“I just have one question,” I ask now.
“Hit me,” Gabe says, clearly still embarrassed.
“Who’s Tracy?”
“Tracy?”
“Just before Jacinda hung up, she called me Tracy,” I say.
“Don’t call again, Tracy,” she’d said.
Gabe sits there for a moment, and then he laughs, his palm hitting the steering wheel. It breaks the tension—heavy and somber—hovering over us.
“You’re Tracy,” Gabe says, shifting onto one hip, digging his phone out of his pocket.
He unlocks the screen, scrolls for a moment, and then turns it for me to see. It’s a contact for Tracy Lord. The main character from The Philadelphia Story.
“Call it,” he says.
I do, and there’s a buzzing in my pocket.
I’ve just called myself.
I stare at the screen and let out a surprised huff of a laugh.
“You put me down as Tracy Lord in your phone?” I ask.
Gabe grins. “It seemed clever at the time.”
We both burst out laughing. I laugh until my lungs hurt, crying just a little at how utterly ridiculous this whole thing is. Gabe leans his head back against his headrest, turning to look at me.
My breath catches.
Because this is it. There are no more secrets, no more forgotten moments. I’m vulnerable and exposed. Brand-new. Ready.
He’s watching me. Waiting.
“Let’s go inside,” I say.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Interview with Chani Horowitz
[excerpt]
Though Horowitz studied fiction at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she’s mostly known for her nonfiction. Her debut, Tell Me Something I Don’t Know, is a collection of her latest work, and out in paperback this Tuesday.
Though there are several personal essays, Horowitz’s claim to fame is her celebrity profiles, most notably the one she did on Gabe Parker a few years ago, which went viral.
“I never expected the reaction I got,” she says. “You never do.”
I can’t help pushing back on that a little. She didn’t think writing about going to a premiere with a movie star and then passing out at his house the following night wouldn’t be exactly the kind of story our celebrity-hungry culture would jump all over?
“I didn’t,” she insists. “Sure, there are times when you think that something might break through, but you just never know.”
I ask if she’ll ever write a follow-up.
“When it comes to interviews like that, I’m at the disposal of the interviewee,” she says. “I don’t seek out subjects.”
It’s clear that she doesn’t want to talk about Gabe Parker, but I can’t resist asking the question that everyone has been asking since the article came out.
“Nothing happened,” she says with a smile. “Don’t I wish, though?”
Chapter
27
Teddy leaps out of the truck when we arrive, sniffing around the back of the building until she finds a place on the snow to squat and pee. I’m wearing my coat, but Gabe’s is draped over his arm. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold.
It’s only seven, but dark as midnight. It gets dark early in Montana, so I’ve been told.
Still, I can see the mountains—white-tipped and rolling—like a frothy wave in the distance.
When Gabe puts his hand on the small of my back, I lean into it.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay.”
Once inside we knock the snow off our boots, and Gabe cleans out the frozen globs that have formed between Teddy’s toes.
I hold my coat against my chest as Gabe starts a fire. I’m still standing in the entryway when he finishes. He comes over, takes my coat, and hangs it up.
“Chani,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
“We don’t have to…” he says.
“I…”
The room warms. Gabe puts his hands on my arms, his thumbs stroking my biceps as if I’m a scared animal he’s trying to soothe.
It’s not entirely incorrect.
“I’m not in any rush,” he says.
He’s not talking about tonight. He is, but also, he isn’t.
I push back. Move away. A few inches.
That tight, scared, panicky feeling presses against my ribs. My confidence falters.
“The last time we did this…” I gesture between us.
“Yeah,” he says. “About that.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me stop. He sounds embarrassed, and I don’t know why.