all that. Which, of course, might not be something you’d like to do—”
“What time?”
“Today?”
Michael grins at me, such a sweet, reassuring thing, and it takes some of the sting out of feeling so painfully awkward and uncool. “Yes, Rebecca, today. I’d like to go with you today.” He tugs on the hem of his faded T-shirt. “But I do look a little rough around the edges. Sure that’s okay?”
I tell him about a great Chinese place around the corner, a hole in the wall that some of the studio execs frequent on occasion, and even some A-list talent, but it’s dark there, so my “doctor’s wife” can look as casual as he cares to.
He loves Chinese food, and we set our time and meeting place. Then just when I’m walking away, feeling sassy and pretty as I toss my long hair over my shoulder, he calls after me, “Hey, O’Neill!”
I turn back and find him watching me. “Maybe I did wear the shirt ’cause of you,” he admits with a serious expression. “But I’m not scary, I promise. Not any kind of threat.”
Oh, Mr. Warner, care to lay any bets on that pledge?
***
The great thing about the Chinese place is that it’s dark. Very dark. And that makes me feel more relaxed with Michael than I have at any point before now. We’re in a half-moon-shaped leather booth, and he’s seated to my good side, the unscarred version of my profile. So I can relax a little; unless I turn to face him, he’s only going to see the best of me.
At first we chitchat about the movie business and the restaurant while I glance around for people I might know. But I really don’t want to do the table-hopping and glad-handing routine today. I pull at a torn bit of vinyl on the garish red booth seat, trying to think of something clever to say. Nothing comes to mind, so I study the floor-to-ceiling framed photographs of stars who’ve dined here over the years, an array of famous people—some living, some dead.
He makes an attempt at conversation. “How’d you get into acting?” he asks, the tone a little tight. That’s when I realize that he knows .
“I guess you’re aware of my past.” I won’t look at him and keep tugging at the vinyl. “Or probably just a tabloid version of it, like most everyone else.”
“Maybe I should’ve pretended I didn’t know.”
“Why?” I set my jaw, looking away from him. “What would’ve been the point?”
“To let you tell me first.” There’s true-blue honesty in his words and tone, and the nervous pressure inside my chest begins to ease up.
I begin picking the dry noodles out of the basket, tiling them into random patterns, trying to decide how to fix this conversational mess. “I’m not actually a bitch,” I tell him after a moment, “but I have been known to play one when I talk about my past in TV.”
This makes him burst out laughing. Stupid joke, sweet guy. “That’s a good one. And you weren’t a bitch.”
“Nope, pretty bitchy just then, and I’m sorry.” I brush the noodles together, wiping the slate clean. “I just don’t like talking about my backstory.”
“That makes getting to be friends kind of hard, don’t you think?”
The noodles become my obsession, as I now begin crisscrossing them into an interlaced design. “Hollywood’s about the moment.”
“You don’t strike me as very Hollywood, Rebecca. You’re real. I like that.”
I drop my head. “Give me some more time in this town, and I’ll fade eventually.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
“My past is harsh, Michael,” I answer wearily. “Hard for me to talk about.”
“So’s mine.” He’s got a point there, and I think of how he opened up to me last night.
“But mine’s been made public for everyone to see,” I explain, still avoiding his sensitive gaze, which proves nearly impossible. “If you know I was an actress, then that makes me wonder precisely what all you do know. And what you don’t. Which version you got, because there are
“What time?”
“Today?”
Michael grins at me, such a sweet, reassuring thing, and it takes some of the sting out of feeling so painfully awkward and uncool. “Yes, Rebecca, today. I’d like to go with you today.” He tugs on the hem of his faded T-shirt. “But I do look a little rough around the edges. Sure that’s okay?”
I tell him about a great Chinese place around the corner, a hole in the wall that some of the studio execs frequent on occasion, and even some A-list talent, but it’s dark there, so my “doctor’s wife” can look as casual as he cares to.
He loves Chinese food, and we set our time and meeting place. Then just when I’m walking away, feeling sassy and pretty as I toss my long hair over my shoulder, he calls after me, “Hey, O’Neill!”
I turn back and find him watching me. “Maybe I did wear the shirt ’cause of you,” he admits with a serious expression. “But I’m not scary, I promise. Not any kind of threat.”
Oh, Mr. Warner, care to lay any bets on that pledge?
***
The great thing about the Chinese place is that it’s dark. Very dark. And that makes me feel more relaxed with Michael than I have at any point before now. We’re in a half-moon-shaped leather booth, and he’s seated to my good side, the unscarred version of my profile. So I can relax a little; unless I turn to face him, he’s only going to see the best of me.
At first we chitchat about the movie business and the restaurant while I glance around for people I might know. But I really don’t want to do the table-hopping and glad-handing routine today. I pull at a torn bit of vinyl on the garish red booth seat, trying to think of something clever to say. Nothing comes to mind, so I study the floor-to-ceiling framed photographs of stars who’ve dined here over the years, an array of famous people—some living, some dead.
He makes an attempt at conversation. “How’d you get into acting?” he asks, the tone a little tight. That’s when I realize that he knows .
“I guess you’re aware of my past.” I won’t look at him and keep tugging at the vinyl. “Or probably just a tabloid version of it, like most everyone else.”
“Maybe I should’ve pretended I didn’t know.”
“Why?” I set my jaw, looking away from him. “What would’ve been the point?”
“To let you tell me first.” There’s true-blue honesty in his words and tone, and the nervous pressure inside my chest begins to ease up.
I begin picking the dry noodles out of the basket, tiling them into random patterns, trying to decide how to fix this conversational mess. “I’m not actually a bitch,” I tell him after a moment, “but I have been known to play one when I talk about my past in TV.”
This makes him burst out laughing. Stupid joke, sweet guy. “That’s a good one. And you weren’t a bitch.”
“Nope, pretty bitchy just then, and I’m sorry.” I brush the noodles together, wiping the slate clean. “I just don’t like talking about my backstory.”
“That makes getting to be friends kind of hard, don’t you think?”
The noodles become my obsession, as I now begin crisscrossing them into an interlaced design. “Hollywood’s about the moment.”
“You don’t strike me as very Hollywood, Rebecca. You’re real. I like that.”
I drop my head. “Give me some more time in this town, and I’ll fade eventually.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
“My past is harsh, Michael,” I answer wearily. “Hard for me to talk about.”
“So’s mine.” He’s got a point there, and I think of how he opened up to me last night.
“But mine’s been made public for everyone to see,” I explain, still avoiding his sensitive gaze, which proves nearly impossible. “If you know I was an actress, then that makes me wonder precisely what all you do know. And what you don’t. Which version you got, because there are
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