Petra takes a sip of her wine, suppressing her bubbling frustration.
Sometimes, when Gavin is at his most unbearable, Petra forces herself to remember the person he used to be. Not Bond. Not “Hollywood’s next great hope.” Just Gavin.
She remembers the nights in their cramped walk-up when they lived off pad thai cartons and ambition, both of them rehearsing their respective disciplines for each other, offering enthusiasm and hope. He used to sit on the floor running lines while she sewed ribbons onto her pointe shoes, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world. Back then he asked questions and waited for answers. He was kind in small, ordinary ways: warming her hands between his when the radiators gave out, staying up late to rub her feet after performances, reminding her, sincerely, that someday all the bruises, all the pain, would be worth it.
Before the premieres, before the flashing cameras and the free designer suits, he’d been the one person who seemed to understand what it meant to keep getting up after every rejection. An actor, an artist, struggling alongside her. Empathetic and attentive.
But that version of Gavin has been swallowed whole. She tries to spot him sometimes in the man adjusting his smile for the paparazzi or rehearsing anecdotes in the mirror, but the empathy’s gone, siphoned off and replaced with artificial polish.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most: it’s not that he’s become unbearable, but that once, he wasn’t.
She puts her glass of wine back down on the table as Gavin scrolls through his phone while chewing on a piece of bread.
“The opportunities are coming in like crazy, babe. You wouldn’t believe these endorsement proposals my agent keeps sending to me,” he says, eyes glued to his phone.
“Speaking of opportunities,” she says. “I’m still hoping mine will come with the company.”
Gavin’s brow furrows. “Your promotion?”
“It’s frustrating.” The words tumble out. “I’ve done everything right—paid my dues, taken every role they’ve given me, smiled through it all. And yet, somehow, I keep getting leapfrogged by people who know how to play politics.” She pauses. “The last soloist who was promoted to principal…it’s rumored she slept with the artistic director. It’s just…it’s demoralizing.”
Gavin leans forward and sets his glass down. “Petra, that’s how the world works. You want to get ahead? You play the game. It’s not pretty, but it’s reality.”
The restaurant suddenly feels smaller. Not in a good way. “You’re saying I should sleep my way to the top?”
“Petra, jeez. Don’t be so literal.” His hands rise in surrender, but his eyes don’t retreat. “But you have to be willing to do what it takes. That’s what I did. I was an out-of-work actor living in a van, and now look at me. Some of that success, actuallymostof it, was because I knew when to leverage my connections. I got here because I wasn’t afraid to make tough decisions. Sure, my looks helped too. But at the end of the day, it’s about survival, babe, and whoever’s willing to do the most to survive will thrive.”
Petra stares at him across the small distance of their table—a distance that suddenly feels vast. Her chest tightens. “So, you think I should compromise everything I believe in to get ahead?”
“I think you need to ask yourself how much you want it. The rest is up to you.”
Before she can process his words, another fan materializes, a young woman, late teens, phone shaking in her hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you Gavin Bradford? Could I get a picture? You’re, like, my favorite actor ever.”
She watches the transformation again. Instant. Complete. Gavin’s smile slides into place with mechanical precision, and he stands, smoothing his jacket like he’s preparing for a red-carpet moment.
“Of course. Happy to.”
Petra settles back in her chair, wine glass becoming a prop in a play she’s no longer sure she wants to be in.
“Thank you so much. I can’t believe this. Could you maybe…sign something for me? I don’t have anything except…” The girl grabs Petra’s napkin as Gavin removes a pen from an inside jacket pocket.
“A napkin it is.” His signature flows across the napkin in a flourish. “There you go.”
The girl stares at him like his face contains the secrets of the universe. “You’re amazing. Seriously. Thank you so much.”
“Always happy to meet a fan,” his voice as smooth and harmful as triple distilled moonshine.
Petra finishes her wine. The glass empties, but her discomfort overflows. As the girl floats away, Gavin leans back into his chair, demeanor relaxed as ever.
The meal drags on in a haze of perfectly twirled pasta and even more perfectly rehearsed small talk. Petra smiles when she’s supposed to, lifts her glass at the right moments, lets her nods fall into the polite rhythm of someone hitting their cues.
From the outside, she must look like the picture of contentment, an elegant woman having dinner with a man who graced this month’s cover ofVanity Fair.
But inside, her thoughts keep swirling, restless. Each of Gavin’s lines lands with the same practiced gleam, polished and empty, like decorative silverware that’s never actually been used.
And slowly, with a kind of sick clarity, Petra realizes: this is who Gavin is now. There is no hidden chamber of tenderness tucked beneath the surface, no vulnerability waiting to be unearthed. The man across from her is exactly who he appears to be. Some people are Russian dolls, complex, possessing layers within layers. Others are mannequins, like Gavin—all surface and empty inside.
Uptown, Liam LeClerc sits at his too-small kitchen table, prodding at a carton of lo mein like it personally wronged him. A single limp noodle dangles from his chopsticks, mocking him with its refusal to be eaten.
