“I’m so sorry,” I said to the young woman, who took that chance to get the hell out of Dodge.
I turned to Jeremy, but he wasn’t done.
“You’re not better than me,” he’d said, and walked out of the party, into the rain.
I’d stayed with Katie that night and Jeremy had called when he sobered up, apologizing profusely. He was under stress. He was drunk. He was sorry.
But he never said that he didn’t mean it.
The worst part was that I already knew. I knew what people thought of me, of my writing, and it ate away at whatever pride I might have been able to have in my work. I had just hoped that my own husband didn’t believe what everyone else did.
But he did.
And I wasn’t sure he was wrong.
“Chani?”
I look at Gabe. At the reason I have a career.
“Lost you there for a second,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just remembering something.”
“Anything you want to share?”
“No,” I say.
Film Fans
THE PHILADELPHIA STORY REVIEW
[excerpt]
By Chloe Watson
Depending on who you ask, The Philadelphia Story is the best romantic comedy ever made. Or it’s an actors’ showcase with several questionable story lines.
Oliver Matthias’s latest adaptation of the classic play turned film turned musical （because we can’t forget High Society） clearly intends to honor the first school of thought while addressing the second.
He very nearly succeeds.
Although he’s able to update the extremely problematic father-daughter relationship, plus address the casual domestic violence sprinkled throughout, Matthias never truly nails the zaniness of the original.
Credit where credit is due, though, the casting is impeccable.
There was outrage when it was announced that disgraced former Bond Gabe Parker would be playing C. K. Dexter Haven. The internet exploded with think pieces about how casting a recovering alcoholic to play a recovering alcoholic was lazy and exploitive.
We should all know now that Oliver Matthias, in his infinite wisdom, knew exactly what he was doing when he chose Parker. Parker’s C. K. Dexter Haven is droll, debonair, and pitch-perfect. While the rest of the cast is superb—Benjamin Walsh as Mike Connor is a true revelation—it’s Parker who steals the show.
Chapter
25
I agree to have dinner with Gabe and his family. We don’t talk any more about my writing or Jeremy. As we lock up the theatre, Gabe tells me that he and Ollie are planning to spend the next several months renovating, hiring staff, and planning their first season.
“We want to open next fall,” he says.
“Ambitious,” I say.
He shrugs. “I don’t have much else going on.”
It’s a topic both of us seem to be avoiding—the future.
“No movies in the pipeline?” I ask.
“I think everyone’s waiting to see how The Philadelphia Story does before I’m officially welcomed back to Hollywood,” he says. “You get into one drunken, viral argument with your shitty director and suddenly no one wants to work with you. Unless, of course, you might make money for them.”
There’s that desert-dry tone again.
“You should have just stuck with the old standby of anti-Semitic insults and referring to female officers as ‘Sugar Tits’ and you’d be welcomed back with open arms and awards,” I say.
Gabe snaps his fingers. “Dammit, I knew I’d played it wrong. Where’s your phone? Let’s get something on film.”
And just like that, we’ve once again sidestepped the conversation I’m not ready to have.
It isn’t until he stops, breath visible in the cold air, that I realize we’ve been walking down Main Street in silence.
“Here we are,” he says.
We’re outside of the Cozy. With the setting sun and the lights inside ablaze, it lives up to its name.
There’s a bell above the door—a sweet, old-fashioned one like what Meg Ryan had in You’ve Got Mail—and it jingles when we enter, announcing our arrival. There are Christmas carols playing softly over the store speakers.
“Be right with you,” a voice comes from the back.
“It’s just me, Mama,” Gabe says.
Mama. He calls his mother Mama.
It smells of apples and cinnamon, warming me along with the well-heated store. There’s a little cart by the door with a carafe, mugs, and a sign that reads Help yourself.
“Want some?” Gabe asks.
He pours before I can answer—apple cider—and passes me a cup. On the bottom shelf there’s a bin for dirty mugs.