The Longest Third Date - Prologue. Prologue

PRESENT DAY, NEW YORK

Spring arrived like an unexpected letter, its contents tinted with the promise of change. The first warm day in New York carried a weight Californians couldn’t fathom. Their sun, endless and thoughtless, was no match for the earned light of the East—a light that knew scarcity, that thawed not just the skin but the moods of winter.

Greenwich Village swarmed with rollerbladers, their wheels whispering over the pavement like dragonfly wings. In Washington Square Park, limbs shed their winter coverings—bare arms, bare legs, pale as milk, dark as chocolate, and golden as honey, but unashamed. Sleeveless and unshackled, they would venture into Central Park, some hand-in-hand, others alone but no less buoyant.

Under the trees and along the cobblestones, at picnic tables littered with crumbs and benches crowded with elbows and knees, the city unfolded its reunions. Faces surfaced, half-forgotten but suddenly beloved, like artifacts unearthed after a long dig. Laughter spilled like wine; hugs and kisses bloomed like the first crocuses. Surviving the winter was not merely endured—it was a triumph, and the city, for once, felt like it agreed.

The city greeted the blond first with its smells, a reunion of odors as layered and inescapable as its skyline. In Chinatown, the ghosts of rotting fish and garbage clung to the alleys. Greenwich Village brewed its own perfume—a heady mix of coffee grounds and damp pavement, marked with the pomposity of artisanal coffee shops. Uptown, the Upper East Side floated lavender and vanilla through the air, a polite façade that couldn’t mask the sour bite of piss and dog poop wafting up from the cracks. Central Park, as ever, offered its bouquet of lilacs and clove oil herbicide, until the lie squished underfoot, horse shit turning truth on your shoes. And Times Square? That electric vortex of Goliathan billboards and crushed dreams reeked faintly of hot dogs, burnt pretzels, and desperation, where street performers clung to the streets and tourists alike.

Klebber felt it all as he stepped out of the cab, the city’s chorus of scents hitting him like a slap. The strap of his backpack dug into his shoulder, as acute as the memories he’d tried to leave behind. New York: his birthplace, his crucible, the city that forged him, and the one he’d fled when its noise became unbearable. He hadn’t told anyone he was here—not his mother, not his sister, not his brothers. This visit was a secret, a ghost just slipping through. A whisper, here and then gone.

So why was he back in New York, at the doorstep of his ex-fiancé?

Perhaps it was because of Mama Bella, who had upped the stakes with a velvet-gloved demand, telling him through an intimate email that he should do the interview, for it might be her last time on earth, perversely blackmailing him to return to America to officiate some words of wisdom about how she had thought that he was the one man she had expected her son would end up with. That he was the only boy he’d marry. That on her deathbed, Klebber would be Dennis’s person destined to comfort him of her passing. It was part of Mama Bella’s antics to get him back to US soil.

Though it was not unusual with old imaginative folks, old-timers have a distinct hobby for clairvoyance that resonates perniciously if the predicted future turns out unsuccessful. And Mama Bella had always been an insightful old woman. However, that insight had turned out to be wrong. The tethered bond he had once had with the old, craggy woman with seasoned eyes and her dutiful cane—every fiancé’s dream to be close to their mothers-in-law if Dennis and he had married—had never faded.

She had always kept in touch with him with zeal and devotion, demanding she’d be updated wherever he was. But to hope that he and Dennis would ever get back together would be a trifling future to foresee now. Not even a future, but a fantasy Mama Bella had conjured in her idle days, as the only person who still believed in him and her son, even when there was no more reason to believe it anymore.

Suddenly, a garbage truck passed by. The unforgettable smell of hot garbage woke him up from his daydreams. He crinkled his nose, and his mind cemented that he was truly back in Manhattan, standing at the entrance of this five-story apartment, in front of its black wrought-iron French doors. The door looked efficiently sturdy, their filigreed curves framing panels of bulletproof glass hidden in glass etching with a pair of faux-potted mini Japanese maple trees on both ends. These fourteen-hundred-dollar planters, which one would assume were made of plastic, were misleading at best.

