Topher eyes me, working something out, then his gaze slides over my shoulder toward the big game show–style wheel that was brought out right before I came on set. It’s brightly colored and covered in glitter, and it has words on it like “Pig Saliva” and “Shirtless Polka” and whatever song and dance routine they think I’m about to do for them, beyond the one I’m already performing. I’d like to put it off for as long as possible.
“If I can say...” I put my hand on his arm.
“Well, sure, but we’ve got commercial break in forty-five—”
“For a long time, I thought I didn’t need to own my sexuality publicly. That it was between me and whoever I might be involved with. That I didn’t need to be a role model for anyone. Fans aspired to be like the characters I played on screen. But in my personal life, I never tried to be. Didn’t think I needed to be, as long as I kept my head down.”
“That’s very interesting, but—” He glances nervously at the camera, then cocks his head in a way that means he’s got a producer screaming in his ear to fuck the advertisers, they’ll stay on me for as long as I keep speaking because whatever I say will have a zillion views online by morning.
“And I think in protecting myself, I hurt a lot of people. And I want to apologize to anyone who has been hurt by my actions.”
“Okay, Damian. That’s—”
“Going forward”—I push on because this is the part I came here to say, the groundwork I’m trying to lay for what happens next—“I want to make sure the roles I’m involved in bringing to the screen are the kind I wish I’d seen growing up.”
He wants to ask a question; I can see it on his lips. Topher fumbles over the words. Will I only be playing gay characters from now on? What does that mean forShadow League?
But a twitch of his neck muscles says there’s more chatter from the producer, and he straightens in his chair.
“Damian Marshall, everybody!”
The audience applauds as the structured feel of the set relaxes and PAs move things into place. I stare at the camera long after the red light has gone off. It’s impossible to hope Jack will see this. If he didn’t follow my work before, he’ll be steering as far away from it as he can now. But maybe, somehow, he’ll hear about a part of it. This interview or what comes next. Maybe he’ll know that I’m trying.
We leave the studio. Vin’s got a car waiting. We told Roberta I was taking the rest of the night off. Instead, he drives me to Beverly Hills where he’s booked a private table at La Niña, a new Chilean restaurant that’s been written up everywhere and is almost impossible to get into. But Vin made one call, and suddenly a table opened up for us. I’m using my powers for good now.
We go through the front, but the clientele is all highbrow enough that there isn’t much fuss. One man asks for a selfie for his daughter, which I give him, but otherwise we’re escorted quietly to a small table in the back, where our guest is already waiting.
Tino Del Ray is taller than I expected. They’re decked out in a studded and distressed leather jacket and round wire-framed glasses that make them appear twelve years old, but Vin assures me they are exactly the person I’m looking for.
Tino looks flustered and starstruck as I shake their hand. When Vin set up the dinner, he left my name out of it, because even if I’m trying to take control of my narrative, I’m still a hot topic in LA, and the fewer people who know where I am at any given moment, the better.
“You. You’re—” Tino stammers.
“Damian. Nice to meet you. I love your work.”
They turn white and have to grip the back of the chair. “You’ve read my work?”
“Well, sort of.” I take a seat so poor Tino can do the same before they pass out. “I read a script recently calledBeloved Cove.”
Tino’s budding excitement falls. “Oh.” They pull the big white napkin off the table in front of them and let it drop dejectedly into their lap.
“But Vin here tells me there’s an earlier version that you worked on.”
“It won the—” Vin pulls out a sheet of paper from a briefcase I didn’t even know he was carrying and pretends to scan it, even though he’s got all the facts and figures memorized. “The Goldman Prize for unproduced new works a few years ago, right?”
“Yeah.” Tino smiles proudly at us before it droops again. “But it wasn’t calledBeloved Covethen. The studio changed it when they bought the option. They said it was too queer to be produced the way it was, and I really wanted to sell a script, you know?”
I hurt for them. I know the pain that comes from dividing up parts of yourself and hoping you can put them all back together one day. I’m hoping I can help Tino do it sooner than I did. And others too.
“I want to read it,” I say. “Your version.”
Their head pops back up. “What?”
“My agent sent me a copy from the studio, but it didn’t sit right with me, you know?”
“I—” Their mouth is open, and apparently that’s the only word that’s coming out.
“But then Vin said he heard a reading of the original version at a showcase.”
