This isn’t a spoiler—Parker’s Billy is lost within the first twenty minutes of the film.
A lesser writer and director could have turned this story into one about Tommy’s redemption—about him leaving behind the ambition on the battlefield where his brother dies. It could have been about him stepping into his brother’s shoes and learning that maybe Billy was right all along—that it’s the “small sort of difference” that truly matters.
But that’s not the story of Tommy Jacks.
Chapter
4
Gabe nursed the last fourth of his beer. It was still sunny out, but had gotten colder. Enough that I’d needed to pull my sweater out of my bag. I knew that we were reaching the end of the interview—that it was likely that once this beer was finished, Gabe would call for the check and it would be over.
I had wanted this article to be something special. Not just to impress my editors and get more work—though that was part of it—I wanted to impress myself. Wanted to prove something.
I wanted this article to be something special, because I wanted to be something special. I wanted to be the kind of writer that could take a subpar interview and spin it into gold.
At this point, I’d be lucky if I didn’t just regurgitate every other story that had already been written about Gabe.
To put it mildly, I was fucked.
I couldn’t even really use Gabe’s assertion that Oliver had been the production’s first choice. It wasn’t enough to prove anything, Ryan Ulrich could just deny it, and I’d look foolish.
But while my attempt to interview Gabe had been a complete and unmitigated disaster, Gabe’s interrogation of me was going swimmingly.
“You and the Novelist are done, huh?” he asked.
That’s what I called Jeremy on the blog when I wrote about him. And since we’d just broken up—again—I’d written about him recently.
“Yep,” I said, looking down at my notes, praying I’d thrown a secret Hail Mary in there somewhere. “We’re done.”
The Novelist. What a dumb non-pseudonym. Maybe Jeremy was right about my writing skills.
After all, he was actually a novelist, with a highly anticipated first novel under contract. I maintained a navel-gazing blog and interviewed celebrities. Badly.
“Our sensibilities are too disparate,” he’d said when we broke up this time. “We’re going in opposite directions.”
“Good,” Gabe said.
My head popped up.
Gabe shrugged. “He seemed like a jerk.”
“He had his moments,” I said.
I didn’t know why I felt I needed to defend Jeremy when all I’d done recently was defend myself to him.
“Sure,” Gabe said.
Weirdly, it didn’t make me feel better that Gabe Parker thought my ex-boyfriend was a jerk. After all, Jeremy had broken up with me. So what did that say about me that I dated and got dumped by a jerk?
Probably that I was pathetic and na?ve.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
Who did Gabe think he was, judging my relationships?
“What about you and Jacinda?” I asked, knowing that everyone and their mother had been trying to get confirmation that they were dating.
Gabe might have been the unexpected choice for Bond, but no one had blinked an eye when Jacinda Lockwood had been announced as his leading lady. The British-born model was elegant, glamorous, and pursuing an acting career. Though the press hadn’t been surprised, they had definitely been snarky, declaring her “overly ambitious.”
“Jacinda and I are just friends,” Gabe said too quickly and flatly to be even remotely believable.
“Sure,” I said, and took a bite of a cold fry. We both knew he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
I didn’t get it. If Gabe and Jacinda were dating, why keep it a secret? There was nothing the tabloids loved more than two beautiful people sleeping together. Even if they were both single.
If I could get confirmation of their relationship or some quote acknowledging that they’d been more than just friendly, then that could make the article. It wouldn’t be special but it would have something new, at least. It would make people read. It would probably get me another job.
“She’s a friend,” Gabe said.
I tried to remember all the times I’d been photographed with a friend’s hand resting on my ass while we stumbled out of a bar in Paris. I’d also never wound my arms around a friend’s neck, pressing my face against his cheek. Nor had I ever nibbled a friend’s earlobe while sliding my hand into his shirt.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted Gabe to confirm that he’d slept with her.
Still, I had to try. For the article.
“A very good friend, I’ve heard.”
Unfortunately for me, Gabe was saved by Madison’s impeccable timing and an extra glass of water he hadn’t ordered. He finished his beer and drank the water in one long gulp.
The puppy had fallen asleep under the table—I could see her through the glass tabletop. She’d rolled around a few times, trying to get comfortable, finally resting her chin on the top of Gabe’s right foot.
“Is she going with you to set?” I asked.
“Considering she’s in the movie, yes, she’ll be going with me to set,” Gabe said.
It took a moment before I realized that he thought I was still talking about Jacinda.
I pointed through the table. “I meant your dog,” I said.
He looked down, and his whole body, his whole face, relaxed.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s going to be coming with me.”
“Is that why you got her?” I asked. “I’ve heard it can get pretty lonely, being on set, away from family and friends for months.”
“That’s part of it,” he said.
He stared down at his empty water glass as if it might refill itself.
I knew an opening when I saw it. “What’s the other part?” I asked.
He picked the puppy up and set her on his lap. She was still snoozing, with her head cradled in Gabe’s arm, her nose tucked into his elbow.
“I have this list,” he said. “Of things I’d do if I became successful. Getting a dog was one of them.”
He looked at me expectantly.