August 20: Rumor to be leaked by unknown source （i.e.: me） that you both have started a relationship September 1: Announcement that you are, in fact, official
Logan
Alli Mai—a restaurant popular with celebrities, often the backdrop of many photos taken by the paparazzi. Dave’s hoping we’ll get seen again. It’s six by the time Matt and I are finishing up on set, and the reservation’s for seven. Matt says he’s just going to head over to the Winchester to change. We obviously don’t want to share a car to the hotel. It’s enough that we spent the entire day in character and that we’ll have to eat dinner together for our second act of the day. He says he’ll walk. “It’s only thirty minutes from here.”
“Only?”
“Walking is good for you.”
Yeah. I don’t care. Last time I walked anywhere in public, I was chased down by people with cameras, flash going off in my face every three seconds. I ask one of the drivers on site to take me to the hotel. We pass Mattie as we pull out from the studio. He’s talking to someone on the phone, laughing. I’m jealous of people like him. Doesn’t seem like he has a care in the world.
It pisses me off.
Only a little.
*
After I’ve freshened up, I wait for Matt in the lobby, with its old-school leather Chesterfield chairs. Days of nonstop filming are starting to get to me. My neck is sore with stress. Shit. I used to be able to handle shooting without much of an issue. Being high probably helped. I can’t afford to lose it. This movie’s my only shot to make a comeback. Enough of a splash to be welcomed into the industry so that I can start getting jobs again. I blew all my money years ago. Been depending on my dad. （I really hope that particular detail never leaks to the tabloids.） If I can get my life back in order, I can tell him to fuck off. Feel free for once.
The scene Matt and I worked on today was in a constructed apartment for a house party. Keith’s character, Paul, had just introduced us. A problem, because Quinn had just spent the last five minutes unknowingly trash-talking the romance author Riley Mason right to his face. Now, even the joyful Riley can’t fucking stand Quinn. Maybe Matt had an easy time with that scene because it’s not far off from how he feels about me anyway. Ha.
Matt’s better to work with than I expected. Yeah, there’re a few lines here or there that are hollow as hell, and Dave has to call cut and walk onto set to talk him through it, but—well, he isn’t as bad as the table read, anyway. His acting skills have improved since Love Me Dearly, too. I shouldn’t have said he has zero talent in that interview. I feel bad about it now, but it might be awkward to bring it up and apologize out of nowhere.
Like I’ve summoned him with my thought alone, Matt—Mattie—pops up behind me with a bright as fuck smile. I turn away before he can speak. Save it for the tabloids. I drive him to Alli Mai in my Porsche, which I’d left in the hotel’s garage. I hadn’t planned on driving much when I’ll be on set almost every day, but I brought it anyway. I’m wearing my regular attire. Black t-shirt, ripped black jeans, black boots. Mattie, meanwhile, is wearing a pink graphic t-shirt and faded light blue jeans and yellow sneakers. Maybe we should’ve tried to coordinate, to make it look a little more convincing that a goth would be going on a date with a rainbow-colored golden retriever.
Our seats are center stage, right next to a huge plate-glass window that looks out on Santa Monica Boulevard in the heart of Hollywood. Could Dave have been any more obvious? The waitress is stammering with nerves as she asks us if we’d like anything to drink. But she’s blushing at Matt, not me. That’s new.
I lean back in my seat, staring openly at Matthew, while he fiddles with his hands, looking around at his surroundings like a nervous kid. I snort.
He frowns. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, it’s not nothing if you’re laughing at me.”
I lean forward. “Careful. We’re supposed to like each other, remember?”
He bites his lip. Something he does a lot, I’ve realized. “Sorry. I’m a little more snappy than usual. Just…tired.”
“Yeah. Well. Filming every day for twelve hours can do that.” The waitress brings the water and takes our orders. Mattie asks for sweet potato fries while I’m fine with my bourbon. She nods and whisks away. I take a sip of my water. “This is your first major role,” I say. “How does it feel?”
He squints his eyes at me. “What’re you doing?”
“What do you mean?” I raise a hand at him, gesturing at I don’t know what. “I’m trying to get to know you. Have an actual conversation. Is that okay?”
He’s still skeptical. Suspicious. “Yeah. Sure.” He plays with his napkin. “It’s exciting, but it’s—you know, it’s also really stressful. There’s a lot of pressure. Like this is the role that can define my entire career, and if I don’t do well, or the movie bombs, then I’ll fail.”
I understand that feeling of pressure. But even if the movie doesn’t do well, Mattie will be fine. Hollywood would give a golden boy like him a second chance. “You can only focus on yourself, right? Concentrate on your skill. Everything else tends to follow.”
His expression is thoughtful. “That’s good advice.”
The waitress returns with shaking hands. She puts the bourbon in front of me and leaves quickly.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says, “I saw in interviews that you didn’t like the idea of craft.”
“I don’t.”
I know what he’s said in interviews, but…“Why?”
“Craft is a set of rules made up by people who want to gatekeep what is technically good and what is not. If they get to have the power to decide what’s good, then they have the power of who makes it in this industry. Not a shocker that we’re surrounded by a bunch of white men, right?”
“I’ve always thought craft was more like guidelines,” Matt says. “Take it or leave it. Do what works for us individually.”
“What works for you?”
He gives a self-conscious smile. “Personalization. I know, it’s a little expected.”
“Yeah, well.” I eye him for a second. “You need to have lived experiences to pull from, for personalization to work.”
He meets my gaze. “Why would you assume I don’t have any experiences?”
Because he’s so innocent. He’s a fucking cinnamon roll. “Tell me. What’ve you experienced?” I add, before he can speak, “Start with romance.”
“Why there?”
“I need to know what you’re like as a boyfriend to be more convincing.” Also, I’m nosy as fuck.
He shrugs, but seems embarrassed. “I’ve never actually had a partner.”
I squint at him. I have the feeling that there’s more to the story. “But you’ve been on dates, right?”
“Here and there.” He seems nervous.
“Have you had sex?”
His eyes glint. He’s pissed off. “Is that any of your business?”
I watch him. Funny enough, I get the feeling that he’s had sex before. A lot. I recognize the typical way he won’t meet my eye, like he’s flustered and ashamed and trying to hide the fact that he’s had a shit ton of casual sex and one-night stands. Interesting. He isn’t the innocent golden boy everyone thinks he is. That just makes me more curious.