A reporter, recording on a phone, hurries toward Matthew Cole, who’s wearing an expensive suit and followed by an entourage as he leaves the Winchester hotel and approaches a black car where Logan Gray waits in the back. There’s already a gaggle of paparazzi snapping photos of Logan. The reporter tries to push through the five, six men that are waiting.
“Mattie! Mattie!” the reporter calls. “Why are you dating Logan Gray? Everyone wants to know!” The reporter doesn’t seem to care that Logan is close enough to hear. “Why would you date someone who spoke so badly about you just a few months ago?”
Matt has been ignoring the paparazzi, but this particular question makes him pause. “I really misjudged him, I think. Logan has told me that he misjudged me, too. We should’ve given each other a chance.”
The reporter seems excited to have caught Mattie’s attention. “Why Logan, though? Isn’t there anyone else you could date? You’re an attractive guy.”
Logan glances over in the background. Matt hesitates. “Logan—well, there’s something special about him.” He seems to blush. “Besides the fact that he’s really attractive. I think there’s more to him than meets the eye. Maybe everyone should be willing to give him more of a chance, too. Sorry—sorry, excuse me, I’m going to be late.”
He gets into the car.
Video ends.
Logan
The silence in the car, as we’re driven away from the hotel, is awkward as fuck.
I’m usually okay with silence. I thrive in silence. But Matt won’t even look at me—not sure if he can—and I’m having a hard time looking at him myself. He’s been pissed off at me for the past week. I mean, yeah—I get it if he didn’t like the way I left things in his hotel room, but I was just being honest, right? And protecting both of us, too. It won’t end well if we get sucked into this lie. Someone’s feelings are going to get hurt.
His anger might’ve been bearable on its own, but then we had to spend hours on top of each other yesterday, kissing each other, grinding against each other, feeling just how turned on we both were, and—fuck, I have to admit I’m attracted to him. I hate that I am. I hate that I’m starting to get hard again just by breathing the same air as him, remembering his soft-as-fuck hands all over me. If we didn’t have this red-carpet event tonight, I’d probably have ended up in a bar or club somewhere, just to have a quickie in a stall and get some of this out of my system. And then someone would’ve snapped a photo, and it would’ve leaked that I’m cheating on Mattie, and then I would’ve ruined the entire fucking movie and thrown myself back onto Hollywood’s blacklist again. Shit.
He hears my sigh and glances over. Matt seems uncomfortable in his blue suit, sitting on the black leather seats stiffly, like he’s afraid to wrinkle his clothes. I have to admit, the stylists did a good job on him. He’s got the floppy-hair heartthrob thing going on. There’s a beat when he looks like he’s going to say something, then thinks better of it and looks away again, out of the window and at the passing lights of the city.
Fuck it. I can’t take the tension. “You meant what you said back there?”
“What?”
“About misjudging me. Giving me more of a chance.” Maybe he was just acting. Maybe he was serious, and he really meant it, even after I treated him like crap.
“Would you care if I did?”
Good question. I don’t bother trying to answer it. It was a weird thing to ask him anyway. I guess I’m on edge, too. It doesn’t help that we’ve been in prep for this red-carpet event for the past couple of days. Basically just drinking water, barely eating any food for a fatphobic industry, and then hours with the stylists today…
“I did mean it,” Matt says.
I can’t think of anything to say to that, so we fall into silence again.
*
The car slows to a stop outside of the Beverly Hilton and we step out, doors shut behind us. It’s showtime. We’re immediately greeted by someone who directs us forward, and ten camera flashes go off every second, so many cameras that it’s hard to tell if they belong to paparazzi or news reporters or fans from behind the barricades—and we’re not even on the red carpet yet. I force on a casual smirk while Mattie’s face immediately glows with a smile. I put my hand around his waist, and he puts a hand on my back, and minders guide us down a lane separated by velvet ropes. We haven’t been nominated for anything, but we’re still getting a shit ton of attention, people calling our names, asking questions, someone even shouting at us to kiss each other.
We’re led toward a partition, where Audrey’s been waiting with Matt’s manager under the big tent. Other actors, musicians, and stars mill around with their entourages, fluffing out dresses and brushing off invisible lint from shoulders and giving each other air kisses. Audrey gives me the same thin-lipped glare I’m used to getting from her, as if she’s trying to telepathically send a message: don’t fuck this up, Gray. We’ve worked together for the past three years now. She’s the manager I’ve had the longest, by far, since the others tended to drop me after a few months. I don’t know what the hell my father’s paying her to stick with me.
Matt hugs Paola, because of course he does, and his eyes shine with excitement as minders direct us to the edge of the carpet. Our managers speak to some reporters, handing them tip sheets, and Matt and I are asked to step forward separately. I stand in front of the GLAAD backgrounds, turning one way and the other with my usual smirk. Matt does the same, following me up the carpet with a dazzling smile. We answer questions all the while.
“How’s the filming of Write Anything going, Logan?”
“Better, now that I’m in love with my co-star.”
“Logan, what is it like working with your boyfriend on set?”
“It makes our jobs easier, having the roles of characters who’re in love.”
“Mr. Gray,” one reporter calls, “I can’t help but feel that your responses to these questions are a bit practiced.”
I stop posing. “What?”
The reporter continues. “There’ve been suggestions that your whirlwind romance with Matt has been a little too convenient, given that you began to date each other just as interest in the film was slipping. What’re your thoughts?”
I freeze. I shouldn’t. I need to be on my game, and Dave had prepped us to respond to questions like this, too, in case they came up. I should know what to do, but the words dry in my mouth. I usually have my lines memorized better than this. A few glances are exchanged, a few more photos taken. I swallow and look at Matt, who has been watching. He walks over and takes my hand. I wasn’t expecting to actually feel comforted, when he glides a thumb over my knuckles.
“We’re celebrities,” Matt says. “There’s always going to be speculation. Questions about why we’re together and whether what we feel for each other is real. But I know what is true. I love him.”