The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood!-Chapter 22: A Fragile Friendship

"He walks funny."
"Is he disabled?"
As he got out of the taxi and made his way toward the restaurant, Michael could hear the whispers of passersby, who were staring at him in bewilderment. He had thought that after a night's rest, everything would be fine, which was why he had invited Matthew to dinner. But the night had passed, and his rear end still ached, especially when he walked. If he moved even a little faster, a searing pain shot through him, as if a drill were boring into his flesh.
But he had come anyway, driven by the thought of how devastated Matthew Horner would be to learn that the role hadn't gone to him.
With his legs spread apart, his buttocks slightly clenched, and his pace deliberately slow, Michael entered the restaurant.
"Hello and welcome!" a blonde waitress greeted him.
Michael glanced past the woman, peered inside, and said, "I have an appointment with someone. Is Matthew Horner here yet?"
The short walk had caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead from the pain, and he was anxious to find a place to sit down, which he knew would bring some relief.
The waitress made an inviting gesture and led the way. "Mr. Matthew Horner is over there."
Michael walked with a hunched posture, and many of the restaurant's patrons cast curious glances at his strange gait.
"Damn it," Michael muttered under his breath, unnerved by the stares. "That bastard. Why couldn't he have picked a less crowded, quieter restaurant?"
"Michael," Matthew called out, spotting him and raising a hand. "Over here, I'm here."
At the thought of finally being able to sit and rest, Michael couldn't help but quicken his pace.
Seeing Michael's unusual walk, Matthew immediately guessed that he was still unwell and deliberately stood up, asking with feigned concern, "What happened?"
Common sense dictated that a normal man who had been with another man would never want anyone else to find out.
Sure enough, Michael forced a casual expression onto his face. "It's nothing. I just twisted my ankle getting off the bus."
"Quick, sit down," Matthew urged, pulling out a chair for him.
Michael’s eyes fell on the chair, and he felt his eyelids twitch. It was solid wood from top to bottom, without a single soft spot.
"Don't just stand there," Matthew said, adding in a chiding tone, "Do you want someone to take a look at you? I know a local doctor here, he—"
"No, no," Michael hastily protested. "It’s just a little sore. It’ll be fine in a bit."
Seeing Matthew's "worried" expression and sensing he was about to say more, Michael quickly moved to the front of the chair and stiffly lowered himself onto it. But the moment his backside touched the hard wooden surface, a wave of pain, just as intense as when he was walking, washed over him.
"What's wrong?" Matthew asked, watching his tormented expression.
Michael fought through the pain and forced himself to stay seated. The weight of his body pressed down, and the burning ache flared into the same sharp agony that had pierced him the night before. He instinctively shot upward.
Matthew offered again, "Why don't I take you to get it checked out?"
If he had wanted to see a doctor, Michael wouldn't have waited this long. He shook his head frantically. "I'm fine, really, I'm fine."
He had to sit down to keep Matthew from noticing anything was wrong, but the pain in his lower body was not something he could simply will away. By the time Matthew had settled back into the seat beside him, a layer of sweat had broken out on Michael's forehead.
As if oblivious, Matthew called over a waiter and placed their order.
Michael sat on the solid wood chair, the depth of his pain and suffering known only to him.
"What do you want to eat?" Matthew asked him.
Michael replied, "I'm not familiar with the menu here. You can order for me."
To this, Matthew said, "As you wish."
Flipping through the menu, he ordered several dishes, including spicy stir-fried beef tenderloin, sliced boiled pork, and mapo tofu.
The waiter took the menu and departed.
Across the table, Michael grabbed a napkin and wiped the sweat from his brow. Every second on that battered chair was an agony. If he had known, he would have brought a thick cushion with him... No, he shouldn't have come here at all!
His thoughts circled back to why he had come in the first place, and he said to Matthew, "I have it on good authority that I'll most likely be playing the male lead in the music video."
"Really?" A look of surprise flickered across Matthew's face. "That's fantastic."
Michael was stunned. This was not the reaction he had been hoping for.
Then Matthew commented, "If that's true, congratulations, Michael. You deserve the part more than anyone."
He said it with such sincerity, as if the words were coming from his closest friend.
Hearing the congratulations, Michael suddenly choked on the boastful words he had been rehearsing all evening.
"You finally made it," Matthew continued, patting Michael's shoulder with friendly but intentionally firm force. "I hope this role is the start of a stellar career for you."
"Ah," Michael cried out. What might have sounded like a response to Matthew's words was actually an involuntary yelp of pain. His body had jolted, causing his clenched buttocks to press more firmly against the chair, sending a fresh spike of agony through him.
Matthew said, with great "sincerity," "You see? Luck is finally on your side."
Michael bit his lip and nodded.
Matthew continued, patting Michael's shoulder again. "I'm willing to drop out of the audition, if Helen agrees."
Michael’s face wore a constipated expression.
Seeing how earnest Matthew was, he suddenly wondered if he had gone too far, running over here just to gloat.
Just then, their food arrived. Matthew ordered a bottle of high-quality white wine, opened it, and poured a glass for both of them.
Michael looked at Matthew, feeling a little lost. Could it be that this guy really considered him a friend?
"Matthew," he began, trying to say something, but Matthew raised his glass and extended it toward him. "Mike, you're the first friend I made since I came to Los Angeles. Let's drink to our friendship and to our future together!"
"To friendship!" Michael was genuinely moved. Despite the sharp pain in his backside, he lifted his glass and clinked it against Matthew's. "To the future!"
He downed the wine in one go.
Matthew also drained his glass, then poured another for Michael.
"Eat up," Matthew said, and Michael shoveled a mouthful of food into his mouth.
Matthew raised his glass again. "To your health!"
Michael lifted his glass and clinked it with Matthew's, finishing another glass of white wine.
Although he didn't eat much, he drank quite a bit of wine with Matthew.
He even beat Matthew to paying the bill.
His thinking was simple: since the idiot Matthew Horner still considered him a friend, perhaps he could be useful in the future—his personal connection to Helen, for instance.
As Michael paid, Matthew stood up. "Are you leaving?"
"I'll sit here for a bit," Michael said. He could feel a burning pain in his rear and, worried that Matthew might see through him, he hastily came up with an excuse. "I'm meeting a friend on another street this afternoon."
Matthew nodded and asked again, "Your injury..."
Michael waved a hand dismissively, despite the pain. "It's fine. I'll rest a little, and it'll heal."
"Alright then." Matthew waved. "See you later, Mike."
"Bye, Matthew."
Seeing Matthew turn to leave, Michael could no longer hold back. His face instantly contorted in pain, and his bottom bounced on the chair as if on springs.
"Ah!" He let out an unconscious cry.
Fortunately, he managed to cover his mouth just in time.
Even so, several people looked over curiously, and a waiter approached to ask, "Can I help you with anything, sir?"
"I..." Michael was about to say that everything was fine, but he felt the pain in his buttocks intensifying, making it seem difficult to even stand. He quickly changed his tune. "Could you call a taxi for me, please?"
The waiter replied politely, "Of course."
He first informed the front desk to call for a taxi, then helped Michael out of the restaurant.
Michael's face was completely pale. With the waiter's help, he managed to get out of the restaurant and into the taxi to head home.
He swore to himself that he would stay in bed for the next few days to recover from his injuries and not go out again.
Outside the restaurant, Matthew watched Michael's taxi drive away. He then stepped out of an alleyway with a smile, feeling that his acting skills had improved considerably after so many days of classes.
At the very least, Michael hadn't seemed to notice a thing.
Matthew thought for a moment, then took his phone from his wallet, followed by the business card Ilana had given him. He dialed the number on it.