Dave claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just promise me one thing, Gray. Don’t become a bitter old man like me, stuck in a world where you’re walked all over and treated like shit. No matter how much money you make. Okay? Fuck money. Money is bullshit. These billionaires are ruining the world.”
I like drunk Dave. “Yeah. Okay.”
He leaves. I turn around, back leaning against the railing. I can see inside. Mattie’s smiling, speaking to Phillip. Phillip Desmond is the whitest man alive. Pink skin and yellow hair, eyes so pale I can’t even tell what color they are. He’s laughing at something Mattie says. He leans in, a hand grazing Matt’s arm. Makes sense, somehow, that they flirt the exact same way. Matt doesn’t pull away. He looks a little shy. It’s like that magical moment when you see two golden retrievers meet for the first time. Fuck.
I down the rest of the wine and put the glass on the railing before I head to the group, grabbing a fresh glass from a server on the way over. I stop beside Matt and take his hand. Phillip looks at our intertwined fingers, then up at me.
“Great to meet you, Logan,” he says. He has a British accent. Not a fake one, like some people in this city tend to have. “Huge fan of yours.”
I raise my wine to him with my free hand. “Wish I could say the same.”
The silence is painful. Keith shakes his head and leaves. Mattie looks at me. Why should he be surprised? He knows who I am.
Julie rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, Phil. Gray’s socially inept.”
Phillip shrugs. “That’s all right. I have enough confidence that I don’t need validation from strangers. Besides,” he says, “it’s been a nice enough evening, speaking with you and Matthew. Nothing can ruin that.”
“I’m glad I met you, too,” Matt says, like he’s trying to make up for what I’d said. I let go of his hand and sip my wine.
“I still think we should pitch the idea,” Phillip says, grin returning. He and Matt are looking at each other with that joy that makes me uncomfortable, the same happiness that Matt shows whenever he looks at me.…
“What idea?” I ask.
“A rom-com pitch,” Matt says, gaze a little more uncertain now. “It’s great that there’re two romantic comedies starring gay men coming out around the same time. But there could be more stories, you know?”
“It’s a change to what we normally see,” Phillip says. “We usually only get to watch tragedies, or thrillers with murder mysteries. Death follows us everywhere in these films. We should get the chance to see ourselves have a laugh, too.” He meets my eye, raising his glass to his lips. I feel the strong glimmer of dislike coming from him. “Don’t you think?”
“Right. Yeah. A laugh.”
“The idea’s actually really great,” Matt says, looking at Phillip with excitement. Completely unaware that Phil and I can’t stand each other. “We’d be ex-boyfriends forced to live as roommates, who still secretly have feelings for each other.”
“I was thinking it could either be a feature or a series,” Phil says with a shrug.
I look at Matt. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Mattie frowns. “Okay.”
We walk away far enough that we’re out of earshot, though when I turn I see that Phillip’s and Julie’s gazes have followed us. Matt bumps a shoulder into me. “What the hell, Logan?”
“What?”
“Why were you so rude to Phil? That was really embarrassing.”
“I hate the British accent.”
He tilts his head to the side in confusion. “What?”
“People only give a fuck about white British men because of colonialism and racism.”
“You’re drunk, Gray.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Phillip’s really nice, if you’d give him a chance.”
“Sure. The way everyone gives me a chance, right?” Why should I give him a chance when he’s probably just going to treat me like shit?
“Logan,” Matt says, and he sounds frustrated now—no, not just frustrated. Pissed. “Not everyone’s out to get you. Not everyone automatically wants to hurt you. If you treat someone like shit right off the bat, then, yeah. Chances are they’re not going to be too pleasant in return. I think you owe Phil an apology.”
I’ve never really heard Mattie speak like this before. He isn’t yelling, but his words are firm. Reminds me of when he’s in bed with me, telling me what to do and how to behave. It’s not as much of a turn-on right now.
“I’m going to get another drink.”
“Logan. Hey.”
I ignore him as I walk away. I’m only criticized by people who want me to know how much they hate me. Strangers online. My father’s phone calls. It’s taking me a second to separate Mattie’s words from all the people who have attacked me. How do I know he’s safe, and isn’t trying to hurt me like everyone else? Maybe I started to trust him a little too quickly. Got wrapped up in feelings and daydreams. That’s the thing with romances. They’re supposed to look a certain way, right? They’ve got story beats they’re supposed to follow, according to the movies I’ve worked on. They can’t have heroes and love interests with the kind of trauma that takes over their body, trapping them so they don’t know how to move forward. Can’t have fucking rape victims. Who the hell wants to watch serious, depressing shit like that? And they absolutely must have a happily ever after. I guess that means that romances, by definition, are not for someone like me.
Another glass of the same wine from another person with a tray. In the corner of my eye, I see Matt’s returned to Phillip and Julie. They’re all laughing about something. My phone buzzes. When I check the screen, I see that it’s Briggs.
You around?
I hesitate, then start typing. At some industry party. You’re back in LA?
Yup. Only for a few days. He’s probably been here for weeks already. He just didn’t bother to text me. Wanna meet up tonight?
He knows I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s never given a fuck about that.
He doesn’t have to know that Matt and I aren’t really together. That our relationship is bullshit, and I can do whatever the hell I want.
And I need to get out of here. I’m starting to feel stuck in my body, anxiety crawling through me.
Yeah. I’ll meet you at my place.
There’re a few lingering glances as I leave. Matt, across the room, does a double take. I get the feeling that he’s going to try to follow me and ask me where I’m going. I put the empty glass on a table and walk fast. I pull out my keys as I head into the night, cars parked along the circular concrete driveway, rushing past a few people who linger. I jump into my car and slam the door shut. I get a text from Matt. Where are you going? I drove him here so that we could play into the role, getting out of the car and walking into the house holding hands. It hits me as I start up the engine that it probably doesn’t look great, me abandoning him at a party, but fuck it. That’s expected, right? We’re still playing the roles people want from us.
I peel out, hitting the curves fast. My apartment is only ten minutes away, and there’s barely any traffic this late at night. Briggs is already outside, leaning against his car, arms crossed. He smirks as I step out and slam my door shut behind me. Briggs is typecast into antagonistic roles. He’s most well-known for being the head of a white gang in British Streets, an 1800s period show, even though he’s Aussie. He tends to swing baseball bats hard enough to knock people’s heads off. He looks like he could do it, too. He’s a foot taller than me, with muscles bulging through the t-shirt that presses against him. He buzzed his hair for the role, but the reddish-blonde fuzz is coming back in, light beard on his face.