To his right stood an oddity: the Beary Business Man, a two-foot copper sculpture of a bear, his polo shirt gaped open, three buttons undone, exposing a hairy chest that seemed to mock decorum; his trilby hat sat askew, his rumpled business suit sagged with weariness, his eyes fixed on the jar of honey he held with a feral kind of hunger, and his attaché case lay open at his feet, papers scattered and flapping like birds trying to escape. Forever busy, forever hungry, the big bear smiled with a rictus of desperation to eat his jar of honey, his skin tinged green under the sun, pigeon droppings running down on his hat like tears.

He missed this statue.

To him, this statute embodied everything about Dennis.

It was appropriately named the Beary Business Man by its sculptress, Leonara Einswald, who came with credentials burnished by The New York Times Arts and Leisure section, which had dedicated an effusive feature to her work—an art commission crafted as a tribute to Dennis Ellison. Constantly hungry and lazily busy was her fit description of the copper statue. When asked who had kick-started this project, she said, Klebber Toledo, Dennis Ellison’s fiancé, as a gift for their second anniversary, an official announcement that had also marked the public declaration of their engagement on papers.

He had always told Dennis to put the sculpture outside the apartment so it would form a patina, a protective coating to shield it from the elements. But Dennis had always preferred it indoors, afraid the sculpture would get vandalized or, worse, stolen. And now that it’s outside, green and sturdy as it should be, basking under the sun, hardened under oxidation and those unforgiving pigeons who’d regularly drop their shit on landmark statues and people, his heart tightened under the ruse that he was alright. That by seeing him again, after that revealing conversation they had last talked about, was only right for him to determine whether their story, without an appropriate ending, would arrive at its conclusion. Today might be that day…

He could have said no. He could have spun on his heel, turned his back, and tossed out some casual, detached excuse about doing the interview over FaceTime or Zoom instead. But he didn’t. Because three months ago, Dennis had appeared in front of him after two years of silence. Not an apparition or hallucination, but of flesh and bone, standing right there while he was taking his classes at the Culinary Arts Academy in Le Bouveret, Switzerland. Dennis told him, at a quiet lunch at Taverne de la Tour, that Civilian 7 Entertainment—the architects of their unreleased, never-before-aired Netflix documentary—has in the works a plan for a sequel.

It would be another documentary, Dennis said, likely to be a neat bow on the fraying edges of their relationship. And it would mark the final chapter, as though to tie in loose ends. The producers had promised them a sequel that it would chronicle the events of their life after they had stumbled back to America months after being stuck in Costa Rica. It had happened after they got caught in the COVID lockdowns of 2020, the strange, suspended time that had shut down the entire world.

And Dennis, being Dennis, left him with words that lingered and left him confused. "We got three months to figure out if we wanna do the interview again. Netflix has a tight production schedule. But hey, if you don't wanna do it, I’ll just tell ’em to wrap up the editing, finish post-production, and send me the picture lock—or whatever they call it—like a copy of the first documentary of our trip in Costa Rica. Nice little souvenir, right? Maybe I’ll throw it on once in a while, so I can reminisce our happy moments together or…um, or somethin’."

It was a statement, not a plea, like a line drawn in the sand. Then, just like that, Dennis was gone again. He’d flown back to America the next morning, leaving Klebber with nothing but his thoughts and the echo of those words, keeping him to think and wonder if this was the sign of the end or, based on his interpretation, the flicker of hope he’d been keeping aflame.

So he needed to be sure. He needed to know what he truly meant. And now, three months later, Klebber was here at his doorstep, curious to know what Dennis had been meaning to say. Because, as all curiosities endure between unfinished, undotted, and undecided relationships, one would have a consuming desire to know of its true ending.

Klebber looked up at this limestone apartment mansion he had entered numerous times, a curatorial interest pervaded that he should scour the house as though it was a museum, that every piece of memory should be relived for the very last time. Then he heard some chattering from a distance.

Across the apartment, a black Range Rover had parked in front of the synagogue; its forty-foot doors and walls made of Jerusalem stone quarried straight from Judea stood commanding. Four men in business suits stepped out and loitered on the church steps, their postures too stiff to be part of a quorum performing Jewish synagogue worship. He felt their eyes on him, a faint prickle on the back of his neck. They whispered to their earpieces, pretending discretion as if their towering frames and broad shoulders didn’t make them as inconspicuous as a pack of wolves on a suburban lawn. They were a group of burly seven-foot men, incredibly hard not to miss.

