“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect you’ve already deleted his message. You probably even pressed the delete button extra hard to make sure it went to voice mail oblivion.”
I’m smiling now. “Fine, I admit it. I did that.”
“And since you didn’t do that to my message, that tells me that you’ll at least hear me out.”
Hear him out. How could I not when talking to him is the sweetest drug that feeds my hungry imagination? “Fine, make your pitch, Matthew. I am all ears.”
He laughs. “So here it goes. I’m not Jonas Applebaum. We like to practice journalism at Beat, not ambush. So along those lines, I have a fantastic idea for a follow-up. I’d love to do a feature on you, a sort of what’s next. But more than that. I want to do something where we can explore the creative process. Would you be able to meet in person to perhaps chat a bit more?” Then, he adds, as if by way of apology, “Of course, you must be swamped right now. I’m sure your schedule is packed.”
Yes, but that’s not the problem. The problem is I don’t know what’s next.
“I’m not saying yes, but I want to ask you a question,” I counter, because as delicious as he may be, he’s still a reporter, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to trust one so soon after getting burned so publicly.
“Have at me. I’m all about equal opportunity.”
“I admire your work and you’re obviously good at what you do,” I start. This is true—I have read all his reviews since he became the lead critic at Beat three years ago. Matthew’s taste is impeccable and his track record is virtually 100 percent. Even before he took the reins of the top tastemaker job, he was well known for an uncanny ability to pick indie bands poised to break out. Add the iTunes home page placement deal to the mix and he’s a force of nature in the music business. Still, I can hear Jonas’s nasal twang ringing in my ear and the sting isn’t gone. Not when I’ve worked so hard to keep my private life just that—private. “But I’ve had a bunch of calls for interviews that have nothing to do with the music. Are you only interested in doing this feature on me because of the g*y husband revelation?”
“Absolutely not. To make my case, I did ask you before you won—I even predicted you would win—if I could have the first sit-down interview. I already had it in mind that I wanted to do this before Jonas outed your ex.”
“True,” I say, remembering his question in the lobby of the Staples Center.
“Look, I understand your reticence right now. You’ve had something incredibly personal revealed in a highly public forum. And I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but for what it’s worth, you should simply be yourself. You’ve always been upfront and easy to talk to. You don’t spew a corporate line or anything. You’re just you. So be yourself with reporters and it’ll blow over.”
“It will?”
“Of course. It’s a story of the week kind of thing. It’s no racier than the latest wrinkles in Rihanna’s romantic foibles. Interesting for a bit, then it fades. I mean, it’s not like Bono said he was g*y,” Matthew adds with a laugh. “And it’s not like you’re g*y. I mean, you’re not coming out to Star. Or are you?”
“No!”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Of course not,” I say, wanting to add that I’ve always been a big fan of men, especially men who like women.
Then there’s a barking sound.
“Shh. Quiet, Doctor,” I hear Matthew say to the dog.
“You have a dog named Doctor?”
“Yes. But she’s not currently taking any new patients,” he says, and I laugh once again. “So you’re not going to be the next Melissa Etheridge or k.d. lang, we’ve established that. And the reality is no one is that interested in him long-term. Besides, he’s not the first guy to marry a woman and then realize he likes guys. It happens. So if anyone still wants to know how it impacted you, they could just listen to the f**king album.”
This is the longest conversation I’ve had with Matthew and certainly the first that’s been personal. But I can already see that he has this unusual ability to hop from witticism, to social commentary, to a sort of very raw and very honest emotional insight. I like the way he thinks. I like that he’s straightforward. I like that he seems to enjoy talking to me.
But that’s the problem.
I stand up from my deck chair ready to head inside. “Tell you what,” I say as I close the sliding glass door behind. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Because I don’t know how I could trust a reporter, so I’m not ready to agree to a story. Especially when that reporter is the tiniest bit flirty, and when I’m already entertaining after-hours thoughts about him. I don’t know how to trust anyone, even my own instincts, so I desperately need a barometer. My compass is so far out of whack that I don’t know what’s up or down anymore. I need to borrow my friend Kelly’s.
I call her and let her know that by the power vested in me as her best friend, I’m declaring tomorrow an emergency sushi lunch meeting.
Chapter Six
“You make me wait now that you’re a superstar?” Kelly pushes back from the chair and stands up to give me, as Ethan would say, a “ginormous” hug.