Gabe’s phone buzzed.

“What is it?” I asked, glad that I didn’t have to respond to what was probably not really an invitation to Oliver Matthias’s movie premiere.

“Just my manager,” he said.

His expression indicated that whatever his manager wanted was not something Gabe was excited about giving.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

Gabe put his phone away, shoving his hand in his pocket after it.

“Have you seen Angels in America?”

“I’ve read the play,” I said. “But I’ve never seen it.”

“You know the story, though,” he said.

“Yes.”

Gabe looked down at the ground, and then up at me.

“Do you think it’s a problem that I’ve kissed a man onstage?”

“No,” I said. Quickly.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No,” I said.

Gabe crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter as if he was settling in. I shouldn’t have taken it as an invitation.

I did.

“Angels in America is a great play,” I said. “Probably one of the best contemporary plays ever written. People should be using that as an indication that you’re a really good actor, not obsessing over the fact that you made out with another man. Onstage. I mean, even if you had made out with another man in the alley next to the theatre, it shouldn’t matter, right? If you’re a good actor, you should be able to play Bond, and people who are freaking out because of one play you did in college have way too much time on their hands and are way too interested in your personal life. If their idea of masculinity is so fragile that the mere thought of you locking lips with someone of the same gender makes their head explode, then they have bigger problems than which actor should play James Bond in a movie.”

I ran out of air and stopped, catching my breath, while Gabe stared.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was on my soapbox again.”

Gabe looked a little dazed, but not like I’d hit him with a baseball bat, more like I’d flashed him. Like, he was surprised but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“I didn’t think it was possible for so many words to come out of somebody’s mouth that quickly,” he said. “And I auditioned for Gilmore Girls.”

“I can get a little worked up,” I said.

“I like it,” he said.

It seemed genuine, but I had a hard time believing that a movie star like Gabe Parker actually enjoyed being lectured by a lanky, loudmouthed Jew who was just supposed to interview him, not rant about systemic homophobia.

“I should go,” I said.