“Sure,” I said.
He passed it over and I took a sip. I liked whisky and it was good stuff. It burned, in the best possible way, warmth wrapping around my throat and rib cage.
I gave it back and he took a long swig.
“I have to ask you something,” I said.
“Anything,” he said.
I was certain he didn’t really mean that. And a little worried if he did.
“Is this…” I paused. “Is this still part of the interview?”
He had lifted the flask again but froze for a second before putting it to his lips and taking another drink.
“Do you want it to be?” he asked.
I didn’t know.
We stared at each other for a moment. Then Gabe seemed to finish off what was left in his flask.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Write what you want.”
He sounded a little angry and a lot resigned.
“I—”
“Gabe!”
I turned toward the familiar voice and found a familiar face.
A face I’d grown up with, but always with the glass of the TV between us.
Oliver Matthias.
“Ollie,” Gabe said, his expression going from tight and shuttered to warm and cheerful.
The two of them exchanged hugs—not the bro-y backslapping kind of hugs that most men usually engaged in as if they were afraid any display of actual affection was an affront to masculinity, but a close, arms-tight-around-the-shoulders, cheek-to-cheek kind of hug.
“I’m glad you came,” Oliver said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Gabe said.
I stood there, my hands clasped, not sure what to do, when Oliver’s gaze swung over to me.
“Hello,” he said.
“This is Chani,” Gabe said. “She’s interviewing me for Broad Sheets.”
“I thought that interview was yesterday,” Oliver said.
Interesting. Gabe and Oliver were close enough that they had spoken about the interview, and Oliver remembered that it was yesterday.
If there was any animosity between the two of them over the Bond role—or any truth to the rumors that Gabe had stolen Jacinda from Oliver—I couldn’t sense it. Then again, they were both actors.
“We’re extending the interview,” Gabe said.
“I can see that,” Oliver said.
The look he gave me was one that I’d given numerous times. It was the kind of look you gave the dirtbag guys your high school friends were dating when you’d heard rumors that they were cheaters.
It was a “watch yourself” kind of look.
Was I the dirtbag in this situation? Did Oliver think he needed to protect Gabe from me?
Maybe he did. Just like waitress Madison had tried yesterday. I was, after all, here because I was chasing a story. But I didn’t like the feeling that I was someone to be wary of.
Especially when it was Oliver Matthias—child star, leading man, teenage crush—essentially telling me that he had his eyes on me.
The lights in the lobby blinked.
“Time for the show,” Oliver said. “I hope you enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He gave me a nod but then turned back to Gabe.
“You’ll come to the after-party?”
“Will there be beer?”
Oliver rolled his eyes.
“Of course I’ll be there,” Gabe said.
“You can come too,” Oliver said to me, politely but with no real warmth.
“Oh, okay,” I said.
The lobby lights flashed again.
“We’ll see you after,” Gabe said.
We.
I practically floated into the theater alongside Gabe.
As we walked to our seats, people turned and stared.
It wasn’t something I was used to. Especially the confusion and disappointment I could see on their faces when they looked from Gabe to me. It was almost comical how shocked they were. “He’s with her?”
Part of me wanted to correct them—to assure them that no, we weren’t together, that they should believe that the rules of the universe that keep everyday and beautiful people apart were still very much in place—but the other part of me wanted to take his arm and snuggle close to him. Just to fuck with them.
As we sat, I felt more and more out of place, especially when several people turned to do the classic “stretch and stare” move. They weren’t fooling anyone, especially when I saw one of them do a double take. It was half hilarious, half insulting.
I hunched my shoulders, wishing I was shorter.
“I don’t belong here,” I said under my breath.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabe said.
Apparently, I hadn’t been quiet enough.
“You’re impressive,” he said.
I blinked.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you,” he said. “You write all these articles and you have your blog and you’re also doing lots of other stuff too. You’re smart and creative. That’s impressive.”
I wanted to argue with him. Wanted to tell him that among my peers I wasn’t impressive at all. I didn’t have a book contract, I didn’t have a readership. I had to scramble and hustle for every single interview I got, had to prove myself each and every time.
But the expression on his face was so genuine, so earnest, that I held my tongue and let his words sink in. And when I did, I realized, with a certain pleasant surprise, that to someone like Gabe, I might actually seem impressive. Because I made my living off my writing. It wasn’t a good living by anyone’s standards but I was surviving. I didn’t have to work a day job. My writing was supporting me just enough that I didn’t need to do anything else.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Thank you” is what I finally settled on, just as the lights went down.
Film Fans
BREAKING OUR SHARED HEARTS
[excerpt]
By Evan Arnold
There’s something that all us cynical, stone-hearted reviewers seem to agree on when it comes to the latest Oliver Matthias film: Bring tissues. The movie is a tearjerker to the highest degree and it earns each and every one of those sniffles it pulls out of you.
If you saw him in Tommy Jacks and thought, Wow, this is acting, well, viewers, you haven’t seen nothing yet.