Funny You Should Ask(91)

He glances at his phone under the table. Half paying attention to me.

I clear my throat. He smiles and puts his phone facedown on the table.

“Sorry. Continue,” he says with a benevolent wave of his hand.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

I’m a terrible liar.

“I assume this is about the pictures,” he says.

“You’ve seen them?”

He nods. “Not your best angle, but not bad. Your hair looks good.”

I glare at him. He sips his tea.

“Then you know what it looks like,” I say.

“That Gabe is smitten with you?” he asks. “Yes, but I didn’t need paparazzi pictures to tell me that.”

Despite all that’s happened I blush.

“He’s a movie star,” I say as if that explains everything.

“Eh,” Ollie says. “Is he, though?” He stretches, wingspan extending beyond the diner booth. “I’m a movie star. Gabe is, well, Gabe is a recovering movie star. And a friend. And business partner.”

“Ollie,” I say. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I know that being a movie star doesn’t insulate a person from having feelings just like everyone else,” he says. “We are capable of feeling things. Like friendship. And love.”

I ignore him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say.

“And Gabe did?” he asks.

“It’s not the same,” I say.

“No,” he says. “But I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

I put my head on the table. I’m so tired.

“He’s been paying attention,” Ollie says. “To you. To your career.”

“Then he knows how people see me,” I say, my words muffled behind my hair.

“Yes,” Ollie says, and lets out a dramatic sigh. “The cost of fame.”

“Not worth it.”

But even as I say it, I don’t know if that’s true.

It feels different than it did ten years ago. I feel different.

“Perhaps not,” Ollie says. “But I do like having the jet.”

“At least you got a jet out of it,” I say. “I just have a reputation. ‘Will write in exchange for sexual favors.’?”

There’s a long pause.

“Did you really think that Gabe got Dan Mitchell fired because he was jealous of Dan’s youth and vitality?” Ollie asks.

I lift my head. He raises an eyebrow.

“The bloody fool came back from that interview bragging about you,” Ollie says.

My stomach does the same sickening twist that it did when Dan had generously offered me the enormous privilege of sucking his dick.

“Oh,” I say.

I hate that even though I know—I know—that I didn’t do a damn thing to deserve that grotesque overture, I still feel a twinge of guilt. Of embarrassment.

I’d never told anyone, but I wasn’t really surprised that Dan had. I just hadn’t thought he would have said something to Gabe.

Business has begun to pick up in the diner and the door jingles behind me, bringing with it a whoosh of cold air that hits the back of my neck and makes me shiver.

“He knew Dan was running his mouth,” Ollie says. “He knew it was a lie. That you wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t I?” I ask.

I hadn’t done what I’d done with Gabe because of the story, but the whole thing had never been some innocent, youthful misstep. Gabe was right—I wasn’t the victim. I’d known what I was doing and I’d known that it was ill-advised.

I’d been there to do a job. Not Gabe.

“Chani.”

Gabe.

He’s standing at the end of our booth, looking nervous. I look over at Ollie who shrugs and takes a sip of tea.

“Business partner,” he says. “Friend.”

“Can we talk?” Gabe asks.

Most of my anger has dissipated, exposing the emotion I was trying to avoid. Fear.

“Okay,” I say.

There’s shame too.

“I’ll eat your breakfast for you,” Ollie says.

As we walk out of the diner, Gabe hands me my scarf.

“You forgot this,” he says.

“A few other things too,” I say.

He nods.

The heat is on in his truck, so I don’t even need my scarf. I keep it balled up in my hands.

We drive back to his apartment and park outside. From this direction, I can see all the way down Main Street. Where I have a view of the mountains but also the church spire and a water tower and what appears to be an old hotel in the distance. Cooper is quiet and cold, a thin layer of snow covering every surface like icing.

I turn away from this view, away from Gabe, and find myself looking at the dumpster I’d hid behind like a coward.

“I could see you,” Gabe says.

I look back at him. “What?”

He points—to the dumpster and then up.

“From my living room,” he says.

There’s a window above the alley. His window. Which meant that Gabe watched me duck behind a trash can to avoid him. Watched me crouch there like an old-timey burglar all because I couldn’t have an adult conversation about an adult decision without my flight impulse kicking in.