Funny You Should Ask(36)

“Yeah, you,” he said. “You write all these articles and you have your blog and you’re also doing lots of other stuff too. You’re smart and creative. That’s impressive.”

I wanted to argue with him. Wanted to tell him that among my peers I wasn’t impressive at all. I didn’t have a book contract, I didn’t have a readership. I had to scramble and hustle for every single interview I got, had to prove myself each and every time.

But the expression on his face was so genuine, so earnest, that I held my tongue and let his words sink in. And when I did, I realized, with a certain pleasant surprise, that to someone like Gabe, I might actually seem impressive. Because I made my living off my writing. It wasn’t a good living by anyone’s standards but I was surviving. I didn’t have to work a day job. My writing was supporting me just enough that I didn’t need to do anything else.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you” is what I finally settled on, just as the lights went down.





Film Fans


     BREAKING OUR SHARED HEARTS

[excerpt]



By Evan Arnold


There’s something that all us cynical, stone-hearted reviewers seem to agree on when it comes to the latest Oliver Matthias film: Bring tissues. The movie is a tearjerker to the highest degree and it earns each and every one of those sniffles it pulls out of you.

If you saw him in Tommy Jacks and thought, Wow, this is acting, well, viewers, you haven’t seen nothing yet.

Shared Hearts is a lush romantic film with an astonishingly talented cast, but Matthias stands out. He always stands out.

He will break your heart as Jonathan Hale, a down-on-his-luck salesman in postwar Britain, who stumbles into an ill-fated romance with Barbara Glory, who may or may not be a former spy.

Matthias is making a point with this movie. He’s telling the audience—which presumably contains the very same people that made the world’s worst casting choice—“This could have been your Bond.”

One can only imagine the regret they’re feeling right now.





Chapter

13


The movie was amazing.

“You liked it?” Gabe asked as we were pulled into the crowd of people leaving the theater.

My hand was against my throat—had been there for the last thirty minutes. By sheer force of will and a lifetime of learning how to suppress the embarrassment of public tears, I’d kept from crying, but I still felt raw after the experience.

“It was…” I swallowed. “It was very good.”

I looked over at Gabe, expecting to see jealousy, but there was none.

“He’s a legend,” he said. “If you think watching him is an experience, try acting next to him. It’s a master class in technique.”

I managed a nod.

“Wanna head to the after-party?” he asked.

I remembered Oliver’s face when he’d extended an invitation to me. Polite, but not really interested. He’d included me because of Gabe, but he didn’t trust me.

“I don’t know…” I said.

“Come on,” Gabe said. “It’ll be fun. And we can tell Ollie how you almost cried. He’ll love that.”

It was hard to say no to Gabe. And the truth was I didn’t want to. I was having a good time.

And why wouldn’t I? One of the most beautiful men in the world—my personal celebrity crush—was treating me like I belonged. It was an intoxicating feeling.

“Okay,” I said.

I also took the article into consideration, even though I was torn. Gabe had given me permission to write about this, but I knew that he had been drinking and maybe it wasn’t quite ethical to take him up on his carelessly offered, ill-thought-out concession.

I also knew that I was getting access that any writer in my shoes would kill for.

Gabe was a big boy, I told myself. He knew what he was doing, and if he didn’t, it wasn’t my fault if I took his offer at face value.

I just had to keep telling myself that.

The after-party was at the restaurant in the hotel next to the theater. It was a big, beautiful, expensive old building that I was certain had hosted many events like this. No doubt the restaurant staff had seen things over the years.

Oliver was already there when we arrived.

“He never watches the whole movie,” Gabe said. “First ten minutes and then he’s out.”

“Does he not like to watch himself on the big screen?” I asked.

Gabe shrugged as if to say “You’d have to ask him.”

There were gorgeous, lavish flower arrangements at the center of each table and black-suited waiters carrying trays with tiny, delicate snacks and impressive-looking drinks. The room oozed money and glamour.

I tucked my bag tighter under my arm, painfully aware of the rip in the side of my dress.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Gabe said. “You want something?”

“Sure,” I said.

He flagged down one of the waiters so I could grab a pink ombre drink with half a pineapple stuck into the rim.

“Do you think you could snag me a whisky on the rocks?” Gabe asked the waiter.

“Of course,” the waiter said.