comics organized. Gaming tables set up. Art displays.

Ten years ago—original Stuart was failing. Alone. Depressed.

Three years ago—I woke up in his body. Terrified. Lost.

Now—four shops. Fifteen employees. Empire.

"Ready?" Jake asks. He's managing Santa Monica.

"Ready."

We unlock the doors.

The crowd's huge. Beach community. Tourists. College kids.

They flood in. Browse. Buy. Ask questions.

Katie's here. But—wrong.

She's checking her phone. Every five minutes.

Smiling when people talk to her. But distracted.

Like she's somewhere else.

"Katie?" I say during a lull.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

"Fine. Just—lot going on."

"Work stuff?"

"Yeah. Auditions. Callbacks. The usual."

Her phone buzzes. She glances. Frowns.

"Who is it?"

"Nobody. Spam call."

She silences it.

But I saw the name before she turned the screen.

Marcus.

Who's Marcus?

First day sales: $8,000.

Weekend total: $15,000.

We're celebrating. After-hours. The gang's here. Wil Wheaton called to congratulate.

"Four shops," Leonard says. "That's—incredible."

"Now I need to keep them running."

"You'll do fine. You always do."

Katie's in the corner. On her phone.

Again.

Bernadette notices. Exchanges looks with me.

"Is she okay?" Bernadette whispers.

"Says she's stressed about work."

"She seems—off."

"I know."

Katie laughs at something on her phone. Types rapidly.

Then catches me watching. Puts it away.

Smiles. Walks over.

"Sorry. Agent stuff."

"At nine PM?"

"Hollywood doesn't sleep."

She kisses my cheek. "I'm really proud of you. Four shops. You're amazing."

"Thanks."

"I have to go. Early call time tomorrow."

"You're leaving?"

"Sorry. I tried to stay but—"

"It's our grand opening celebration."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

She's already grabbing her purse.

"Katie—"

"Love you!"

She's gone.

The room's quiet.

Everyone saw that.

"She's been weird lately," Howard says.

Bernadette elbows him. "Howard."

"What? She has. Right?"

Nobody answers.

Because he's right.

Leonard follows me outside. Smoking area. I don't smoke but—needed air.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Stuart—"

"She's stressed. Work stuff. Career anxiety. It happens."

"For two weeks straight?"

"She's been weird for two weeks. Not two months. Two weeks."

"Are you sure?"

I think about it.

Valentine's was perfect. February. One month ago.

But since then—

Yeah. Distant. Distracted. Phone constantly.

"It's temporary," I say.

"And if it's not?"

"Then we'll deal with it. After anniversary. We're going to Napa. Four days. We'll reconnect. Talk. Fix whatever's wrong."

"Okay."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you believe it."

"That's not the same thing."

"I know."

We stand there. Pacific Ocean wind. Cool. March turning to April.

"Remember the Tuesday thing?" Leonard asks.

"Don't."

"I'm just saying—"

"I trust her."

"Even when she's acting like this?"

"Especially then. Because she needs me to trust her when things are hard."

Leonard nods. "Okay. I hope you're right."

"I am."

But the memory tingle's screaming now.

WRONG. DANGER. WAKE UP.

I ignore it.

Two weeks until anniversary.

Then everything fixes.

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