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It was freezing in Manhattan, yet there were hordes of people outside the glass windows of the ABC Studios in Times Square. I could see the cardboard signs pressed against the building: I CAME OUT TO MY PARENTS, CMBYN CHANGED MY LIFE, and the one that caught my eye—RYAN WILL YOU MARRY ME?
I thought to myself: When can I meet them? Andrew distracted me when he pointed to the proposal sign.
Andrew laughed, "They face some competition." He tapped my shoulder, "Jennifer Lawrence, really? I did not—"
"We are professionals," I paused, "how did you find out?" I was curious for a second. I could see in the corner a makeup artist half-running to me.
"Don't worry," he chuckled, "I'm not HR, and you know how close Jennifer and my missus are."
I shook my head, "What did they say?"
Before he could answer, I was attacked with powder on my face as she tried to remove the lingering shine of four hours of sleep.
"Hello," I said.
"Don't move your chin," I could smell her bubblegum, "I don't have to do much work."
Andrew smiled and said to the artist politely, "How much longer?"
"Six minutes."
He nodded and went on his phone scrolling through Twitter; he sipped from a steaming paper cup of Earl Grey tea and asked the artist, "What do you think about our color-coded sweaters? It was a director's idea."
I was so pleased with myself.
She smiled, "When Harry Met Sally or When Elio Met Oliver."
I chimed in, "Or When Disgraced Actor meets Grandma Spider-Man."
Andrew laughed and dropped some of his Earl Grey to the ground, while the artist didn't care for the joke. He got up and grabbed a napkin, saying in Italian, "Who else will be in your film?"
"You, JL, me, and don't know who will play Sean the therapist. I don't know when to release the news." My Italian was rusty, but it got its point across.
Rebecca walked in with an Americano in hand; I don't think I had ever seen her this happy, especially at this ungodly hour.
"The official number came in this morning," she said in a sharp whisper, leaning down between Andrew and me. "Ten million, one hundred and five thousand dollars. The per-theater average ticked up yesterday evening in Chicago and San Francisco."
Andrew stretched his hands out, "Madness. My God."
I sat there quietly, listening to the loud footsteps coming from the hallway. The makeup artist said, "Me and my girlfriend contributed half of that."
I smiled back, "What's your name? Sorry."
"Nichole."
"Well, Nichole. I will never wash away this makeup from my face ever again." I smirked, "Rebecca, find me a ghost role, please. Are they going to do a sequel of Casper?"
Andrew asked, "Did you see the sequel to Ghost Rider? Ghost Rider peed fire in the film." He turned to my gaze.
I said, "More like he pissed away $20 million of Sony's budget."
The door to the green room swung open, and the floor manager popped his head in, "Is everyone ready?"
Nichole tugged on my shoulder one more time, "Good luck."
"Thanks," I said, rising from the chair. Andrew did the same and smoothed down his charcoal sweater. "Your fans might storm the building."
I whispered to him, "I hope they take you hostage. I mean Spider-Man is worth way more."
"If you bring up Spider-Man in this interview one more time, I—"
I let out a huge laugh and gave him my pinky, "No, not with these rumours."
We walked backstage, where dozens of monitors glowed with live graphics. Watching the screens, Andrew glanced down at our matching outfits and muttered, "Why do we have to wear this? Luca couldn't even make it."
I patted his shoulder, "It wasn't Luca's idea. It was mine."
"What!?"
Overhead on the backstage monitors, the segment began. The floor director held up a hand, and Robin Roberts flashed her million-watt smile: "Welcome back to Good Morning America. If you've stepped anywhere near a movie theater or social media this past weekend, you know that the holiday box office has a new sensation."
The screen behind her cut to a clip of Crema: Andrew was behind me as we biked along that familiar road.
Watching the feed from the wings, I nudged Andrew, in a playful mood. "God, you were so out of breath. I thought you were in better shape for all that superhero training."