It seemed that Dennis had sent his bodyguards to ensure his return to America passed without incident. Since departing his apartment rental in Port Valais, a car had trailed him at a polite yet undeniable distance. At a convenience store, where he’d paused to grab coffee on his way to Geneva Airport, the same men appeared, lining up at the cash register with practiced nonchalance. He scratched his head and sensed the vigilant eyes guarding him. Safety, always safety, his safety was Dennis's number one priority. Even now, he could close his eyes and imagine Dennis looming behind him—the big, towering man, sheltering him with his presence.

Then came a throbbing pain that kept toying with his chest. Why was he feeling this way? Was it because he knew their relationship would officially end? He knew that entering this house would be the final arc to their chapter, to their story of us, to this familiar brew of comforts he had known since they had moved in together years ago. Suddenly, feelings of the heart-wrenching kind kept burbling around the edges of this river he was bound to cross. He rang the doorbell and knocked on the door harder and stronger; the stinging was relentless. There was no sense delaying the inevitable. He needed to see him now.

Moments later, there was a woman’s reflection behind the glass door. She stood there, watching him with the careful precision of someone sizing up a stray animal. No doubt the housekeeper had already been briefed on his visit. It must have helped that his face had been an online commodity plastered for the public’s scrutiny, courtesy of his former relationship with an Ellison. Fame, like a stain, was hard to scrub off. And as his arms were crossed diligently, eyes scattered on the ground too preoccupied in his head, the housekeeper finally nudged the door open and asked, "Um, are you Mr. Klebber, sir?"

Klebber nodded hesitantly, but her expression demanded more, requiring proof in sound. "Er, yes?"

She smiled. Then she pressed a finger to the black round object clipped to her left ear. An earpiece. He could feel Dennis on the other side, confirming his identity. "This way, sir," she said, gesturing to walk ahead. "Sir Dennis is on the rooftop. Please follow me."

This housekeeper was new. Fairly young, a woman in her early thirties—they’re probably the same age. He didn’t know this woman. And as glad as he was, she didn’t know him as well. Her teeth were gleaming. Polished white, a white that came with professional care from a good dental package, not genetics.

It was universally known in close circles that Dennis paid his people well; this new housekeeper’s salary must be over a $100k. Billionaires couldn’t afford the bad press of stinginess. Or had he forgotten that Dennis has always had a kind heart, the one thing that drew him to the big man, to his huggybear he had so aptly called with affection? He hadn’t uttered the name in two years. Two years…two whole years of being apart. Two years since he had ended their engagement.

The murmurs, soft but unmistakable, followed him through the lengthy foyer. The housekeeper had instructed him to wait behind the elevator, so he stood there with his backpack, hands in his pockets, feigning interest in the stucco walls. On the staircase, two maids were polishing the balusters and the railing, their voices low, speaking in Spanish. He didn’t bother to glance their way, for he was hidden from their view and could only be seen if they peeked their heads from the corner. But he understood every word, the phrases sliding into his polyglot brain like butter. Gossip always sounded richer in Spanish. It carried secrets the air itself conspired to keep. One of them, hiding behind a corner, trying to sneak a peek, said, "Rosa, ven aquí. Mira, mira, es tan guapo; míralo. Es como una estrella de cine de Hollywood. Se ve mucho mejor que las fotos en línea." (Rosa, come here. Look, look, he's so handsome; look at him. He's like a Hollywood movie star. No wonder they use to call him the hottest teacher in America. God must have really taken his time making this one.)

Klebber’s eyes were fixed on a painting. He didn’t glance at the corner near the stairs, despite the loud whispering that was translated in his head. He could feel the other maid yanking the curious one, as the harsher voice said, (Stop eavesdropping, Maria. Machine Gun Kelly might see you. You’ve been on her radar. You don’t want to get fired on your first month. You’re very, very lucky Mama Bella likes you. People would kill to get a spot in this house as a helper. So stop speaking so loudly and just do your job.) He thought they had resigned themselves to their work. Apparently, the gossiping had just begun. (But you know what, I still can’t believe they broke up. I read the papers and they said it’s an ‘amicable split.’ But when Mama Bella sent Tia Lucia to clean their house in Jersey, she said it looked like a hurricane blew through. Some angry fighting definitely happened. Such a shame—they were so good together. Sir Klebber really made him better, you know. They were inseparable.)

