Funny You Should Ask(12)
“Ex-boyfriend,” I said.
Gabe ignored me. “You started out in fiction, but mostly write nonfiction now. Your writing has been described as sharp. You’re from L.A. You hate New York.”
“I don’t hate New York.” I was unnerved.
I did hate New York.
I stared at him. He stared back.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “When someone thinks they know you.”
The whole thing reminded me of the time I’d tried to learn how to skateboard in some ill-advised bid to get the attention of a guy I knew in high school. I’d been floating along, when suddenly I leaned too far back and the skateboard had come shooting out from under me. I was airborne for half a second before hitting the ground—tailbone first—hard. The pain had made me cry and the tears had made the boy disappear.
It felt a little like that now, like Gabe had yanked the skateboard—something I had been arrogant to even try to ride—right out from under me.
I was used to asking a simple question and sitting back, letting my subject monologue until I got some decent pull quotes. I was used to celebrities being excited to talk about themselves.
“It’s my job,” I repeated lamely.
“I know,” he said.
Do it better was what was implied.
I flipped through my notebook as if a life raft would suddenly appear.
“Have you always been a Bond fan?” I asked, floundering.
“Sure,” he said. “What man isn’t?”
“Did you watch them with your dad?”
Gabe’s face went blank.
If this interview was a sinking boat, I’d just blown out the bottom.
Because there was one thing I’d been told was off-limits.
Years ago, some scummy online tabloid had dug through Gabe’s proverbial trash and written a piece about the person that Gabe never spoke about.
It had been called “Gabe Parker: Without a Father Figure.”
The piece had been poorly written, thin on details, and yet it said more than Gabe or his management ever had. I was ashamed that I was one of millions who read it—discovering that Gabe’s father had died when he was ten.
The whole thing might have gone away if Team Parker hadn’t threatened to sue the tabloid. Instead, it just made people more curious. After all, if Gabe and his late father had had a good relationship, there would have been nothing to hide. Clearly there was something to hide. Abuse or estrangement or something equally horrible and juicy. Exactly the kind of information the public seemed to feel entitled to.
The kind of information that any interviewer would kill to have access to.
Looking at Gabe now, I could guess what he was thinking. That I was the kind of interviewer that would do whatever it took to get what I wanted—that I wasn’t above pushing his buttons to get a reaction. To get a story.
I wanted to get a story, just not in that way.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know the rules.”
If I had to grovel, I would.
“I didn’t mean—”
He waved a hand. “Let’s just move on, okay?”
Fuck. When I’d thought about all the ways I could mess up this interview, I hadn’t really considered that I would unintentionally and thoughtlessly lob a “gotcha” question at him.
“I won’t include that,” I said, knowing he probably wouldn’t believe me.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What about your father?”
“My father?”
“Is he a Bond fan?”
His arms were crossed.
“Sure,” I said. “What man isn’t?”
I was trying to be playful, tossing Gabe’s words back at him. I had no idea if my father liked James Bond movies. The only things I’d ever seen him watch were Lakers games.
Gabe didn’t say anything, just cast a cynical look down at my notebook. I put a hand over the page. As if he could read it upside down and from across the table.
“I—”
But before I could finish my sentence, Gabe stood abruptly.
My stomach plummeted.
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” he said, scooping the puppy off the ground.
His tone was cold and polite.
I nodded.
He left the outside patio and I watched him go, those wonderful broad shoulders, that narrow waist, that very, very nice ass. I was one hundred percent sure that this was the last I was going to see of Gabe Parker, so I might as well take a long look.
When he was out of sight, I drew a line through the condensation on my beer glass, knowing that our food would appear soon and it was going to be very, very embarrassing when Madison arrived at the table with two burgers and only one person to eat them.
My boat had sunk to the bottom of the lake.
I put my head down, my forehead against my notebook.
I thought about all the stories I wanted to write. I thought about Jeremy and his book deal. I thought about my student loans.
I thought that I might just take that second burger to go because who knew when I’d be getting another job.
Suddenly my ankle was wet.
I looked down through the glass of the table to find the puppy licking the exposed skin between my shoe and my jeans. Lifting my head, I discovered that Gabe was sitting across from me, his expression neutral. He had another beer in front of him. One that was already half gone.