Andrew appreciated the prank and whispered back, "If I remember correctly, you got sunburnt like ten times. You were turning into a peach; in that scene, I thought you were touching yourself." He was pleased with himself.
The studio monitors lit up with glowing blurbs: A MASTERPIECE, TIME-STOPPING, THE PERFORMANCE OF THE YEAR.
George Stephanopoulos picked up, "Luca Guadagnino's Call Me by Your Name has completely shattered specialty box office records. Joining us live in the studio are its two stars: Andrew Garfield and Ryan Stone. Good morning, guys!"
"Standby, three, two…" the floor director pointed an urgent finger, cueing us onto the stage.
The applause from the small studio audience swelled as Andrew and I walked out. We both shook hands with George and exchanged warm, double-cheek kisses with Robin before sinking into the armchairs across from them.
"Good morning," Andrew beamed, leaning forward with that easy, grounded charm that made him such a compelling actor.
I echoed, "Good morning."
Robin gestured out toward the cheering crowd outside the window, "This is all for you two. For you and the film."
"It's such a blessing," I said, glancing over at Andrew with a smirk. "In fact, to show his appreciation, Andrew agreed to do the 'Gangnam Style' dance live on the plaza after this segment."
The hosts burst into laughter, and Andrew shook his head, "I did not say that. Actually, Ryan agreed that for every proposal sign out there, he'd marry the person on the spot."
I held my hands up, "Nope."
Robin leaned back against her desk, "Don't start making promises you two can't keep! We can't stop a stampede of proposals in Times Square."
I smiled, "Yeah. I mean, we survived the Mayan apocalypse on Friday. We can handle some fans."
"They're there for you," Andrew said, whispering to me.
Robin, mindful of the time, said, "You two must miss the Italian weather?"
We both nodded, "Yes. I don't know how Ryan's fans are waiting out there in the cold."
George leaned in, "I mean, you must understand, for this film to get this much attention, in limited release, must be quite extraordinary."
"It's all because of this guy," I pointed to Andrew. "Especially that dance scene."
Robin said, "Yes, it has gone viral and shows you can really bust a move."
"Oh no," Andrew put his hand on his forehead.
Behind us, a monitor played the clip of Andrew dancing in the film with his hands up. I tried to hold back my laughter, "What was it like to film?"
"Alright, I am never coming back.
I laughed, and Andrew continued, "By the way, filming a dance scene is actually horrific. Because there is no music. It's dead silent."
Robin said, "No music?"
"There's nothing, because they have to record audio. So I'm jumping around like some fool and everyone is staring at you."
George chimed in, "Can we help you recover by showing you a different clip?"
I half-yelled, "No, let's keep talking about this!"
Andrew tried to put his hand over my mouth, but I dodged him as the monitor switched to the scene of Andrew saying, "You're right in the case for Greek words, but for the case for apricot…"
I playfully dozed off, and applause rang out from the crew for the scene.
Robin chimed in, "And don't forget, it's your turn too."
Andrew closed his fist and said, "Yes."
The final scene at the fireplace played with Stevens' song echoing through the studio, and the room grew quiet.
After it finished, I said, "Every time I see that scene, I almost cry thinking about that."
Andrew nodded, "And that's Luca's purpose. It's kind of evil."
George and Robin both looked at the camera. Robin said, "We are gonna be a bit evil too. Because after this break, Ryan and Andrew will step into the kitchen with Chef Mario to whip up an authentic Italian feast this holiday season! Grab your aprons!"
The red light on Camera One went dark.
"And we're to commercial! Two minutes," the floor director said into his headset.
We both leaned into each other, "Who said we were going to cook?"
I was actually a bit nervous. "We didn't learn how to cook in the film. We were served it."
Andrew laughed, and a production assistant brought us matching, oversized red linen aprons with the yellow GMA sunshine logo.
George laughed, "Don't worry, you guys are still matching."
