“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?”
I squint at him, not sure if he was really kidding or not. “Besides—I mean, yeah, there’s racism and homophobia, but just like anywhere, right?”
“Sure. It’s not as bad here, though.”
I’m not so sure about that. I haven’t dealt with anti-gay slurs since I arrived in LA, but maybe it’s because I’m working on a set every day for a gay romance film. Besides that, there’s definitely racism here. It’s just the kind that’s hidden behind smiles.
“Don’t you ever deal with racism?” I ask.
“Yeah, I used to get the obvious racist shit on socials. But some people look at me and assume I’m white. They don’t realize that my mom’s Roxane Taylor.”
She was a huge actress in the ’90s, but she hasn’t starred in a film in a while. She just kind of…disappeared. I lean forward to listen, knees to my chest, interested to hear more.
“White people think I’m safe for them to be racist to,” he says. “Like they’ll say fucked up shit, and then I’ll be like—you know I’m Black, right? And then they scramble. Sometimes the looks on their faces are worth it.” Gray leans back on his hands, staring blankly at nothing. “I think about it a lot. How fucked up it is that I probably only got as far as I did because my skin isn’t as dark as my mom’s.”
I nod. “I know what you mean. I’m Black, but—I don’t know, I think some people would rather think I’m an ambiguous race or a white person with a strong tan. I feel guilty, sometimes, knowing I got this role because of colorism.”
“Colorism, and the fact that you’re a good actor.”
“Oh, so I’m a good actor, now? Earlier you only said I was better than you thought I would be.”
He rolls his eyes at me. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. I feel a pinch of disappointment. I’m actually enjoying being with Gray right now—seeing this side of him that isn’t his usual forced role. I’m a little relieved when he puts the phone away and doesn’t suggest that we leave.
“What was it like, growing up in LA as a child star?” I ask him. “Having a movie star for a mom and a famous director and producer for a dad?”
He clenches his jaw, and I suddenly feel like I’ve overstepped. It felt like a safer question to ask to get to know him—safer than asking about his later years, anyway.
“Not as glamorous as you’d think,” he says. “There were a lot of rules. Ways I was expected to act. Sometimes I envied kids who didn’t have to deal with that bullshit. Could just have a normal life and go to school and have friends and hang out at the movies, instead of being the kid on the movie screen.”
“That’s funny. I’d look at someone like you and dream about having your life instead.”
“We should’ve met when we were kids and switched.”
“Someone probably would’ve figured it out eventually.”
“The thing I envied the most was this idea I got in my head,” he says, “that if I wasn’t famous, I could’ve been out as bisexual if I wanted to.”
“You couldn’t be out?”
“Not really. Not before I said fuck it and started to do whatever the hell I wanted to.”
I feel a small rush, a jolt of excitement, at the idea of doing whatever the hell I want to.
“By the time I turned twelve, I knew I was bi,” he says, “but the industry only pretends to be progressive. They refuse to show our stories. Still ruled by white straight guys who think only one kind of story sells, so those are the ones that get greenlit, over and over again. I was told it wasn’t a good image, being out as bi, because I was supposed to be this heartthrob for teen girls.” He sighs. “Plus there’s the usual biphobic bullshit. People saying I’m just confused. I need to make up my mind. I’m bi because I’m a slut. It’s a stereotype to be a bi person who enjoys sex. I think I hated that I couldn’t be myself because of a stereotype, so I had as much sex as I fucking wanted.”
My face heats up when he meets my eye. I look away quickly. “I wasn’t really able to be out, either,” I tell him, speaking fast to cover up my embarrassment. “My dad thinks it’s wrong that I’m gay. He was raised as a conservative Christian, so he had me going to church every Sunday. The Bible didn’t even originally say that homosexuality is a sin. It mentioned pedophilia. The church edited the Bible, changing pedophilia to homosexuality. Isn’t that crazy?”
When I look up at Gray, I lean back. His eyes—I don’t know, they’ve gotten hollow, shadow falling over his face as he frowns and turns his head away from me. “Yeah. Crazy.”
I frown. There was a sudden shift just now, and I want to ask if he’s okay, but I’m not sure he would tell me the truth anyway. We become quiet for a moment. Questions are rising. I want to ask so much about Logan’s life. I’m feeling more and more curious about him. I think it was easier to say he was an asshole and leave it at that, but he’s been showing me his more human layers, and—I don’t know, it’s surprising to see that they aren’t all that bad.
*
Gray and I ride back to the hotel in an unexpectedly comfortable silence. Well, I don’t know if he’s ever really uncomfortable when he simply doesn’t care, but I definitely don’t feel as awkward with him as I would’ve yesterday. Maybe we have a chance of pulling off this publicity stunt. We might even become friends by the end of it all. Well, I shouldn’t hope for too much.
It’s almost nine by the time we say good night in the elevator. I open my hotel door and sigh as I lean against it, closing it behind me. I want to take a nap, but first I call up Emma on FaceTime—she’s a night owl and goes to bed at three in the morning, so I know she’s awake. She answers before the first ring has a chance to finish.
“Um, excuse me?” she says immediately, face so close to the camera that I can only see her nostril and cheek.
I laugh. She can be so dramatic sometimes. “What?”
She turns the phone. There’s a blur of light, and then I see she’s zoomed in on her laptop screen. A tabloid site has a photo of me and Gray sitting together at the table from earlier, looking comfortable and friendly. The screen is too bright to read what the blog says, but I catch a few words: speculation, budding romance on set. Wow. That was fast.
Emma turns the phone back around to face her. “What is happening? You’re not dating Logan Gray, are you?”