Funny You Should Ask(38)

“Oh, really?” Gabe asked, that suspicious eyebrow now permanently arched. “I’m pretty sure you’re either smart or you’re not.”

I shook my head.

“Emotional intelligence,” I said. “That’s a thing.”

“That’s like telling someone they have a good personality when they ask if they’re attractive.”

“I’m sure you have experience with that,” I countered. Sarcastically.

We looked at each other. He was annoyed. I was annoyed.

“The movie will prove them wrong,” I said, as if I knew anything.

I didn’t.

The truth was I wanted to believe I knew him. Because if I did, this little moment—this evening—was more than just the article. I could convince myself that something was happening between us. That the way he looked at me in my dress, the way he’d put his hand against my back, the way we were here in our dark little corner were all indications of something more.

Jacinda had appeared out of the crowd again, but this time she and Gabe were doing their level best to avoid eye contact. And I was doing my level best to pretend I didn’t see them ignoring each other.

I realized I was a little drunk.

It wasn’t unexpected—I’d had two enormous, boozy pineapple drinks and only two tiny, delicate, delicious crab cakes since we’d arrived at the after-party.

“I watched The Philadelphia Story,” Gabe said.

I sat up.

“And?” I asked. “What did you think?”

Gabe sighed.

“Oh,” I said.

Maybe this would be the thing that actually chipped away at my crush on him.

“It was amazing,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“The timing, the dialogue, the chemistry.” Gabe threw up his hands. “How can any other comedy even begin to compare?”

I grinned, leaning forward.

“It is good, isn’t it?”

“Good?” Gabe shook his head. “It’s perfection.”

“Best comedy ever made,” I said, lifting my third pink pineapple drink.

I couldn’t remember when it had appeared.

My lips were buzzing, which was a telltale sign that I’d already had enough to drink, but I was thirsty and the cocktail was so good.

“I saw a list of the hundred best comedies and The Philadelphia Story was number thirty-eight! Thirty! Eight!” I said, pressing my finger on the table for emphasis.

“Ridiculous,” Gabe said. “It should at least be in the top three.”

I shook my head. It felt very, very heavy.

“It should be number one.” I made a wide, swooping gesture with my finger.

I was definitely drunk.

“It should be,” Gabe said, but I could tell he was placating me a bit. Teasing me.

I didn’t mind.

The heavy slope of his eyes indicated that he was getting toasted too, but he seemed to be a quiet, introspective drunk, while I was an exuberant, loudmouthed one.

“You know what the worst part about that list was?” I asked.

He smiled.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I hope you’ll tell me.”

“I will!” I said, finger still extended. “The worst part of that list was that it was full of not-funny movies made by not-funny people. Pulp Fiction is not a comedy! And don’t even get me started on Annie Hall.”

Interest sparked in Gabe’s eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, arms crossed. If I leaned forward, our noses could touch.

“Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong with Annie Hall?”

I knew I should stop talking. Instead, I took another long gulp of my drink and just kept right on going.

“Well, okay, I’ve never seen it—”

“You’ve never seen Annie Hall?” Gabe asked.

“Woody Allen sucks,” I said. “I won’t watch his movies.”

“Wow,” Gabe said. “What did he ever do to you?”

“Woody Allen is a creep,” I said, warming up to my own indignation. “He hates women. Obviously has some fucked-up obsession with girls, given that he routinely casts himself—a grown-ass man—opposite teenagers and, oh yeah, married his girlfriend’s daughter! And even if you ignored all of that—which you shouldn’t—his movies are bad and boring. They’re the same thing over and over, gross wish fulfillment where he gets to monologue about how weird and awkward he is while young blond girls fall in love with him for literally no reason at all. Plus, he hates Jewish women. He uses his movies to promote him and make himself the arbiter of Jewish humor and talent while perpetuating hateful stereotypes about how Jewish women are shrill and controlling. He’s not clever, he’s not interesting, and he’s not talented.”

There I went again. Gabe was just trying to talk about movies and I had to go off on some feminist rant about how much I hated Woody Allen (which I did).

Before I could apologize, Oliver appeared at the end of our table. His tie was loose, his top button undone, and he’d lost his vest someplace between the premiere and the after-party. He still looked devastatingly handsome.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked.

“Why Woody Allen is a piece of shit,” Gabe said.