I gestured to the room, to him. Remembering that I was here because of a job was stabilizing. Necessary.
He went still for just a moment. Enough to know that I was right. Then he began swaying along with the music.
“They wanted me to sign a morality clause,” he said.
“A morality clause?”
“It was all very vague and lawyer-y, but the gist was that if I did something that they could say was ‘morally objectionable,’ I would be fired immediately,” Ollie said. “It was pretty clear that they didn’t want me coming out.”
I wrinkled my nose, not sure what to say. It seemed ridiculous that anyone would care, but I knew they did. And the way that articles kept bringing up Gabe’s role in Angels in America, from when he was in college, made it abundantly clear that there were plenty of people who cared a lot.
“He didn’t know,” Ollie said.
I tilted my head.
“Gabe.” Ollie jerked his chin in his direction.
He was still on the couch, his long fingers drumming along his knee.
“He knew about me being gay. But he didn’t know that they reached out to me first. About Bond,” Ollie said. “When he found out, he threatened to quit.”
We spun around, the glittered mirror ball throwing light across our faces.
“I thought about it,” Ollie said. “I told myself that I wasn’t ready to come out yet so why not just stay in the closet for a while longer?”
He tilted his head back.
“But signing something called a ‘morality clause’？ Allowing them to equate my sexuality with an issue of morality?” He looked back down at me. “No. I couldn’t do that.”
I nodded, but I was lost in thought.
Ollie stopped spinning, stopped both of us moving.
“Please,” he said.
I knew what he was asking. This time, I didn’t hesitate.
“I won’t,” I said.
He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t completely sure if he could trust me.
“My story is about Gabe,” I said. “We went to see your movie and it was great. He’s a fan of your work—you support him. You’re friends. Good friends. There’s no competition between the two of you—in fact, you insisted that he’s the right person for the job.”
Ollie let out a breath.
“Thank you,” he said.
We danced, practically cheek to cheek, him holding my hand between us like an old-fashioned movie couple. Nothing about it should have felt normal, but somehow it did.
Of course, I was slow dancing in a gay club with Oliver Matthias. Of course.
“My manager thinks it will ruin my career,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s right.”
I couldn’t promise him otherwise.
“Or maybe it will just make you even more famous and fabulously unattainable,” I said.
He laughed.
“I don’t want to be brave for coming out. I don’t want to be a hero or an icon or anything. I just want to be an actor. Maybe a director someday. A famous one. A famous, handsome, rich one. I don’t want to be the famous, handsome, rich, gay one.”
“I get it,” I said. “I’m used to being the token Jewish friend.”
“You’re from L.A.,” he said.
I nodded. “Still.”
He let out a low whistle, barely audible over the music.
“A kid in middle school asked me where my horns were,” I said.
He laughed, a dark humor kind of laugh.
“Everyone would want to know when I first ‘knew,’？” he said.
“They want to know what I think about Santa Claus.”
“They’d want to know who the catcher is.”
I cringed.
“I’d make a joke about circumcision,” I said. “But I’d rather cut this conversation short.”
Ollie laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
It wasn’t that great of a joke, but we were both well on our way to being very drunk and maybe becoming friends and things that were usually horrible could seem funny and fun when you felt like that.
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve this—Ollie’s apparent trust and friendship—but I’d take it.
“I like you,” he said.
It was hard to separate Ollie the person from Oliver the movie star and I couldn’t deny the rush of endorphins I got knowing that Oliver the movie star—the person I’d been watching since I was a preteen—liked me.
“And I think he likes you too,” he said.
He spun me around so I got a quick look at Gabe, still sitting on the couch. He was watching us.