“My sister’s sending me links on Twitter,” he says. “Looks like we’re trending.”
He turns the screen around as proof. Yep. Dave’s let the rumor drop to BuzzFeed as an “unknown source” on set, and from the top few posts, I can see that people are arguing over whether we’re really dating or not. Some people are mad at the insinuation that two queer guys can’t breathe the same air without wanting to fuck. Others are mad at the people who are mad for suggesting there’d be something wrong with us falling in love.
I take a sip of my coffee. “Instant headache.”
He laughs. “Yeah. I usually don’t pay attention to this kind of thing, but a part of me wants to see if”—he lowers his voice and glances around—“you know, it’s working.”
The coffee shop door opens and Dave walks in. He drags over a chair and drops into his seat beside us.
“Lay it on us,” I say. “Who’s getting fired?”
Matt’s startled expression is funny.
Dave rolls his eyes. He isn’t in the mood today. “We’ve got competition. Phillip Desmond is starring in a gay romance. Some shit about dogwalkers, I don’t know. It was just announced last night. Inside sources tell us that the production schedule is tight.” Inside sources. We always manage to make filmmaking sound like some sort of FBI operation. “They’re trying to beat us to opening. Profit off our buzz and excitement. Reynolds wants us to move up the production schedule.”
“Longer days?” I ask.
“No. Fewer takes.”
It’s risky, quality-wise, but I understand. Longer days and going into overtime with this cast could mean another hundred million.
“We need you—everyone—to be more on top of things.” Dave glances at Matt, who swallows with a nod. Dave taps the table as he stands back up, then hesitates. “Oh,” he says, “you two should probably announce that you’re official today.”
He leaves. Matt’s eyebrows are comically high when he meets my gaze.
“Just moving the schedule up by a few days,” I say with a shrug. It’s a smart move. The announcement will steal the thunder from this other movie, whatever it’s called, and make people focus on us again. It might be a little obvious to anyone paying enough attention. But that doesn’t really matter in the end. As long as they don’t have any proof that this relationship is total bullshit.
Dave immediately shifts into the new frame of mind of moving scenes along more quickly, and after we have our replacement mics, we’re finished after a few takes. The rest of the day will be for the scene with Scott’s and Keith’s characters as they stand in line for coffee, talking about Quinn behind his back—he takes himself too seriously, maybe someone like Riley will get him to loosen up, etc. One of the coffee shop’s real baristas is there, incredibly excited to be an extra. They grab me another cup without having to ask for my order, and I blink at Matt when he ends up beside me.
“All black?” he says.
“Do you even drink coffee?”
“Sure. Caramel cappuccinos are my favorite.”
I stare at him blankly, not sure if he’s joking. He has that same cheerful expression on his face. Is he trying to give me the impression that he’s happy to be around me now? Or is he seriously always this fucking happy?
I turn away from him, waiting for the order, and lower my voice. “Maybe we should make ourselves official in an unexpected way. Grab more attention for the spotlight.” I’ve had practice at this.
“How so?”
“You’ll end up posting to social inevitably, but we could have some fun with the paparazzi first.”
I thank the barista when they hand me my coffee, and Matt and I head out of the shop. We’re still in wardrobe, but at least it’s more comfortable than the other outfits I’ve had to wear. I’m in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, giving off the vibes that I don’t give a fuck. Which is, you know, accurate. Mattie’s in jeans and a pink t-shirt, sneakers. The street’s closed off, but there are plenty of curious onlookers from beyond the barricades. Most of them are probably tourists. Not many people in LA blink twice when they see filming for yet another movie. I notice some paparazzi and reporters chatting with publicity assistants. I give a half shrug at Mattie and offer my hand. He hesitates, but only for a second, before he takes it. I even go the extra mile and intertwine fingers.
“What the fuck do you use on your hands?” I ask. “Baby powder?”
“It’s called lotion, Gray.”
It’s surprisingly comfortable, holding hands with him. Usually, I get itchy when any part of me feels trapped, but his hand is loose in mine, swinging a little, casual—like we really are boyfriends who wouldn’t think about it twice. We walk past the line of trailers. I’m not sure if I’m just imagining the hush that falls on set, or the excited whispers from the people watching behind the barricades. He bumps my shoulder with his own and looks up at me with this smile. My heart stutters. Just a little. He really is good at letting that happiness joy love thing radiate from his eyes.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before. I freeze for a second, my head as empty as my expression. I forget, for that split second, that it’s only an act.
His smile fades with the tilt of his head. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I take a sip of my coffee. “We probably got the shot.”
He squeezes my hand and lets go, pretending that he needed his hand to pull out his phone. By the time we make it to the edge of set, to the driver waiting to take us back to the hotel, photos of us holding hands are already making the rounds on social. On the elevator, Matt asks me if I want to come over to his room. Dave already gave us the joint statement he wants us to make, but Matt suggests we take it a step further.
“My little sister is obsessed with celebrities who end up together,” he says, “and she always shows me these selfies they take with their official announcements. Maybe it could be a good idea if we do one.”
Usually shit like this is planned by PR—all the “natural” social media posts and selfies are scheduled, photos edited in advance and posted to Insta by some assistant. If we weren’t so worried about a leak, we probably would’ve scheduled a photoshoot and invited TMZ. But Mattie’s too fucking innocent to know the way this industry really works, and I’m not in the mood to taint him. “Yeah. Sure.”
Nothing’s changed in his hotel room since the last time I came over. No piles of clothes and forgotten candy wrappers and empty plates from in-room dining. He’s self-conscious as he grabs his phone. “I don’t think we need to be kissing or anything cheesy like that.” He fiddles with his phone a little longer than necessary at the suggestion. I decide to let that one slide.
We snap a picture. I have my typical expression: intense gaze, touch of a smirk, like this is all a big fucking joke, which it is. Matt’s grin brightens the entire picture. When people see it, they’ll probably worry for Mattie. He looks too pure, too na?ve, to be dating someone like me. He sets up his laptop, sending the photo to himself, and types out the statement from Dave, printed out on a paper along with the old schedule. I get Dave and Reynolds’s fear about a leak if we trust this kind of thing to the publicity team—more mouths usually mean more gossip—but the amount of work that falls on us is a pain in the ass. Not that I’m actually doing anything. Since I don’t have any socials, it’s Matt’s responsibility now.