If Jeremy and I were still dating, there’d be a major possibility he would have tried to veto this interview. He knew how I felt about Gabe. When he’d insisted on us declaring our “free pass” celebrities, I’d chosen Gabe. Jeremy had pouted.

It was ridiculous, of course.

Gabe would probably be charming and kind and amiable. It wouldn’t be because he liked me, or thought I was interesting, or because we had any sort of deep emotional connection. It would be because it was his job to charm me. And it was my job to be charmed.

His management had been very, very clear about the kind of profile they were expecting me to turn in. What they wanted in exchange for the access Broad Sheets was getting to Gabe before he started shooting.

They wanted a story that would counter the bad press his casting had caused. They wanted a story that would convince the naysayers that he was the best choice for Bond. They wanted me to sell him to America. To the world.

I wanted a story that would keep getting me work.

I blogged and sent short stories to literary magazines like I was tossing rocks into the ocean.

I’d only gotten one published, and then, just when I was considering that maybe I should give up trying to be a writer, I’d gotten the gig at Broad Sheets.

I’d been recommended by a former professor who had once called my writing “mainstream”—as much of an insult as one could get in an esteemed MFA program but apparently exactly what Broad Sheets was looking for.

Jeremy called the stuff I was doing “puff pieces,” but we’d still celebrated when I got the job—spending a good chunk of my first paycheck on bottomless fries and happy hour beers.

The editors at Broad Sheets seemed to like my writing—at least, they kept giving me work—and every month I could pay my bills with the money I made off my writing felt like an accomplishment.

I knew that this interview was an opportunity to show that I could take on more high-profile, better-paying articles. It needed to go well.

Even though I’d just checked it five minutes ago, I scanned my bag again to make sure that I had a pen, my notebook with the questions I’d written out last night, and my tape recorder, which had a new set of batteries. I was as prepared as I was going to be.

My armpits were now cold and wet. I realized, with horror, that I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I’d put deodorant on. I gave myself a sniff, but couldn’t tell.

It was too late now.

I glanced in the rearview mirror one last time, grateful that at least my bangs had chosen to be obedient.