Funny You Should Ask(74)

“I try not to trade in regrets,” he says. “I’m not proud of the way I did things, but I can’t regret them. Not really. Because, in the end, that’s what pushed me to get help.”

He’s referencing the viral video that leaked from the set of his final Bond film—the one he walked off of. The production had just enough footage to get the movie into theaters, but the last of his four-film contract was terminated immediately, and no other offers have been forthcoming.

Parker is nearing forty and his career is, as of this moment, over.

There are rumors, of course, of projects in the works, but whoever hires him will do so at their own peril.

“I’ll always be an addict,” he says. “But right now, I’m an addict in control of my addiction.”

It remains to be seen if producers will feel the same way.





Chapter

24


We get lunch from a nearby sandwich place and have a picnic on the stage, our meal illuminated by a ghost light on a stand. The theatre looks even more impressive from this angle.

“It needs a lot of work,” I say.

Gabe shrugs, feeding some sliced turkey to Teddy.

“I have money,” he says. “And a business partner who has even more.”

“Ollie.”

“Ollie,” Gabe confirms.

“That’s what this trip was always about,” I say. “You and Ollie making plans for the theatre.”

Maybe I should feel guilty about monopolizing Gabe’s time, but I don’t.

“Yes and no,” he says. “That was the original plan—meet up with Ollie in L.A. while I’m doing press—and fly back to discuss our next steps.”

“But?”

Gabe turns and grins at me. “Then you showed up at the restaurant with your very big eyes and your smart mouth…”

“And my bad questions?” I ask.

I’m still a little salty about that even though I know he’s right.

He reaches over and pats my hand.

“If it makes you feel any better, your questions have gotten a lot better.”

I roll my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say. “I only ask questions for a living.”

Gabe chews. Swallows.

“About that,” he says.

“About how I’m bad at what I do?”

He ignores my goading.

“Whatever happened to the dragons?” he asks.

My hand—which was on a journey from the bag of fries to my mouth—freezes. I know what he’s talking about. The story. The only piece of fiction I’ve ever had published.

Something I’ve been thinking about more and more these days. A certain type of creative torture. Teasing myself with something I can’t have.

“I hate to tell you this…” I try for casual. Light. “Dragons don’t exist.”

“Ha,” he says. “You know what I mean.”

I eat my fries, not really wanting to answer.

“It’s not what people want from me.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks.

“Are you my therapist?” I ask.

The sharp words echo in the amazing acoustics.

“Just someone who thinks you’re talented,” Gabe says, effectively cutting my anger off at its knees.

I breathe out.

“Can you imagine what my agent—what my editor—would say if instead of writing the third collection of essays they’ve been asking for, I told them I wanted to write fiction? Not even literary fiction, but a book about dragons and witches and fairy tales.”

I don’t have to imagine it. I already know their response.

They all thought I’d been joking. So I said that I had.

“I imagine,” Gabe says, “that if they’re the right agent and the right editor for you, then they would at least want to read what you came up with.”

I want to tell Gabe that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. That he doesn’t understand what it’s like to build a career on a certain type of image, and that changing that could mean losing everything.

Except, he does understand.

It isn’t a joke to him.

“Jeremy didn’t think it was a good idea,” I say.

It feels pathetic to say it out loud—that I let my ex-husband tell me what I should—or shouldn’t—do with my career. But no less pathetic than letting anyone tell me what to write.

“Well, if Jeremy didn’t think it was a good idea,” Gabe says.

His tone is as dry as a desert.

“He’s a successful writer,” I say.

“So are you.”

I’m looking at my sandwich as if it might contain the answers to life instead of just turkey, avocado, and cheese.

“I’m scared,” I say.

I’ve never admitted that out loud. Barely admitted it quietly to myself.

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “It’s scary.”

He leans back on his hands, legs extended out in front of him, an entire theatre at his disposal.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks.

I discover that Jeremy is right. About everything.

He had been drunk that night. He apologized afterward, said that he didn’t mean it, but we’d both known that after that point, our marriage was irreparably broken.