“And then busy all day?”
He nods again. “You should come to the cast signing.”
“I don’t watch the show,” I say, quickly adding, “Yet! I promise to start. But I’d feel bad taking a ticket from a fan.”
For some reason, this makes him laugh. “You wouldn’t need a ticket, Gigi. I’m not suggesting you go stand in line for an autograph. You’d come as my guest. Bring Eden.”
I cover his mouth. “Careful what you offer. She kept it surprisingly bottled up last night. If you invite her today, she might show up wearing a shirt with your face on it. Or even worse: a shirt with your torso on it.”
“It’s all fine,” he says, “as long as she’s aware the dimples are taken.”
I cup his face, kissing each cheek. “Gigi’s bottom lip approves.”
Eleven
I get a brief text from an unknown number about an hour after Alec leaves and identify Yael from the brevity: Meet at the side entrance to the Ace Hotel off Blackstone at one sharp. Text this number when you arrive.
With this information in hand, I dance my way into Eden’s room, where she’s lying on her back in bed, her laptop balanced on her knee. I hear Alec’s voice through the tinny speakers, and it’s shockingly surreal.
“What are you watching?”
“West Midlands.” She glances briefly at me and smirks. “Your boy’s just about to get in a car accident.”
I scoot over beside her. “Will this traumatize me?”
“The crash?” She glances at me. “No, but the kissing will.”
“Oh.” I wave this off. “I watched all those gifs in the Lyft home.”
“I knew it, you little shit.”
I steal one of her pillows and tuck it under my head. “Okay,” I relent. “Catch me up.”
“You want to watch it now?”
“Well,” I say, and grin over at her, “we’re going to a cast signing today as Alec’s guests, so I should know at least a little about the rest of this show.”
She stares at me, unblinking. “What.”
“It’s at the Ace Hotel. Oh,” I say, realizing, “you need to call in sick to work. Alec’s cyborg assistant sent me directions to get in the side door.” I point to my chest. “I’m Hollywood connected now, you know.”
Eden lets out an earsplitting scream and tackles me. Somewhere in the distance, her laptop knocks against a wall. “Do I get to meet them all?”
“I assume so.”
She screams again, and I wrap my arms around her wiry body.
It’s the last moment she’s pleased with me for a while, though, because I am hopeless otherwise. I need a full summary of the show, can only point to faces and say, “He looks familiar,” or, “Oh, he was in that one movie where we saw a flash of dick, right?”
But by the end of this very cursory overview, I can say three things with absolute confidence: (1) This show looks dramatic and addicting; (2) I can absolutely understand why the entire world wants to believe he’s sleeping with his costar, Elodie Fabrón—as in, their chemistry is genuinely fever-inducing; and, relatedly, (3) without question, I need to find a way to make sure Alec Kim ends up in my bed tonight.
We get to the event early—parking down the street just after noon and hovering outside the side door. It’s hot as hell, and Eden pesters me to text Yael early. I don’t know Yael but I know her enough to be able to tell Eden to shut it; we will text at exactly one o’clock and not a moment sooner.
But from where we stand, we’re able to see the line that snakes around the block and loops back on itself. I know many of the fans lined up are here to see the famous Doctor Who actor who plays West Midlands’s first heartthrob, or the bombshell from the blockbuster DC superhero franchise, but some of them—many of them, probably—are here specifically to see Alec.
I have a handful of copyeditor questions to address for the article before it goes to press and a call to take with Ian about what he’s digging up back in London, so I am grateful for some downtime. Even so, it is a surreal experience to do my job surrounded by hundreds—maybe thousands—of people who have likely taken a day off work to come see a group of famous people in person. Once I send my last email, Eden and I fall quiet in mild awe at the scale of this event, eavesdropping on scattered breathless conversations. I love my best friend’s fangirling side, love how fully and unselfconsciously Eden loves the things she loves. But I’ve never had that bone, even in moments when I watched her and it looked like she was having a blast. Unless it’s for work, I don’t have the ability to dive headlong into something and spend hours thinking of nothing else.
But people-watching here—listening in on the conversations of the people who stand idly in the line that stretches down Blackstone and past us—makes me realize these fans easily know more about Alec’s life than I do. Some women near us talk about the pens they brought in his favorite color (red) and wonder whether he’ll sign their shirts (Alec is, apparently, the only member of the cast to never sign an item on someone’s body). They talk about his smile, how it takes him a few minutes to look comfortable, how he is always the slowest in the signing line because he talks to everyone. They argue over whether he’s scheduled to be at Comic-Con, and say inside-joke lines to each other that I can only assume are dialogue from one of his shows.