His expression is tight. “Tell me more about you, then. Why were you in a fake relationship with Willow Grace?”
“She needed the publicity, and I wasn’t working yet. We both got some spotlight out of it, and then I was cast in this film, so I guess it worked.”
“Any real relationships?”
“Nope.” I smile. “Unlike you, I have the time. People just can’t fucking stand me.”
Matt sits straighter in his seat. The waitress returns with his fries. “Thanks,” he says with a smile at her that makes her turn even redder. When she’s left again, he plays with a fry like he doesn’t plan on eating. The food here sucks. “I want to challenge you a little, if you don’t mind.”
Okay. Also interesting. “Fine.”
“You say people can’t stand you, with this tone like—I don’t know, you can’t do anything about it. But you can. You could change your behavior, if you wanted to.”
“You know that Riley saving Quinn is just supposed to stay in the film, right?” That trope has always annoyed the hell out of me. No one can save another person.
“I don’t think you’re as much of a jerk as you pretend to be. I think it’s another role that you choose to perform.”
“Oh, really?” Another sip.
“I saw you helping out that assistant,” he says. “Andrew.”
“I didn’t realize you really were a stalker, Mattie.”
“You’re a lot kinder than anyone would think, when you want to be.”
“Emphasis on when I want to be,” I say. “I don’t want to be kind very often.”
“Why not?”
“What’s with the twenty-one questions?”
“I think it’s so that you don’t have to worry about anyone getting close to you. It’s your defense. That’s what I think.”
I spin my bourbon around in my glass. He’s right. I’ve already discovered all of this on my own. It’s the mask that I choose. It’s a little annoying that he would judge that choice with a steady, holier-than-thou gaze.
“You’ve got a guard, too, right?” I say. “Too busy to date. Focus on your work. Try so hard to be perfect. Maybe you’re not in a position to judge.”
Matt’s voice is lower. “I’m not judging you.”
“Sure.”
I drain my bourbon and think of ordering another one. Matt eats a fry. He gives me a quick smile. “We’re supposed to be having a good time. Sorry. I got a little too serious.”
“That’s all right. We’re actors. We analyze other people.”
“True.” His smile widens. “I know that we haven’t gotten off on the right foot, but—well, I wanted to say I’m grateful to be working with you.” He looks away awkwardly. “I—uh—admire you a lot. As an actor, I mean.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“You’re amazing.”
He still won’t look at me. It’s a little hard to figure him out right now. Is he actually starting to flirt with me?
I rub an impatient hand through my hair. “You’re not as bad as I thought.”
He looks up, surprised.
“I misspoke. At that interview, I mean. I shouldn’t have said you have zero talent without giving you a chance.”
“My table read was pretty bad,” he admits.
“Yeah, it was. But you came on a full two months after I did. I had a chance to get to know Quinn more. You’ve still got some areas to work on, sure,” I say, “but I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
He looks pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, Gray.”
We’re quiet. I can see outside that there’re a few guys with cameras, snapping away. Mission complete.
“Can I ask you something?” Mattie says. He’s even more nervous, playing with the napkin on the table.
“Sure.”
“Do you have—um—any advice for me?”
“Advice?”
“Tips,” he says. “To become better.”
To be a better actor? “Well, the one thing that’s struck me is that you hide what you’re really feeling.”
“What do you mean?”
“You always have on this smile. If you got in touch with your true emotions more often, instead of trying to be positive all the time, you might get realer with yourself. Authentic. That’ll let you express more emotion at the end of the day.”
He doesn’t say anything to this. I can’t tell if he’s peeved that I basically called him fake, or if he’s taking it in. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I think I know what you mean.” He nods, meeting my eye. “Thank you.”
Huh. Wasn’t expecting that reaction. There’s more, I can tell—something he’s thinking, maybe on the edge of saying, but he changes his mind and picks up his glass of water. There’s no point in staying here much longer. Dave’s revised schedule will have us announcing that we’re officially boyfriends in a few weeks. This was the easy part. That’s when the real work will begin.
More cameras click. Some heads are turning. So much attention, so many whispers. Mattie squirms.
I smirk. “You’re an actor, you know,” I tell him. “You might want to get a little more comfortable with the spotlight.”
He scratches an ear. “I’ve always hated being the center of attention.”
I almost laugh, before I realize he isn’t joking. I want to say something sarcastic. Maybe this isn’t the best industry for him. But I don’t know. I feel a little bad for golden boy. I’m not bad with the spotlight. I’m used to it. But I’ve had my days, too, when I can’t stand being around so many people, watching my every move.
“Wanna get out of here?”
“And end the date? Dave said we should be together for at least two hours. Make it look like we’re having a good time.”
“Yeah, well. We’re not having a good time. Might as well hang out somewhere else.”
He looks like the brainiac A+ student who was just offered pot by the bad boy behind the bleachers. “I don’t know.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, Matt. Fuck it. Let’s go.”
Mattie
I think Gray might be taking me on his idea of a good date—not that we’re actually on a date. It’s not hard to remember that. Gray barely talks to me in the car, except to grumble that the food at the restaurant is shit. He drives me to a taco truck about fifteen minutes away, across empty avenues and boulevards, beneath underpasses and past the glimmering glass of shops and restaurants, the expected avenues lined with palm trees.
It’s chillier now that it’s night, open windows letting in a cool breeze. I have no idea where we are when we reach a parking lot that’s empty except for a couple sitting at a bench. After placing an order for sweet potato and plantain tacos, we sit on the edge of the sidewalk and—
“Holy God.”
He smirks. He can be so smug. “Yup.”
“How is it so juicy?”
“I know.”
We finish eating in silence. Gray dusts his hands off. “You have tacos in—Georgia, right? That’s where you’re from?”
I stare at him, not sure if he’s joking. “What? Gray—yes, of course we have tacos in Georgia.”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. It’s the South. All I ever hear about the South is that there’s a shit ton of racism and anti-gay churches and shit like that.”
“How does that translate into no tacos?”
“Fuck, Matt. I was just messing around, okay?”