I hesitate—my instincts going Jekyll and Hyde on me. Wanting him, but also wanting to run. Because I know now what I’d tried to ignore last night. That this isn’t just about one weekend. This isn’t about closure or unfinished business.
This isn’t the end of something. It’s the beginning.
And it terrifies me.
When I emerge from the guest room, I find Gabe fully dressed, drinking a cup of coffee and looking not like a man who wants to spend the entire day in bed, but rather like a man who has things to do.
I’m relieved and disappointed.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.”
“How’s your head?” he asks.
I put a hand to it as if I’m checking if it’s still there.
“It’s fine,” I say.
My heart on the other hand…
He comes toward me.
“I’ve got plans for us today,” he says.
I’m fairly certain, from his tone, that they aren’t the same plans I was making in my room. In fact, it seems possible that I completely blew it last night.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had a little too much to drink.”
“I know,” he says.
Gabe cups my elbow, thumb rubbing on the inside of my arm. Heat licks through me, this endless fire that never really went out, but previously had almost always been under control—this smoldering ember that I did my best to ignore.
“I’ve done far stupider stuff when I was drunk,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve seen the video.”
He laughs.
“Ulrich deserved it,” he says.
I nod.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“I need shoes,” I say.
“Take your time,” Gabe says. “I’m not in any rush.”
He’s not talking about my shoes.
I exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I sit on the couch as I pull on my boots.
There’s a pile of magazines next to the puzzle on the coffee table. On top is an issue of Broad Sheets. The issue.
I’m holding it when Gabe comes into the room, my bootlaces loose and untied.
“Let me explain,” he says.
“You hated it,” I say.
I don’t say it out of anger, but out of hurt. I need to understand. Need to know.
“Chani,” he says.
“It was a good article,” I say.
“It was,” he says.
“But you didn’t like it,” I say.
“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” Gabe says.
He pauses.
“What, then?” I ask. “Just tell me.”
I’m bracing myself for the truth. Because Jeremy had been perfectly clear what he thought of it.
“I’m a good writer,” I say.
My voice cracks.
Gabe frowns.
“You are,” he says.
I wave my hands in front of my face like I’m a cat that he’s sprayed with water. I want answers and I don’t at the same time.
He comes over and sits on the couch next to me. We sink into the leather, each of us on a separate cushion, a third one in between. I put the magazine down on it.
“I—” He pauses. “I didn’t expect you to write about Sunday.”
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s talking about, and when I do, I feel a roller-coaster rush that leaves me unsteady and breathless.
“I didn’t say anything about…”
But as I’m saying it, I realize that it’s an excuse, not an apology. And as far as excuses go, it’s not a great one.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m grateful you didn’t tell people about my dad and…” He gestures between us. “You know.”
He lets out a breath.
“I’d forgotten that you were writing an article about me,” he says.
Back then, I had thought I was being so benevolent and so clever by writing around our conversation about Gabe’s father. That I’d managed to have my cake and eat it too by including the titillating humble-brag about watching Star Trek with him, not even stopping to consider that it wasn’t just the details about his father he’d hoped to keep private.
“That night, I thought that it was just you and me. Not a reporter interviewing Gabe Parker.” He spreads his hands, as if picturing his name on a marquee.
I look at the magazine, now imagining what it must have been like for him to read it for the first time. To discover that I’d shared something that he had never intended to share with anyone else.
“My team loved the article,” he says. “They were thrilled. And you are a good writer, Chani.”
He drapes his arms over his knees.
“It almost made it worse,” he says. “That you wrote about everything—about that night—in such a way that it made me feel like I was there again. Only, it felt like the whole world was there with us.”
His hand curls into a fist. Not a tight, scary one, but solid. He looks at it.
“It made me angry,” he says. “Really angry.”
He shakes his head.
“The fact that I was drinking a lot didn’t help, but fuck, I read that and I felt like a fool.”
I know what that feels like.
“I only half remember going to Vegas,” he says. “All I remember was feeling like I had to do something. Like I had to prove something to myself.”
My throat is tight.
“And Jacinda…?” I can barely get the question out.
“She was surprised by the suggestion, but almost immediately on board,” Gabe says. “She wanted to take control of her reputation, and getting married did that. We never lied to each other about why we were doing it, but I wasn’t as forthcoming as I should have been. Not for a while. But I always left the ball in her court. We’d stay married as long as it was useful to our careers. That was always the deal.”
He glances down at his hand, no longer in a fist.
“Because you’re right. People in Hollywood do stuff like that all the time. It’s just easier—being with someone who gets what you’re going through—who understands the games you have to play. Who…” He trails off.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I read your article, and I reacted like a stupid, drunken fool with a bruised ego.”
“I hurt you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
I reach out and put my hand on his. He puts his other hand on top of mine. We sit there for a while.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks up at me. Smiles.
“Me too,” he says.
Tell Me Something Good
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