(What happened after?)

(After they broke up? Sir Dennis went off the rails. His temper came back, he lost a lot of weight, barely talked...like he was a walking zombie, and he stopped going to work. And he fired three maids—then rehired them months later because he shouted at them. I wished he had shouted at me. He gave them each a $100,000 bonus if they came back. He’s such a kind-hearted man and a weird guy.)

(Doesn’t he live in L.A. now? Didn’t he leave New York after ditching his dad’s company?)

(Yeah, he’s some big-shot Hollywood producer these days. But from what I heard from Ma'am Lizzy, it's more like a hobby for him since he's taking a break from his real work. Or more like, he doesn’t want to come back after what his father did. From what I hear,) The voice hushed to a mere whisper. (His dad was the reason why they split.)

The softer voice whispered loudly. (Really?)

(Be quiet. You didn’t hear that from me. Anyway, I hear Sir Dennis and Sir Gerald made up now...like they’re not really talking but at least they’re not trying to destroy each other. Anyway, Sir Gerald wanted him to take over as CEO when he retired. Maybe that’s why he’s back to New York to finalize things and move back to Texas to manage the company.)

(Where’d you hear that?)

(From the news, you idiot. Everyone knows.)

(So we’re gonna lose our jobs?)

(No. What are you saying? He’s been flying back and forth from New York to L.A., and he’s always considered New York his home base. Makes sense since Mama Bella and his sister’s here. Anyway, Sir Dennis sold his Malibu house last month. Maybe he’s back in New York for good.)

(Or maybe he’s back for him.) Hands fisted on his sides, Klebber stiffened. (I’m not telling you what I heard from Mama Bella yesterday. You told me to do my job, so I’m just here to do my job, nothing else...)

(You’re such a gossip. Come on, Maria, spill it. I know you can’t keep that mouth shut forever. What’d she say?)

(Sir Dennis is getting engaged,) said the softer one.

The louder one protested, (To who? Is Sir Klebber here because they got secretly engaged? Oh my god, does that mean they’re back together?)

(No. I heard from Mama Bella that Sir Dennis is planning to propose to his boyfriend, James Flemings, the actor.)

(Oh. That one. Didn’t that thing cheat on Sir Dennis? Well, if they’re back together and they’re getting engaged, I’d rather we not talk about this then. This is making me depressed, anxiously depressed.)

Klebber jabbed at the elevator button like a woodpecker pecking on glass. He couldn’t stay in that room. He needed to see him. Needed to hear his voice, to catch some trace of his face—calm, cold, or stormy. He had to know if Dennis had moved on and if those promises they’d exchanged two years ago had dissolved or had calcified into an immovable rock. But then again, hearing that Dennis and his ex-actor were back together, does Klebber really think he has a chance?

When the elevator doors slid open, he didn’t wait for the housekeeper and didn’t care about the rules of polite deferral. He stepped in, thumb landing on the button for the topmost floor—a destination and a verdict all at once.

AT THE ROOFTOP…

The former couple was seated across from each other at an elevated dining table framed by a lattice pergola. Further down in the recessed area were lounge seats, a barbecue spot, and a gold-themed bar cart that espoused the common shelves-on-wheels look for a mobile cabinet. A jagged skyline of Midtown Manhattan was to Klebber’s left, while behind him was Central Park.

Klebber and Dennis had been side-eyeing each other, sneaking furtive glances, noticing things like an observation deck to Mars, scrutinizing any foreign substance they could bring back to earth to study, probe, infer, and disassemble with their limited human minds why something was or is, or why something wouldn’t, couldn’t, or shouldn’t. The only thing Klebber brought back to earth was realizing Dennis had changed, appearance-wise. He looked better now, way better; calmer, less stressed, presentable, and most of all, he looked dashing.

