The whole thing might have gone away if Team Parker hadn’t threatened to sue the tabloid. Instead, it just made people more curious. After all, if Gabe and his late father had had a good relationship, there would have been nothing to hide. Clearly there was something to hide. Abuse or estrangement or something equally horrible and juicy. Exactly the kind of information the public seemed to feel entitled to.
The kind of information that any interviewer would kill to have access to.
Looking at Gabe now, I could guess what he was thinking. That I was the kind of interviewer that would do whatever it took to get what I wanted—that I wasn’t above pushing his buttons to get a reaction. To get a story.
I wanted to get a story, just not in that way.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know the rules.”
If I had to grovel, I would.
“I didn’t mean—”
He waved a hand. “Let’s just move on, okay?”
Fuck. When I’d thought about all the ways I could mess up this interview, I hadn’t really considered that I would unintentionally and thoughtlessly lob a “gotcha” question at him.
“I won’t include that,” I said, knowing he probably wouldn’t believe me.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What about your father?”
“My father?”
“Is he a Bond fan?”
His arms were crossed.
“Sure,” I said. “What man isn’t?”
I was trying to be playful, tossing Gabe’s words back at him. I had no idea if my father liked James Bond movies. The only things I’d ever seen him watch were Lakers games.
Gabe didn’t say anything, just cast a cynical look down at my notebook. I put a hand over the page. As if he could read it upside down and from across the table.
“I—”
But before I could finish my sentence, Gabe stood abruptly.
My stomach plummeted.
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” he said, scooping the puppy off the ground.
His tone was cold and polite.
I nodded.
He left the outside patio and I watched him go, those wonderful broad shoulders, that narrow waist, that very, very nice ass. I was one hundred percent sure that this was the last I was going to see of Gabe Parker, so I might as well take a long look.
When he was out of sight, I drew a line through the condensation on my beer glass, knowing that our food would appear soon and it was going to be very, very embarrassing when Madison arrived at the table with two burgers and only one person to eat them.
My boat had sunk to the bottom of the lake.
I put my head down, my forehead against my notebook.
I thought about all the stories I wanted to write. I thought about Jeremy and his book deal. I thought about my student loans.
I thought that I might just take that second burger to go because who knew when I’d be getting another job.
Suddenly my ankle was wet.
I looked down through the glass of the table to find the puppy licking the exposed skin between my shoe and my jeans. Lifting my head, I discovered that Gabe was sitting across from me, his expression neutral. He had another beer in front of him. One that was already half gone.
“Well?” he asked. “Shall we continue?”
THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM
BREAK UP/BREAKDOWN
It’s over. The Novelist packed up his drawer last night, and this time I didn’t cry.
He’s going to move to New York where people are creative and wild and interesting. Not like the people here who only care about smoothies, exercising, and watching bad TV.
I’m pretty sure people in New York watch bad TV. They just do it in smaller apartments.
I told him I’d never move to New York. He said that was the problem. That because I wasn’t the kind of person who would move to New York with him, then I just wasn’t the kind of person he could be with.
Depending on who you ask, we’ve done this dance half a dozen times since we’ve been together, but this time I’m certain it’s going to stick.
Mostly because that’s what the Novelist said when he slammed his car door, right before he drove off.
I’m single again.
I didn’t cry but I did eat a lot of ice cream.
Heartbreak is supposed to be good for inspiration, but besides this post, I’ve managed to write absolutely nothing. All my plans, all my goals, have been swept away by this latest personal riptide.
The Novelist always said I had trouble with focus. No doubt he is sitting in front of his typewriter with his glass of gin, typing furiously away, turning this matter of personal growth （his words） into creative fertilizer （mine）。