Funny You Should Ask(45)

Then when his audition tape was leaked and it was clear that the accent wasn’t going to be a problem—nor the boyishness, which he folded into his Bond-ness in a particularly charming, unique manner—critics had to find another reason why Parker was ill-suited for the role.

That reason came in the form of the unsubtle homophobic backlash at the reminder that Parker had dared to play a gay man dying of AIDS in his college production of Angels in America.

How, Middle America cried, how could Bond be played by someone who had kissed another man onstage?

The answer, we now know, is very, very well.

Parker’s Bond is a revelation.

And Chani Horowitz warned us that it would be. If you were one of the millions who read her profile of the star, you’ll know that she did everything possible to prime the pump, as it were.

It’s clear that the producers knew the film had only a few moments to convince the audience that they’d cast the right man and they use those minutes perfectly. Parker’s entrance is reminiscent of other great character introductions—where the acting, the editing, the directing, the music, all coalesce to make something truly unforgettable.

Think Hugh Grant’s entrance in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Rex Manning’s introduction in Empire Records. Darcy in any decent Pride and Prejudice adaptation.

That’s Gabe Parker as Bond.

Iconic.

We don’t even see him at first. It’s a sea of men in dark suits and dark hair at a gala, the occasional beautiful woman sprinkled throughout. All are powerful, confident men. Except one.

He’s shot from behind, but his body language doesn’t beg attention. It’s the opposite. Bond is hiding in a corner, shoulders bent, eyes—behind Clark Kent–esque glasses—focused forward, sipping on his signature drink.

He’s watching someone. He’s not the only one. The whole room is watching the latest Bond girl, Jacinda Lockwood, resplendent in a wine-red gown that floats on her skin as lovingly and intimate as a nightgown. She’s dancing with someone twice her age.

Bond watches from afar, but we see his eyes up close. They’re full of longing.

Lockwood looks up from her partner’s shoulder and sees him. The dance ends and she walks off the dance floor, away from Bond.

He deposits his drink on a passing tray, and then the transformation begins. Parker walks toward her, his shoulders straightening, his hand smoothing back his hair, his glasses deposited into his pocket.

By the time he reaches her, he’s another person.

He pulls Lockwood into his arms and they drift to the dance floor. They dance closely, the whole room watching as Bond wraps his arm around her waist. His other hand traces her collarbone, and with a not-too-gentle push, she swoons backward and he dips her, long and slow, drawing a half circle with her body.

When she’s pulled back upright, she—and the rest of the room—has fallen in love with Gabe Parker’s Bond.

It’s no wonder Jacinda Lockwood married him less than a week into filming.





Chapter

15


I’m making a terrible mistake.

“I should cancel,” I say.

“Should you?” Katie asks.

She’s doing that thing that I hate.

“I should,” I say.

Katie shrugs. She’s sitting on my couch, her hair in that haphazard bun of hers—the one that always seems so effortless on her but looks like a hairy cinnamon roll whenever I attempt it. She’s reading a magazine and seems unconcerned with my dilemma. I’m fairly certain she’s waiting for me to leave so she can sage my entire apartment. According to her the vibes in here are very destructive to my well-being.

I’m pretty sure the only thing in my apartment that’s destructive to my well-being is me.

“I’m going to buy you a plant while you’re gone,” she says, still looking at her magazine. “Maybe two.”

“I’m just going to kill it,” I say. “Don’t make it a double homicide.”

“I’ll get you an un-killable plant.” She flips a page. “You need it.”

When we left New York, Katie packed up her entire—already overstuffed—apartment and had her life shipped across the continent. I shoved four boxes of books into the corner of her moving truck, filled two suitcases with clothes, and left everything else behind.

It took Katie three days to re-create her cozy, colorful bohemian home. I’ve been in my place a year and I still haven’t bought a bed frame. The couch is from the “As Is” section of Ikea, the table from my parents’ attic, and the dresser from the last person who lived here.

I could have taken half of what I’d had in New York, but I hadn’t wanted any of it.

“This place looks like a depressed college student lives here,” my sister had said the last time she visited.

I used to love nesting. I’d search for art and vintage furniture and weird ceramics to fill my home. Right now, the only decoration in the whole apartment is a half-finished puzzle on my dining table.

My therapist thinks I’m afraid to put down roots again.

I don’t think she’s wrong, but knowing that doesn’t mean I’ve been able to do anything about it.

If I leave for the weekend, I’m certain Katie will do more than just buy a couple of plants for me.