"Vince, you know what I meant—" I try again, but he cuts me off before I can finish.
"Andy, this is a family show," Vince interrupts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness that makes my stomach clench. "For the record, I don't date younger—" He cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished sentence hanging like a guillotine over my head. His eyes dart toward the camera, then back to me, a quick, calculating movement that makes my skin prickle.
"We'll have to cut that out," he adds, his tone shifting to something more businesslike, as if he's suddenly remembered we're not alone. The crew behind the lights has gone strangely quiet, their usual bustling replaced by a charged silence. I can feel their eyes on us, on me, on the mess I've made of this simple interaction.
I stare at Gary in a panic, my eyes darting past the cameras to where he stands behind Todd and the crew. His all-black outfit makes him look like a giant shadow against the bright studio lights, towering over everyone else. I'd instinctively looked to him for some sign of reassurance, some indication that I'm not completely failing at this, but he's red-faced, a hand covering his mouth as he laughs along with everyone else. He gives me a thumbs up, and my heart sinks into my stomach like a stone in water.
"My oldest daughter, Malia, is turning eighteen next December," Vince says, mercifully changing the subject. He's already straightening up for the camera, his papers clutched inhis hand. "I'd say hi to her, but she definitely isn't watching this. She thinks this whole show is stupid and that I'm an embarrassment to the family."
My mouth falls open for a second before a genuine laugh escapes me, the sound foreign even to my own ears. I'm thankful for the shift in focus, for the chance to breathe without feeling like I'm being judged for every micro-expression. "Well... I mean..." I start, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "She's kind of right."
The crew erupts in laughter again, their voices a warm wave that washes over me. I can feel the corners of my mouth lifting into a smile that actually reaches my eyes this time. His confession hangs in the air between us, a rare moment of vulnerability that makes him seem more human, less like the polished celebrity who's been tormenting me for the past two days.
"She's probably outside NBC protesting right now, holding up traffic and throwing eggs at people trying to get to work." Vince's voice is deadpan, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of affection, maybe—that gives away the game. "She's vegan, by the way. I paid for those eggs, just like I pay her rent while she 'figures things out.' But sure, I'm the embarrassment to the family."
I laugh so hard my sides hurt, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me, genuine and unrestrained. "Malia?" I ask, wanting to remember her name, to hold onto this small piece of information about the man who's been tormenting me for the past two days.
"Malia," Vince nods, turning to wave at the camera as if she were actually watching, as if this moment could somehow bridge the distance between them. "Malia, I know you freaking hate my guts, but I love you, sweetheart."
The crew is in hysterics, their laughter echoing around the studio, and my stomach aches from laughing so hard. I feel a strange mix of amusement and pity for his poor kid, who definitely isn't going to talk to him if this makes it to air.
"Malia," I say to the camera, finding my voice again, "if you want me to adopt you before your eighteenth birthday so you can pretend your dad doesn't exist anymore, email me."
My hand moves before my brain catches up, scrawling my email across a spare script note with a marker I find on the table. I hold it up to the camera like a prize I've just won, a stupid grin plastered across my face. Somewhere behind the harsh studio lights, Gary's voice cuts through the air like a knife, his usual laid-back demeanor replaced by something close to panic.
"Cut! Cut the feed! For the love of God, someone cut the feed!" His words tumble over each other in his haste, and I can hear him muttering about editing nightmares and legal ramifications that fly right over my head.
Vince's laughter rings out beside me, warm and uninhibited, as he plucks the paper from my grasp.
His fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt through me.
He crumples the note into a tight ball, the paper crackling under the pressure, and tosses it across the table.
"Relax, Gary," Vince calls out, his voice carrying easily over Gary's continued sputtering. "It's fine. She wouldn't want to anyway. She gets my humor."
He leans closer, his shoulder brushing against mine as he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still feels loud enough for the entire studio to hear. "Not really," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. The boyish grin that spreads across his face does something to my insides, makes them twist and turn in ways I haven't felt in years.
"I'm fucking dead if we air that," he adds, his voice barely containing the laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.
This isn't the polished, camera-ready Vince I've been getting to know over the past two days. This is someone else entirely—someone real, someone whose armor has slipped just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the man beneath.
I can't stop laughing, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. Vince doesn't stop looking at me, his gaze intense and unwavering. His smile makes me feel exposed in the best way possible, laid bare under the studio lights with nowhere to hide.
"Language, Vince!" Gary bellows from behind the lights, his voice thick with exasperation as he finally manages to stop the take entirely.
The next twenty-five minutes are a blur of Gary pacing back and forth, his hands gesticulating wildly as he yells at both of us about all the edits they'll have to make, about how we've just created hours of extra work for post-production, about how we're supposed to be professionals, not teenagers messing around on live television.
And I can't stop smiling.
After a week of working with Vince every day, I still haven't exchanged a single word with him off-camera. Not one.
The realization settles in my stomach. He is always quick to arrive, quick to leave, and constantly surrounded by people with something urgent to discuss, their voices a low murmur that follows him like a shadow. I can't help but wonder what it feels like to be so essential. To have your presence matter so much that people scramble for your attention, that your departure leaves a void that needs to be filled immediately.
On the seventh straight day of recording, Vince surprises me. He walks up to me voluntarily to talk.
We are wrapping up, the studio buzzing with the familiar chaos of pack-up—lights being dimmed, cables coiled like sleeping snakes on the floor, crew members calling out theirgoodbyes as they scatter toward the exit. I am gathering my things, my mind already mapping out the route back to my apartment, the comfort of my routine waiting at the end of a long day.
"Andrew."
