Back then, I had thought I was being so benevolent and so clever by writing around our conversation about Gabe’s father. That I’d managed to have my cake and eat it too by including the titillating humble-brag about watching Star Trek with him, not even stopping to consider that it wasn’t just the details about his father he’d hoped to keep private.
“That night, I thought that it was just you and me. Not a reporter interviewing Gabe Parker.” He spreads his hands, as if picturing his name on a marquee.
I look at the magazine, now imagining what it must have been like for him to read it for the first time. To discover that I’d shared something that he had never intended to share with anyone else.
“My team loved the article,” he says. “They were thrilled. And you are a good writer, Chani.”
He drapes his arms over his knees.
“It almost made it worse,” he says. “That you wrote about everything—about that night—in such a way that it made me feel like I was there again. Only, it felt like the whole world was there with us.”
His hand curls into a fist. Not a tight, scary one, but solid. He looks at it.
“It made me angry,” he says. “Really angry.”
He shakes his head.
“The fact that I was drinking a lot didn’t help, but fuck, I read that and I felt like a fool.”
I know what that feels like.
“I only half remember going to Vegas,” he says. “All I remember was feeling like I had to do something. Like I had to prove something to myself.”
My throat is tight.
“And Jacinda…？” I can barely get the question out.
“She was surprised by the suggestion, but almost immediately on board,” Gabe says. “She wanted to take control of her reputation, and getting married did that. We never lied to each other about why we were doing it, but I wasn’t as forthcoming as I should have been. Not for a while. But I always left the ball in her court. We’d stay married as long as it was useful to our careers. That was always the deal.”
He glances down at his hand, no longer in a fist.
“Because you’re right. People in Hollywood do stuff like that all the time. It’s just easier—being with someone who gets what you’re going through—who understands the games you have to play. Who…” He trails off.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I read your article, and I reacted like a stupid, drunken fool with a bruised ego.”
“I hurt you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
I reach out and put my hand on his. He puts his other hand on top of mine. We sit there for a while.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks up at me. Smiles.
“Me too,” he says.
Tell Me Something Good
Reviews
Horowitz has done it again! A gem of a collection—like her first one, her well-known interviews are featured alongside more of her personal essays. She tackles every topic—from homophobic Hollywood to how she manages depression with jigsaw puzzles—all with her signature dry, self-deprecating humor.
—Vanity Fair
A hilarious, occasionally weepy collection of essays and interviews. Horowitz is truly the queen of the celebrity interview—we all remember the Gabe Parker piece—and this book is a master class in the form. The perfect holiday gift for all your friends.
—O: The Oprah Magazine Why won’t Horowitz give her readers what they really want—the true story of what happened the night she passed out at Gabe Parker’s house? No one cares about her thoughts on New York or her marriage—we want to know the dirty details of the article that made her famous. Come on, Chani, give your fans what they’re begging for.
—Goodreads
Chapter
23
I don’t ask where we’re going. I just get my borrowed coat, and wind my thick, warm scarf around my neck until it’s under my chin. It’s so snug that it could probably hold my head up on its own. I lace up my boots. It takes forever, and when I’m done, I feel a little like an overstuffed penguin, preparing to waddle across Antarctica.
There’s a lightness between me and Gabe, as if we’re slowly lifting away years and layers of anger. Disappointment.
I know I have to ask him about the phone call, but I wait. Not now. Not yet.
Gabe clicks his tongue and Teddy comes sauntering out of his room, treating us to a long, luxurious stretch that ends with her lying on her stomach on the floor, as graceful as any two-legged yogi.
“We’re not lounging today,” he tells her. “Come on.”