“Is there something worse than navel-gazing?” he’d asked during a fight. “Because that’s what it is.”

I wondered what Jeremy would think about Gabe Parker calling my writing “funny.”

“How’s the burger?” Gabe asked.

“Good,” I said. “It seems like you come here a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “People are nice and the food’s great.” He looked at the remainder of our fries with a deep longing in his eyes.

I pushed them toward him. He hesitated.

“I’ve had enough,” I said, and since he hadn’t walked out of this interview, I didn’t have to worry about hoarding food like a chipmunk. Yet.

“It’s not that,” he said, though he took a few and dipped them in ketchup. “I’m really not supposed to be eating this in the first place.”

I tilted my head questioningly.

“James Bond can’t have love handles,” he said, leaning back and patting his stomach.

“I’m sure that’s not a problem for you,” I said with a laugh, thinking he was joking.

It became immediately clear that he wasn’t.

I knew that actors and actresses made sacrifices to look the way they did, but I’d never really thought much about it. I just enjoyed looking at the results. Gabe moved the fries away, and I felt a little guilty for all the ogling I’d done.

“My trainer will be pissed,” he said.

He looked so sad that I was momentarily speechless.

“When can you have a burger and fries again?” I asked.

He glanced down at the tape recorder as if it was a snake ready to strike. “After Bond,” he said. “Unless we start shooting the second movie right away. Then it’s protein shakes and lettuce until we’re done.”

He held up his almost empty beer glass and gave it a loving look.

“Farewell, friend,” he said before finishing it.

There was a long silence and then he smiled—but not a real smile. It was funny how I could tell them apart already.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said.

His voice was a little lower, a little slower. Not drunk, but on his way.

“Are you excited?” I asked. “About Bond?”

“I’m lucky,” he said as if that was the same thing.

“It’s the role of a lifetime,” I said.

“I was their second choice,” Gabe said. “They wanted Ollie.”

I froze.

Now we were getting somewhere. I knew that this was what I needed—what I’d come for—yet I couldn’t ignore that extremely icky feeling knowing that I was possibly, maybe taking advantage of the fact that Gabe was more intoxicated than he should be.