He got off the couch and left the living room.
I picked up a pillow and screamed into it. What was wrong with me? Why had I stopped something that had felt so good, and so right, because of one stupid word? Also because of journalistic integrity but that had been about a horse behind my own galloping libido.
So what if Gabe had forgotten my name in the heat of the moment? I was fooling myself if I thought that this meant something. He was a movie star. He had women flinging themselves at his feet, and he was here with me. Did I really think this was going to be anything more than what it was?
I’d had one chance with him and I’d blown it.
When Gabe came back into the living room, I was sitting up, hands on my knees, still trying to figure out how to salvage this moment.
“Look,” he said. “We can still—I can still—if you—”
“It’s late,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
I got to my feet. “I’ll go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, putting a hand on my arm.
We both looked at it, and then he removed it, putting both hands first into his back pockets and then into his front ones.
“You can stay in the guest room and I’ll call you a cab in the morning,” he said.
I nodded.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, and turned to go.
“Gabe,” I said.
He turned—and it was probably my imagination that made him seem eager.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.
I didn’t really know how to respond to that. Were we just going to pretend that what had happened on the couch didn’t actually happen?
“We can talk more in the morning,” he said.
He gave me a smile—it seemed genuine but also tired.
“Okay,” I said.
I went into the guest room and closed the door. I stood there.
“Come on, honey,” I heard Gabe say, and then the click click click of his dog’s nails across the wood floor.
At the other end of the house, I heard his bedroom door close.
Film Fans
RISICO REVIEW
[excerpt]
By Helen Price
It’s the movie everyone has been talking about. Not for good reasons. And it’s the movie everyone wanted to see—but again, not for good reasons.
Everyone wanted to know if Gabe Parker’s rapid decline, alcoholism, and weight gain had been captured on camera.
If that’s the only reason you’re planning to see this movie, I’m sorry to say, you’ll be disappointed.
The movie is good. It’s not great—not the way The Hildebrand Rarity was great—but it’s not bad either. It’s not the train wreck that everyone was expecting and (let’s be honest) hoping for.
If the altercation between Parker and director Ryan Ulrich hadn’t been recorded and then leaked online, then we, as a culture, would probably proclaim this film to be a fairly solid but unimpressive Bond film.
Instead, it’s a memorandum of two things.
The first, of course, is Parker as Bond. Could he maintain the magic he’d initially brought to the franchise despite the obvious disagreements on set spilling outward?
Yes and no. Watching it with a critical eye, it’s easy to see the rift, the dissonance between what the actor is willing to bring and what the director wants.
As for the ravages of Parker’s alcoholism, whoever did the costumes and makeup deserves an Oscar. You would have never known that the Gabe Parker we saw months later, heavy and bearded, taking a walk on the grounds of his rehab facility, is the same Parker in the movie.
And then there’s the fact that Risico is the first film released since Oliver Matthias’s stunning admission that, contrary to what Ulrich and the Bond producers originally claimed, Parker was not their first choice. As we all know now, Matthias was offered the part, only to have it rescinded when he told the Bond team that he was gay and did not want to remain in the closet.
It’s hard to watch Ulrich’s Bond trilogy now without thinking of that. Without imagining what it would have been like if Matthias had actually gotten a chance to play Bond.
At least we all now know the context for Parker’s once-cryptic, volatile parting shot, which was seen in the viral video from the set. Where he turned to Ulrich and practically spat, “You got the actor you deserved.”
Chapter
22
There’s a glass of water on the bedside table.
Embarrassment is a hot, prickly wash over my entire body as I remember what happened.
Gabe standing in front of me, his hand in my hair, eyes focused on mine.
“I could make you happy,” he’d said.
I had wanted him to kiss me. To pull me into his arms, kiss me, and take me to bed.
Instead, just as I tilted my head back, eyes fluttering shut, preparing for his lips to meet mine, he’d withdrawn his hand and stepped back.
“You’ve been drinking,” he’d said.
“It’s okay,” I’d whispered.
It was, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. Because even though I hadn’t been drunk, I definitely had been drinking. The whisky on my breath probably hadn’t been the greatest turn-on for a recovering alcoholic.
Gabe had kindly, gently, shown me to my room and closed the door on his way out.
I’d fallen asleep, manifesting weird, vivid dreams born of unresolved sexual tension.
Those feelings are still burning inside of me now. I feel itchy with need.
I’m also thirsty. I gulp down the water, but it’s not enough so I drink from the faucet in my private bathroom, wash my face and get dressed. My skin feels tight, like lust is a wild animal pacing beneath it.
I’m divorced. And so is Gabe.
I want him. He wants me.
I wonder what would happen if I just took off my clothes and crawled into bed with him.
Then I hear muffled whistling and realize that Gabe is already up.
Surely, he’ll want to pick up where we left off last night.
Where we left off ten years ago.