The blond looked up, trying to avoid the big man’s inscrutable staring. He peered at Dennis’s flower beds, which he'd planted himself that clung to the lattices, vines twisting upward, their blossoms were rainbow sprouts of red, yellow, blue, and purple. The air smelled of wet earth and green things forcing themselves into being. It slid into Klebber’s lungs. It tasted bitter, like the aftertaste of a tree bark. To anyone else, it might have smelled of spring, of beginnings. To Klebber, it reeked of endings, of heartbreak rotting everything spring.

But the dark days had slipped away, the trees no longer brooding, the sun no longer rolling recklessly toward the solstice. Winter had retreated, leaving behind no snow, no sleet, or snarling winds to bite the words. It was spring, the rebirth of something new, and yet this crippling unease in his chest remained. The words were lodged in his throat, begging to be said, a muted weight, a dun-colored stillness that stifled him inward. Klebber had to say it; he just had to.

But then, the words struggled to come out.

Why?

Because he was about to ask Dennis if he’d been recently engaged or if he’d been planning to propose to his boyfriend just when Dennis noticed him scowling in the air. "Something wrong?"

"No. Um…I shouldn’t have come."

"You look good," Dennis said, perhaps hastily. "I’m sorry. You look uncomfortable. I didn’t mean—"

"You too," Klebber responded too fast as well, his gaze sweeping over Dennis, who stood there in his typical corporate getup, a business suit sharp enough that would put him into a board meeting, while Klebber, in his loose, casual layers, looked like he would backpack in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

When Dennis showed up unannounced three months ago, he looked leaner then, his frame drawn tight, his swollen arms had shrunk, his face held a commanding exhaustion that he’d been overworking himself. Frazzled, older somehow, he’d said he’d lost two million in crypto. But Klebber knew that Dennis had more than $50 billion of assets and eighty more, undisclosed, that he wouldn’t blink at such a loss of mere millions. No, it wasn’t the money. It was something else. The proof had been etched into Dennis’s body—he had abs, carved out like a warning sign. A man doesn’t get that fit unless he’s chasing something, or running from it.

In the years they had been together, he never did go to the gym with an empty stomach. Dennis had never gone to work without eating the meals he’d packed for him. Klebber had always cooked for the big man, with much ardor, diligence, and affection; even through exhaustion, Klebber always fed Dennis.

"Hey, you good?" Dennis asked, his brow creased with worry.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, just lost in thought for a sec."

Dennis leaned forward. "Alright, but I gotta ask something. Don’t get pissed, okay? I’d rather not get choked out by your Jiu-jitsu moves."

"Relax, I’m retired. I don’t teach anymore. I still practice, though. But, man, I’m swamped most of the time—culinary school, home, sleep, repeat. That’s my life now."

"I know," Dennis said, shrugging.

"So you’ve got your spies on me, huh? I know about the bodyguards. How long have they been tailing me?"

"Since the day you left," Dennis admitted. "You know I’ll never stop looking out for you. Never…" Then his smile turned to tease. "It kinda’ doesn’t help that you still look like that, even after retiring. When I saw you at your school, I thought, ‘Finally, he’s probably let himself go, right? Maybe he’s turned into some round little chef.’ But no, still fucking gorgeous. Like, I was hoping you’d end up some basement-dwelling incel, but nope. You had to ruin my revenge fantasy after breaking my heart, huh?"

Klebber exhaled, his voice cracked just enough to betray him. He then proffered a fake smile, the truth being that he did break the big man’s heart. "I’m sorry. I know you were with someone, and I still...I still forced you to sleep with me that night. Unresolved feelings, you know? I couldn’t stop myself."

Dennis looked at him, quiet for a beat too long, before he sighed and reached for his hand. "Yeah, well, you’ve always been a pain in my ass. So please—don’t do that. You didn’t force me. We’re both adults. I knew what I was doing and chose to do it anyway. That’s on me." The blond saw through it; Dennis, ever the kind one, was always ready to shoulder the weight. The big man then sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on the blond, and asked, "Anyway, um, did you—did you bulk up? Gain weight? Like, are you hitting the gym or something? You look all muscley since the last time I saw you. Three months ago, right?"

"Are you calling me fat?" Klebber asked, tilting his coffee mug for a slow sip.

"So now you’re talking to me because I hurt your feelings?"

