“She’s three,” Gabe said. “And she’s the love—”

“—of your life,” I finished for him before I could think any better of it.

He’d said that in the Vanity Fair article too.

“You’ve done your research,” Gabe said.

It wasn’t a compliment.

“It’s my job,” I countered.

I knew I wasn’t doing great with the questions, but he was an actor. I didn’t expect him to spill anything surprising or shocking, but I had expected him to say something.

But it was quiet on the other side of the table. For a moment.

“I did my research too,” he said. “Both of your parents are teachers. You have a younger brother and a younger sister. They all live locally. You usually have Shabbat dinner with them. You went to Sarah Lawrence for undergrad, Iowa for grad school. You met your boyfriend there. In the campus bookstore.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I said.

Gabe ignored me. “You started out in fiction, but mostly write nonfiction now. Your writing has been described as sharp. You’re from L.A. You hate New York.”

“I don’t hate New York.” I was unnerved.

I did hate New York.

I stared at him. He stared back.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “When someone thinks they know you.”

The whole thing reminded me of the time I’d tried to learn how to skateboard in some ill-advised bid to get the attention of a guy I knew in high school. I’d been floating along, when suddenly I leaned too far back and the skateboard had come shooting out from under me. I was airborne for half a second before hitting the ground—tailbone first—hard. The pain had made me cry and the tears had made the boy disappear.

It felt a little like that now, like Gabe had yanked the skateboard—something I had been arrogant to even try to ride—right out from under me.

I was used to asking a simple question and sitting back, letting my subject monologue until I got some decent pull quotes. I was used to celebrities being excited to talk about themselves.

“It’s my job,” I repeated lamely.

“I know,” he said.

Do it better was what was implied.

I flipped through my notebook as if a life raft would suddenly appear.

“Have you always been a Bond fan?” I asked, floundering.

“Sure,” he said. “What man isn’t?”

“Did you watch them with your dad?”

Gabe’s face went blank.

If this interview was a sinking boat, I’d just blown out the bottom.

Because there was one thing I’d been told was off-limits.

Years ago, some scummy online tabloid had dug through Gabe’s proverbial trash and written a piece about the person that Gabe never spoke about.

It had been called “Gabe Parker: Without a Father Figure.”