“I’m just here to support Oliver” was the only sound bite Gabe would give.
It wasn’t until we got inside and the doors shut behind us, cutting off the overwhelming cacophony, that Gabe released me.
“Wow,” I said, suddenly exhausted.
“Yeah,” Gabe said.
The smile and the pose had disappeared. He ran a hand across the back of his neck.
“It’s a lot,” he said.
“It’s not so bad,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s a lot. How do you cope?”
“Practice,” he said. “And this helps…”
He unbuttoned his jacket, opening it to reveal a slim silver flask tucked into his inside pocket. He took it out and unscrewed the top.
“Want some?”
It explained the whisky on his breath.
“Sure,” I said.
He passed it over and I took a sip. I liked whisky and it was good stuff. It burned, in the best possible way, warmth wrapping around my throat and rib cage.
I gave it back and he took a long swig.
“I have to ask you something,” I said.
“Anything,” he said.
I was certain he didn’t really mean that. And a little worried if he did.
“Is this…” I paused. “Is this still part of the interview?”
He had lifted the flask again but froze for a second before putting it to his lips and taking another drink.
“Do you want it to be?” he asked.
I didn’t know.
We stared at each other for a moment. Then Gabe seemed to finish off what was left in his flask.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Write what you want.”
He sounded a little angry and a lot resigned.
“I—”
“Gabe!”
I turned toward the familiar voice and found a familiar face.
A face I’d grown up with, but always with the glass of the TV between us.
Oliver Matthias.
“Ollie,” Gabe said, his expression going from tight and shuttered to warm and cheerful.
The two of them exchanged hugs—not the bro-y backslapping kind of hugs that most men usually engaged in as if they were afraid any display of actual affection was an affront to masculinity, but a close, arms-tight-around-the-shoulders, cheek-to-cheek kind of hug.
“I’m glad you came,” Oliver said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Gabe said.
I stood there, my hands clasped, not sure what to do, when Oliver’s gaze swung over to me.
“Hello,” he said.
“This is Chani,” Gabe said. “She’s interviewing me for Broad Sheets.”
“I thought that interview was yesterday,” Oliver said.
Interesting. Gabe and Oliver were close enough that they had spoken about the interview, and Oliver remembered that it was yesterday.
If there was any animosity between the two of them over the Bond role—or any truth to the rumors that Gabe had stolen Jacinda from Oliver—I couldn’t sense it. Then again, they were both actors.
“We’re extending the interview,” Gabe said.
“I can see that,” Oliver said.
The look he gave me was one that I’d given numerous times. It was the kind of look you gave the dirtbag guys your high school friends were dating when you’d heard rumors that they were cheaters.
It was a “watch yourself” kind of look.
Was I the dirtbag in this situation? Did Oliver think he needed to protect Gabe from me?
Maybe he did. Just like waitress Madison had tried yesterday. I was, after all, here because I was chasing a story. But I didn’t like the feeling that I was someone to be wary of.
Especially when it was Oliver Matthias—child star, leading man, teenage crush—essentially telling me that he had his eyes on me.
The lights in the lobby blinked.
“Time for the show,” Oliver said. “I hope you enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He gave me a nod but then turned back to Gabe.
“You’ll come to the after-party?”
“Will there be beer?”
Oliver rolled his eyes.
“Of course I’ll be there,” Gabe said.
“You can come too,” Oliver said to me, politely but with no real warmth.
“Oh, okay,” I said.
The lobby lights flashed again.
“We’ll see you after,” Gabe said.
We.
I practically floated into the theater alongside Gabe.
As we walked to our seats, people turned and stared.
It wasn’t something I was used to. Especially the confusion and disappointment I could see on their faces when they looked from Gabe to me. It was almost comical how shocked they were. “He’s with her?”