"Didn’t you accuse me of the same thing when we first met, that I called you fat? You were so mad," Klebber said, snickering. "You looked adorable, honestly. Like I’d actually crushed your feelings."

"For the record," Dennis said, his tone mock-serious, "and I’ll say this as many times as it takes—I’m six-foot-eight, 203 centimeters tall, I work out, and I am not overweight. Alright?"

"But what’s with the mustache? Are you planning on going into porn?"

The big man frowned. "What’s wrong with my mustache?"

"Very daddy," Klebber teased, before cutting him off with a laugh. "I’m joking. But your boyfriend might not like you making banter with your ex. I read online he’s very jealous."

"About that—" Dennis began, but Klebber interrupted.

"I’m here to say yes." Dennis blinked, caught off guard. Klebber’s gaze flicked to his ring finger, the platinum band glinting there, a silent confirmation of the rumors. "I’m saying yes to the documentary. It should be fun, right?"

"So you’re okay reliving everything?"

"Yes. Aren’t you?"

"They’ll ask us very personal questions again. Would you be okay with that?"

"Dennis, I didn’t fly a thousand miles if I haven’t thought about it. I’m a hundred percent sure."

A pause hung between them, heavy as the past. "Ok, I just want to make sure you’ll be okay because they’ll be asking about, you know, that day," Dennis said, but his voice faltered. "But are you really, really sure?"

"Dennis, you and I both know this will be the last time we see each other. Why not make it fun trying to remember the past, right?"

Dennis’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—regret, resistance—crossing his face. "Oh, so you’ve made up your mind," he murmured.

"Haven’t you?" Klebber countered, taking a quick peek at his ring.

Dennis followed the blue eyes that were staring at his ring finger, confusion clouding his features. As though a lock was unpicked, he looked away, smiled, and hid his hands in his pocket. Then, with a sudden resolve, he stood. "I’ll show you something," he said, striding toward the elevators. Minutes later, he returned with a laptop in hand. He placed it on the table and slid it toward Klebber. "Press play."

Klebber was finishing his coffee when he said, "What is this?"

The big man moved behind the blond and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It’s our first documentary. They gave me that copy that I've been telling you about. Because I want to convince you that this shouldn’t be our last time together."

"But why?" The blond said, his fingers skimming the play button.

"You’ll know why," said Dennis, pushing down his finger before the video began to play.

-o-0-O-0-o-

NETFLIX DOCUMENTARY: THE LONGEST THIRD DATE, PICTURE LOCK

PRODUCTION DATE: YEAR 2022 (POST-COVID19)

LOCATION: NETFLIX STUDIOS, NY OFFICE, 888 BROADWAY, NEW YORK

EPISODE 1:

—A red 'Letter N' spreads into a rainbow of colors.

—In the middle of the studio, a blue partition cuts the space. The acoustic ceiling hangs low. Just in front of the divider, a chartreuse leather couch sits with a floor lamp standing sentinel to the left and three potted areca palms keeping it company. On either side, corner tables rise up, stacked circles of marble. The director's voice breaks the stillness: "Quiet, please," as though trying to hush the very air.

Another voice follows: "Take one, mark."

The screen shifts, and there’s a man now, center stage on that couch, guitar in hand. He begins to play, and it’s Lucas Imbiriba's Malagueña, every pluck weaving through the room, richer and fuller notes. The sound, breathing life into the space.

The camera zooms in, focusing on the guitar player’s face. Dark, wavy hair falls over his shoulders. On the other half of the screen, a blond man blinks into the lens; his eyes—a blue so pale it almost burns the frame. And as the shot pulls back, you see him—chiseled features, blonde cropped hair, a nose straight as a line, olive skin that catches the light. He blinks again, that smile curving up at the corners, as though playing a seductive game only he knows.

Back to the guitar player, locks on his hazel-brown eyes, long, dark lashes brushing down as he closes them. His fingers dance across the strings, possessed by some spirit only he can hear, plucking out the intro with his strumming. The scene fades, the music echoing into a dark, bluish void, and then the words flash across the screen.:

A Netflix Documentary…

—The percussion kicks in, quickening the pulse, fingers tapping the guitar base like a heartbeat, the rhythm driving forward, flamenco-inspired and fierce:

ITV America in association with CIVILIAN 7 ENTERTAINMENT

—As the music fades, the beat shifts, morphing into an upbeat summer vibe. The screen lights up with a tall brunette, his hair tied back in a manbun, lounging on the right side of a leather couch. Wearing a pink bomber jacket, black shirt, white pants, and yellow sneakers—legs splayed wide, he leans forward with his notorious grin.

