“You moved back to Montana for a while,” I say.
He nods. “My family wanted me to be close by,” he says. “And Hollywood isn’t great for people in recovery. Even if I was ready to start working again—even if anyone was interested in hiring me—the whole culture around movies, all the parties and events, it involves a lot of alcohol. And other stuff.”
I remember how I had assumed there would be cocaine at his house party.
“You moved to New York,” he says.
“It’s what writers do.”
He probably thought that, after I read about him marrying Jacinda Lockwood in Vegas right after my article about him was published, I ran back to Jeremy, moved to New York with him, and tried to out-happily-ever-after Gabe.
“You hate New York,” he says.
I shrug. I don’t want to talk about our exes.
It was almost a year after Gabe’s marriage to Jacinda that I went to New York. Just for a visit. For work.
Jeremy and I had kept in touch, and he had invited me out to dinner.
He’d changed. I’d changed.
Dinner became late night drinks at his place and then brunch the next morning. The weekend became a week and then I was heading back to L.A. to pack my things. We were engaged a year later.
I didn’t think about Gabe at all.
“You’re back now,” Gabe says.
I shrug again.
“I like the newsletter,” Gabe says.
“Thank you,” I say, because it seems rude not to.
I’d switched from blogging to a monthly newsletter about three years ago. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder if he kept reading my blog after that weekend. And I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally check the emails of people who subscribed to my newsletter to see if he had subscribed.
I’d never seen his name, but then again, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a private email account that he used.
We both eat our burgers, and when I’ve finished my fries, I push the remainder of them toward him. He finishes them without a word.
“So,” I say, wiping my fingers. “The Philadelphia Story.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Someone once told me it was a movie that needed an update.”
I know what he’s doing. I know he’s hoping I’ll make some cute, flattered comment like “Oh, did they?” and he’ll have an opening and we’ll laugh and things will be friendly and casual.
I can’t do that again.
That girl—that brave, brash, bold, stupid girl—has to protect herself. This interview has to stay professional. From start to finish.
“This is your third movie with Oliver Matthias,” I say.
“With Ollie, yeah,” Gabe says.
“No hard feelings it seems,” I say.
“He’s more forgiving than he should be,” Gabe says. “I don’t know if I’d do the same thing in his shoes.”
“Yes, you would,” I say.
He smiles.
I almost cave—his smile is just that good, that familiar—but I remind myself how I felt when I heard about him and Jacinda. I remind myself how it felt seeing him in New York.
I pay for lunch and I already know that Broad Sheets is going to be disappointed with the interview I turn in. It will be fine—it will be competently written and flattering to Gabe—but it won’t be anywhere near the article that I wrote ten years ago.
Because we’re not the same people we were ten years ago.
That’s just going to have to be good enough for Broad Sheets. For the world.
We step outside the restaurant and I hold out my hand, wanting to end this on a professional note. As if a handshake will give me the kind of closure I was hoping for.
“Wait,” Gabe says.
I don’t want to. I’ve been looking at the door for the past hour, imagining myself bolting from the restaurant. Getting away from it. Getting away from him.
I put my hand away.
“Chani,” he says.
He still says it perfectly. It still gives me a chill.
I hate it. I’m a grown-ass divorcee who lived in New York for fuck’s sake, not a twenty-six-year-old fangirl with a boner for the future James Bond.
“Did you get what you needed?” Gabe asks.
“I got enough,” I say.
He runs his hand across the back of his neck. His baseball cap is tucked into his back pocket, his sunglasses folded and hanging from the front of his shirt. It pulls the fabric low enough that I can see his chest hair.
I look away.
“I’d like to show you something,” he says.