Page 17 of In Frame
Sheer silence hit like lightning. Electric shock. The universe trying to take that in and comprehend it.
Sam grabbed his notebook. Journalist autopilot. That quote. Getting it down. Surely Sir Laurence Taylor hadn’t just said—
Someone, more daring than the rest, murmured a half-dazed question about Sir Laurence having been married to a woman, having married—and divorced—two women, in fact, and having a daughter. Sir Laurence agreed, helpfully, and mentioned having a granddaughter, now.
“But,” said the journalist. “Alec.”
“You see,” Sir Laurence said, serene and gentlemanly, “I’m quite bisexual, darling.”
And the room erupted into clamor. Questions. Shouting. Scribbling of notes, frantic texting, the news about to be heard round the world—
Leo, Sam noticed, was laughing. Applauding. Enjoying the tumult; appreciating Sir Laurence’s exquisite timing, no doubt. Leowouldappreciate a good show and showmanship, with that sense of humor, with that skill at purposefully diverting the world.
Sir Laurence went on to talk about having the words for himself and his desires, finally; about being able to express this part of himself, and his gratitude for the film and the experience of getting to know Colby and Jason and Jillian and Andy, peoplewho loved who they loved openly, a choice he’d never even had available; he thanked them, and the world.
Sam took half-hysterical notes. Such a story.Thestory.
The cynic in him approved of Sir Laurence’s timing and the publicity for the film. The newfound hollowness in his chest observed that the words all seemed truly sincere. His brain pointed out that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.
They’d been asked not to take photos or video during the film and the Q&A. Other people were nevertheless sneakily capturing this moment, more and less stealthily. Sam cringed at himself but caught a couple of phone snapshots, quick and unobtrusive: needing the reactions on stage, knowing how much he could make from even those one or two peeks into this piece of history.
He felt dirty doing it, as if he’d shattered a promise. He wasn’t the sort of person who ought to be here, witnessing this baring of self. The sort of person who might be given Leo Whyte’s kind heart to hold. Who might be trusted.
He wasn’t. He never would be. So he snuck pictures, having been requested not to.
He sent one of the photos, the best shot of Sir Laurence’s face while talking, to Jameson on the spot. The text he got in return indicated approval and a rare good mood.
The Q&A ran out of time; the cast waved, bowed, received another standing ovation. Leo’s suit stood out: sunrise color against traditional navy and black hues around him. Always extraordinary, Leo Whyte; Sam bit a lip, felt the bite against his breastbone. Leo was himself, through and through, and spectacular.
The cast and crew, framed by security—separated from ordinary mortals, distant and protected—headed toward the exit. Assembled critics and journalists and fans and lucky premiere-ticket winners, all left behind, shuffled feet, milledaround, sagged a little after all the emotion, and made hasty calls and texts about the seismic shift that’d just taken place in terms of classic movie-star love lives.
More stories. Everywhere. Upending what everyone’d thought they knew, which had been another type of story, concealing a truth.
So many stories. So powerful.
The ones he told, through unwelcome intrusive lenses, did not compare to the works of love he’d seen tonight: in the film, and on stage. With Jason and Colby, and Sir Laurence’s coming out moment, and Jillian Poe’s love for her cast and crew, and the whole world standing up to believe in happy endings.
Sam Hernandez-Blake, who sold voyeuristic glimpses of private lives, shouldn’t be here. Not in the same room with all that love.
He did it for family. That was a truth. But in the moment—in this moment—the guilt mattered more. The shame. If he wasn’t who he was—
If Leo could ever look at him with those dancing hazel eyes and see someone worth kissing again—not a sordid furtive stolen moment—
Sam breathed out, carefully, around the stab-wound in his chest. And he put away his phone, and headed for the exit, thinking about expenses and getting a cab and the dreadful hotel that’d been all Jameson and theDaily World Newswould pay for, with the painful mattress-springs and the distressing grey stain on the wall.
He’d had this moment. These few hours. He’dbeenhere.
He’d go back and upload the rest of his pictures in better quality, and he’d even write up a short breathless article with lots of exclamation points because Jameson would pay for the description from someone who’d been there. He’d get it all sent in and he’d get paid.
He felt older suddenly. Exhausted. Thirty-one years old, going on a hundred.
His next footfall scuffed against deep red carpet, leaving the theatre, drifting out into the lobby. The carpet, which’d seen years of show-business anguish and ecstasy, gazed up in scarlet sympathy.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned.
A young man dressed in the night’s event staff uniform gave him a smile. The young man was generally speaking attractive, slim and stylish with red hair and grey eyes and an understated rainbow earring and a gaze that absolutely traveled up and down Sam’s body, lingering over shoulders, hips, Sam’s mouth; he was alsoveryyoung, not necessarily in years but in the complete lack of subtlety. “Sam Hernandez-Blake?”
“Sure,” Sam agreed—no reason to be rude, even if he wasn’t interested—and shifted to one side, out of the flow of bodies milling around. “How can I help you?” And he thought, fleetingly, that heshouldhave been interested; he liked people who knew what they wanted, who’d keep things easy, who clearly were into him as well.
