Page 25 of Business or Pleasure

“And I’ll be at both,” Finn says, accompanying this with a dramatic such-is-my-life shrug.

Jermaine chuckles. “You just can’t quit the con circuit, huh?”

Finn tosses a look at me I can’t quite interpret. “Nope,” he says. “This is my job.”

“I probably should have mentioned this earlier,” I say to Finn at dinner, after a server drops off two falafel wraps sprinkled with feta and dripping tzatziki. We’re at a Mediterranean restaurant in Portland’s Hawthorne neighborhood, a place dotted with charming boutiques and hip eateries. Far enough away from the con madness to give Finn a bit of a break. “But this was actually my first con.”

Finn just blinks at me. “Are you serious? You haven’t even been to Emerald City?” When I shake my head, he asks, “What was your favorite part?”

“I... only went to your panel. I got a bit lost and almost didn’t make it in time.”

It takes some mental gymnastics to process the fact that we’re calmly sitting across from each other after our first and second meetings were so wildly different. Especially after seeing him in action only a few hours ago, animated and electro-charged—now his energy has dimmed, to the point where One-Night Stand Drew seems like a completely different person. Which, in a way, he was. His cardigan sleeves are pushed to his elbows and his posture is more relaxed, but I’m not sure yet whether this is Finn actually relaxed or if it’s just another performance.

His signing and photo op aren’t until tomorrow, so this is supposed to be prime getting-to-know-you time. The chance for me to fill in all the gaps on Wikipedia and IMDb and learn the real Finnegan Walsh, whoever he is.

He looks almost disappointed in me. “There’s so much more to it than that,” he says, excavating a piece of falafel with his fork. “Get there earlier tomorrow, if you can. Go check out Artist Alley. I know you’re not a Nocturnals fan”—he says this with a wry twist of his mouth—“but there’s got to be something you’re really into.”

I bite into my wrap. “I love riot grrrl bands from the nineties?”

“Believe it or not, there’s a lot of music-related merch, too.” He gives me a reassuring smile. Even in the half-light of the restaurant, he might be the loveliest person I’ve seen up close, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it. “We’ll find you something. A souvenir.”

“Oh—okay. Sure. Thanks.” Somehow, I have a hard time imagining it: Finn and I strolling through the con, picking out a souvenir. He’d be mobbed. Surely he meant we in a figurative sense.

A silence falls between us. There’s none of our easy conversation from the night we were strangers, as though now both of us have masks on. I’m saved from further awkwardness by a couple of college-aged girls wearing homemade Mexley shirts who pause in front of our table.

“Hux? Oliver Huxley?” one of them says, and the other elbows her. “Oh my god, sorry. Finn! Hi! We were at your panel earlier. It was amazing.”

“Could we get a photo?” the other girl asks. “I mean—I know you have to pay at the con, but it was a little out of our price range.” She blushes. “But never in a million years did we think we’d run into you like this!”

“Sorry, sorry, we probably shouldn’t ask...”

But Finn is already standing up. “Of course, I’m happy to. Love the shirts, by the way.”

I practically leap out of the booth, desperate to feel useful. “I’ll take it!”

And as I snap a picture of Hux aka Finn aka legit Rose City Con royalty with these sweet girls, I wonder if I’m slightly in over my head.

This is very much not my scene, and I even admitted it to Finn. Maybe he’d be better off with someone who followed at least half of what he said about The Nocturnals on his panel.

Someone who didn’t sleep with him a week and a half ago.

Calm down, I urge myself, willing the anxiety not to get the better of me. He picked you. Kind of.

Once the girls leave, I decide to take control. “So. This book,” I say, dipping a fry into harissa ketchup. “It might be helpful for me to get a sense of how you envision the structure. Are there other celebrity memoirs you’ve liked, anything that might have a similar vibe?”

He considers this for a moment. “I really liked Ali Wong’s book.”

“Ah yes, because you, too, would like to format this book as letters to your daughters about life as an Asian American comic?”

“Probably shouldn’t. What about Judy Greer’s memoir?” he asks, and I confirm that I’ve read and loved it. “I was listening to it on the plane. For research,” he adds with a little wink. “I love the idea of making it a series of interconnected stories, not necessarily in chronological order. You know, not just—I was born, I went to school, I started acting.”

I nod along with him, jotting this down, trying not to think about how that little wink sent a strange shiver through me. “We can absolutely do that. Maybe we could even take quotes from your past roles as a diving-off point for each chapter?”

“Yes!” He leans back in his chair, pleased. “I had a feeling you’d be exactly what I needed.”

I try not to blush at the double meaning of those words because this, right here, is what I’m good at. The reason I’m here.

By the time we’re halfway done with our food, we both feel confident about the structure, with Finn pinpointing a few topics we can devote chapters to, both personal and professional. His Nocturnals audition. His first Hollywood party, where he made the mistake of asking a very famous actor, And who are you? A failed attempt at a tofurkey that nearly burned his house down, which will include a deeper discussion of his vegetarianism. No dark secrets, but I wasn’t expecting them yet—it’s only our first real talk about the book.

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