Collision (13 page)

“I understand,” she whispered.

“Oh, and one more reason.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t get enough of the way you talk. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I can’t help myself.”

“Well, it’s kind of cute.”

“Rubbish,” she said with a swat.

“Yeah, it’s definitely cute.”

The remark got a small smile out of her, which made my morning.

“So we’re still friends?” I asked.

“We’re pals. But only if you cook me breakfast.”

“Deal.”

“Every morning you’re here.”

“Deal.”

She extended her hand to me. “Pals then.”

I grabbed it and gave it a shake. “Friends.”

C H A P T E R

10

We stood over the kitchen table with two piles of magazines stacked on top.

“I’m confused,” she said. “I’m looking at this handsome film actor named Cab. And yes, he looks like you, but this person on the magazine appears much more self-confident.”

“I’m an actor. It’s called acting.”

“And you dress much better in your other life. Do you have a person back home who chooses your clothing for events?” she asked.

“A stylist?”

She nodded.

“Why do you ask?”

She looked me up and down and pursed her lips.

“Never mind. Don’t say a word. I don’t like to think about it all. It just takes too much effort.”

“Too much effort? Too much effort to look at colors and determine if they match?”

I shrugged.

“Honestly, Cabot, I’ve spent much of our time together pondering whether or not you are, in fact, colorblind. Your color matching is atrocious.”

“It’s not that I can’t match clothes, Kei. It’s that I don’t care.”

“Well, you should.”

“I should worry about what I look like when I’m walking around here and nobody’s going to see me?”

“I’m going to see you.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice.”

I grinned but quickly hid it behind my hand. “Glad to hear it. I’ll try harder then, okay?”

“You don’t have to dress to the nines or anything. I know I don’t. But at least try to match colors. It’s bothersome to look at someone whose color palette is so offensive to the eye.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I laughed. “Now that I know you’re looking, I’ll pay closer attention to what I look like.”

“I’m not looking at you in the way in which you’re implying,” she pointed out.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not. You don’t impress me. Not one bit.”

“Whatever.” I looked down at myself on the magazines. “Can we get to work please?”

“As long as you’re clear that I am not looking at you with anything more than a friends lens.”

“Fine.”

“Yes then, we can continue.”

“Okay. You have two groups here,” I explained. “The first stack, which is by far the biggest, are the weekly magazines. Because they come out every single week, they have to come up with new stories to get people’s attention. There’s a huge business in celebrity gossip, and there are a lot of these magazines, so they have some serious competition. The better the headline, the more they sell.”

“Understood.”

I flipped through the largest stack and pulled out two and held them up. “Look at these. They’re from the exact same week. This one”—I held one higher than the other—“says that Caroline and I are moving in together, while this one”—I lowered the first and held up the second—“says we’ve broken up and I’m sleeping with a waitress from Seattle.”

She examined the covers and then peeked around them. “So which one was correct?”

“Neither.” I dropped them back onto the table. “Caroline has a boyfriend, and I’ve never even been to Seattle. At least not that I remember. We don’t do press junkets there, and I don’t really have the free time just to go for the sake of going. Although, if the waitresses there are that easy, I might go check it out.”

“You just insulted waitresses throughout the greater Seattle metropolitan area.”

“Then don’t quote me on it.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. But really, how can they say that? If they’re lying, isn’t that illegal?”

“What am I going to do, sue every single magazine every time they lie? I’d be broke from attorney’s fees.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“As a general rule, if they’re telling a story and quoting their information from a ‘source’ or a ‘close acquaintance’ or a ‘friend who wishes to remain anonymous,’ it’s a bunch of hogwash. You can’t believe ninety percent of what they say in these things.”

“So it’s rubbish?”

“Yep. The only things you can believe are direct quotes from me, and even then, they’re iffy.”

“How is that? I mean, if you said it, then wouldn’t it be true?”

“It’s all about context. They take a statement I made in the middle of a press junket and put it in a story about something totally different.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and shifted her weight to one side. “Example, please?”

“Like one time I was asked a question about how I got myself ready for kissing scenes with Caroline. I said something like, ‘There’s such a strong bond there between the characters that the passion is undeniable.’ Then the magazine took the quote and cut it apart, and the headline the next week was: ‘Cab’s Confession: He and Caroline’s Passion for Each Other Is Undeniable.’ It’s crazy.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

“You learn to ignore it. People are going to believe what they want to believe. In Sofie’s and my world right now, that means that everyone wants to believe that we’re together in real life because they love us together in the movie. So even when we deny it, they try to say we’re lying. They want that chemistry on set to be true off set.”

“And it isn’t?”

I shrugged and shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

“So there is chemistry,” she said.

“I don’t know what it is. We understand each other. Neither one of us wants anything serious.”

“Oh, I understand. You nob but don’t particularly fancy each other.”

“Nob?”

“Sex.”