Next to him, a shorter blond guy, strikingly gorgeous, and legs crossed. He fiddles with his black sweatshirt and dark denims, then shoots a smile straight at the camera, looking cool and sexy.

KLEBBER: Hold up, I’ve got a thread stuck. This drives me nuts. [The blond, still smiling, plucks at a loose thread on his jeans.]

—In the background, the director calls out, "Greg, can you double-check our marks?"

DENNIS: I was on time, right? I mean, I was super on time. [The camera pans to Dennis Ellison, the big man with the manbun, his face lights up with a playful grin.] Not for my dates with Kleb, but today, I was on time.

—The screen shifts to Klebber Toledo, the shorter blond man, catching his laid-back vibe.

PRODUCER: So, how did you two meet?

KLEBBER: Dennis and I met on a dating app, Tinge.

DENNIS: I swiped right, finally breaking my streak of 58 unremarkable, half-naked dudes.

—The screen flashes to Klebber’s Tinge profile pics.

DENNIS: He had a surfing pic, so at least I got to see his abs.

PRODUCER: And…?

—Laughter bubbles up; the crew can’t help but giggle.

DENNIS: [He bites his lower lip, sinking into the couch, hands covering his face like he’s trying to hide from the truth.] Alright, I admit it, he's hot—really hot. Blond, tanned, a smile that could stop traffic, and the guy knows how to surf. Who wouldn’t swipe on that? I was looking for someone fun—someone to travel with and go on adventures with. That was the deal; it was my top priority. So yeah, I swiped, and then it was just this waiting game, hoping he’d swipe back.

—Dennis’s Tinge profile pops up on the screen.

KLEBBER: I couldn’t figure him out at first. Every photo was like a different version of the guy. One minute he’s on the beach with a ukulele, then he’s at some fancy party, champagne in hand. Then he’s DJing at a club, getting kissed on the lips by a bearded dude in a nurse's outfit, mistletoe hanging above. And yeah, there’s even a shot where he’s getting smooched on the cheek by Chris Evans. His profile was wild, man.

PRODUCER: Did you ever think he was a fuckboi? [The question hangs in the air, triggering laughter in the studio.] You called him a fuckboi the first time you met.

KLEBBER: Yeah, I did. I mean, come on, look at him. Tall, dark hair, and that goofy smile, like he’s the naughtiest kid in the school photo lineup. I figured he probably had a line of guys he was sleeping with when we met. [He laughs.]

PRODUCER: Did he?

KLEBBER: I don’t know. He just kept laughing whenever I’d ask. Now that I think about it, his laugh used to drive me crazy.

PRODUCER: Still does?

KLEBBER: Nah. But he claims my snoring drives him nuts, so we’re even. Though I’m pretty sure he secretly likes it.

PRODUCER: So what made you swipe back?

KLEBBER: There was this one answer on Dennis's profile—he wrote that he was looking for a partner to complement his lifestyle.

PRODUCER: What’s wrong with that?

KLEBBER: I’m like, this guy’s looking for a life partner? Definitely not for me. I was just out to have some fun, nothing serious. I’d just come out of a three-year relationship, so I wasn’t looking for anything deep. But then I saw this photo of him holding his best friend’s kid, with that ridiculous grin on his face. [He smiles, caught in the memory.] That picture stuck with me. It stood out from all the party shots. And this little voice in my head was like, 'This is the real Dennis. Just give it a shot. Go for a test run.’ So I swiped him.

—The screen shows their profiles matching.

DENNIS: And then…oh, you matched. Well, I had to say something, right? I grabbed my phone and typed out 'hey gorgeous,’ smiley face. [He grins.] That was it. I never could’ve guessed what was coming next. But we matched, and we started talking. I guess the next step was to go on a date. [He snorts a laugh.] Well, might as well.

-o-0-O-0-o-