Gabe didn’t answer any of them, just kept his arm around my waist, lifting his other hand to wave. I’d noticed, though, that his posture had changed as we stepped in front of the cameras. He was standing straighter, his chest facing the photographers, his chin angled a different way.

He was posing. Subtly, but he knew what he was doing.

I tried to do the same as I held on to him.

“Come on,” Gabe said after what seemed like a lifetime.

The red carpet was long, but we walked the rest of it at a fast clip, ignoring the other photographers and camera crews that were set up, assistants trying to wave us over while their bosses stretched out their microphones. Gabe’s arm was firm around my waist, and I could feel his biceps flexing as he propelled me toward the theater. It was a miracle I didn’t trip over my own feet.

“I’m just here to support Oliver” was the only sound bite Gabe would give.

It wasn’t until we got inside and the doors shut behind us, cutting off the overwhelming cacophony, that Gabe released me.

“Wow,” I said, suddenly exhausted.

“Yeah,” Gabe said.

The smile and the pose had disappeared. He ran a hand across the back of his neck.

“It’s a lot,” he said.

“It’s not so bad,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s a lot. How do you cope?”

“Practice,” he said. “And this helps…”

He unbuttoned his jacket, opening it to reveal a slim silver flask tucked into his inside pocket. He took it out and unscrewed the top.

“Want some?”

It explained the whisky on his breath.

“Sure,” I said.

He passed it over and I took a sip. I liked whisky and it was good stuff. It burned, in the best possible way, warmth wrapping around my throat and rib cage.

I gave it back and he took a long swig.

“I have to ask you something,” I said.

“Anything,” he said.

I was certain he didn’t really mean that. And a little worried if he did.

“Is this…” I paused. “Is this still part of the interview?”

He had lifted the flask again but froze for a second before putting it to his lips and taking another drink.

“Do you want it to be?” he asked.

I didn’t know.

We stared at each other for a moment. Then Gabe seemed to finish off what was left in his flask.

“Fuck it,” he said. “Write what you want.”

He sounded a little angry and a lot resigned.

“I—”

“Gabe!”

I turned toward the familiar voice and found a familiar face.

A face I’d grown up with, but always with the glass of the TV between us.

Oliver Matthias.

“Ollie,” Gabe said, his expression going from tight and shuttered to warm and cheerful.