I closed my eyes, and shook my head but didn’t deny it.

“I get it. No need to elaborate.”

“We aren’t each other’s type. We—”

“Apparently, you’re enough each other’s type for that type of activity.”

“It’s just easy.”

“I’d say,” she said with a single nod.

“That’s not what I meant. We…we understand each other. We—”

“It’s not my business, Cabot. Really, I don’t want to hear any more about it. You’re a grown man. You can do what you want…or who you want.”

“I don’t think you understand how difficult it is to find
someone—”

“I said I didn’t want to hear any more.”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me.”

“And what impression would that be, and how would it be different than the reality of it all?”

I shrugged.

“We come from different worlds, Cabot. You don’t understand mine. I don’t understand yours.” She looked down at the magazines and then back at me. “What about the other stack?”

I sighed, lowered my head, and looked down at the magazines. She was right. I was pretty much unrecognizable—even to myself.

“Cabot? The other stack. What about those?”

“Umm…okay. These are monthly magazines. These are your
Vanity Fair
s,
Rolling Stone
s, etc. Most of the time, I do a spread, which means I get the front cover and several pages of photos inside. We do these before a new movie comes out. It builds up the interest in me again, and for these, I usually give a sit-down interview somewhere. They’re real journalists and they tape-record everything. These interviews are usually true, at least in terms of direct quotes. Sometimes the writer will give his opinion on how I act or the way I live, but the quotes are correct and aren’t usually taken out of context.”

“Where do you do the interviews? At your home?”

“I don’t really have anyplace I’d call home. I travel too much for that.”

“Is anything off limits? Any questions you won’t answer?”

“I pick and choose what I want to share about myself. I give information about the stuff that doesn’t really matter. The rest I keep to myself, or I just make crap up.”

She stared at the magazines spread out in front of us and then scooped them up in her arms and walked out of the room. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as I followed behind.

“We’re going to have a look-see, do some research.”

“Research?”

“Yes. Here. Sit down.” She pointed to the couch in the family room. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to read through these weeklies and ask you what’s bilge.”

“Well, that could take all day.”

“What else do we have to do? We’re both pitiful human beings with no lives, remember?”

I fell onto the couch and put my feet on the coffee table in front of us while she sat crossed legged on the other end, put the stack of magazines between us, grabbed a pen from the sofa table behind us, and then picked up the magazine at the top of the pile.

“‘Ten Fun Facts about Cab.’ This should be profound,” she teased.

“Uh-huh.”

“Fact number one. You hate cats.”

“False. I actually like cats, but seeing as how I don’t have a house, I don’t have any place to put one.”

“I like cats too, but my mother was allergic, so I was never permitted to have one. Then I moved to Africa, and well, they don’t have cats, or at least domesticated ones anyway.”

“Shame.” I picked up a magazine and started looking through the pages. I skipped over the ones that were about me.

“Fact number two. Your favorite color is blue.”

“It’s green.”

“Strike two.” She crossed through both “facts” and then moved to the next. “You’re a football fan.”

“That’s true.”

“They got one right. I’m a football fan as well. I’ve even been to a few large matches down in Kampala.”

“Are you talking about football or soccer?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose I’m talking about soccer.”

“I’m not a soccer fan. I don’t really get it,” I said.

“Then we don’t have that in common after all.”

“Bummer.” I loudly flipped the magazine page.

“Next. You don’t believe in love at first sight.”

“False. I do.”

“Really?” She looked up at me, eyes wide. “That surprises me about you.”

“Why?”

“You don’t seem like the overly romantic type.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“You have no idea how romantic I can be if I have someone to feel romantic for.”

Her body leaned forward from the waist. “And have you…felt romantic toward someone before?”

“When I was younger. It was a girl in high school.”

“What was the most romantic thing you did for her?”

I went back to looking at the magazine as I talked. “I walked to her house in six inches of snow, in the middle of a blizzard, just so we could watch movies together on our day off from school.”

“That’s pretty sweet.”

“Oh, and I stopped at the 7-Eleven and got her chocolate on the way.”

“That certainly would have earned points in my book, especially the chocolate…or sour wormy things.”

“What’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?” I asked, looking back at her.

“We’re talking about you, not me.”

“Oh no. You aren’t getting off that easy. You’ve gotta tell me.”

“Romance? Me?” she muttered.

“Yes.”

“Being romantic isn’t high on the scale of importance where I come from. I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone do something romantic for me.”

“You don’t think or you know you haven’t?”

“I know I haven’t. And admitting such out loud has suddenly made me feel even more pitiful than usual.”

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“You don’t have a boyfriend back home?”

“Not a boyfriend exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s a boy who’s a friend, and he is hoping to be more than friends. But…”

“But what?”

She shrugged again.

“You don’t like him back?”

“Griffin’s very nice. We have a lot in common, similar goals in life. You know, that sort of thing.”