We were guided across the studio floor, and the demo kitchen was an explosion of bright holiday props: copper pots under the key lights, fresh basil, garlic bulbs, and a polished bowl of ripe fruit. We were in front of a live audience—full of young, college aged women—and Andrew and I awkwardly waved to them.
Standing behind the center island was Mario Batali, a mountain of a man in his signature orange Crocs, his red ponytail tucked neatly under a band.
"Boys! Hello," Batali greeted us with big handshakes. "Luca got you two skinny, but now, for a truly authentic portrayal, you two must get fat!"
I felt like I was in some cartoon.
"Thirty seconds to air! In positions!" the stage manager shouted, counting down with his fingers from five.
"Welcome back to GMA! If you've seen Call Me by Your Name, you know the Italian countryside is a character in itself. Full of fresh ingredients, lazy summer lunches, and, of course, fruit." Robin paused, throwing a knowing glance toward the camera that drew an immediate ripple of giggles from the live audience. "Now, the producers made me swear we wouldn't do anything crazy with the produce this morning, but Chef Mario has put together a menu straight from the Perlman villa."
"That's right, Robin," Batali took over. "We're keeping it pure Lombardy sex appeal. We've got fresh tagliatelle with winter herbs and browned butter, and for dessert, a rustic caramelized peach and apricot crostata. But I'm not doing the heavy lifting. I've got Spider-Man and Elio on sous-chef duty."
"Don't let Andrew near open flames," I said into my mic. "He barely survived making a cup of Earl Grey backstage." The live audience burst into laughter.
"Garfield, you're on the dough," Batali instructed, dumping a pale mound onto the floured board. "I want you feeding it through the roller. Treat it like a love scene."
I couldn't control my laughter and Andrew blushed. I said, "Yeah, but take your time."
"Ryan," Batali turned to me. "The crostata filling needs fruit. I need these peaches halved."
I reached for the knife, and as I did, the studio lights caught my hands, which were still bruised from the drum sessions on Whiplash.
Before Batali asked, I said, "I punched Andrew backstage, I—"
Andrew, who was rolling the dough, said, "Yes, you can't give him a knife."
For the rest of the cooking segment, the studio was pure chaos. Andrew managed to tear the pasta sheet in half twice, while Robin had to hold onto the counter from laughing so hard. Throughout the whole time, I was making fun of Andrew for being so bad at cooking.
After we left the studio, the winter chill hit us all at once. Hundreds of fans spilled along the sidewalk of West 66th, waving CMBYN posters against the barricades.
Right at the center of the crowd stood a girl in a thick green beanie. She clutched a high-end Canon DSLR and a cardboard sign that read: @RyanStoneDaily.
I walked toward her. "So nice to meet you!"
She gasped, clutching the camera to her chest. "Ryan. Hi. I'm Genesis."
"I know who you are!" I smiled. She looked pale for a second, almost faint—reminding me of that old story about George Clooney catching a fainting fan mid-sentence and continuing on his conversation.
"Thank you so much for backing me up!"
Security already had a firm hand on my shoulder, urging me toward the curb. I quickly scribbled across the glossy corner of her poster, added a quick private handle, and gave her a nod.
We ducked inside the black Suburban and collapsed back against the headrests as the heavy doors slammed shut.
Andrew wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead and smiled. "We've got time to kill tonight."
"No, no—"
"Come on! I want to see New York nightlife!"
I looked around the leather interior, suddenly noticing the empty seat beside me. "Where did Rebecca go?"
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "She left early, sir. Said she had studio calls."
I reached into my coat for my phone and fired off a quick text: Anything I need to do tonight?
Her reply hit the screen ten seconds later: What the hell was that mob?
Before I could type a reply, a follow-up popped up: No. You're free.
I locked the phone and turned over to Andrew, who was already grinning at me from the corner of the seat.
"I think I know a spot."
Happy Halloween