—
But by the afternoon, I was looking up how much it would cost to transport my aunt Donna’s car back to Kansas City if I flew directly from L.A. to New York. Although I didn’t usually need to be back at TNO until the last week in September, there were rumors that we’d have additional days of training for the new Covid protocols and that attendance might be staggered because of limits on how many people could be in a room at a time. Plus, I’d been away for four months; maybe it made sense to go back early, to reacclimate to the city in a pandemic. By evening, however, I’d decided that eleven years of pitch meetings—along with eleven years of Tuesday all-nighters and Wednesday read-throughs and Thursday rewrites and Friday rehearsals and, yes, even Saturday shows—was enough. I didn’t need a twelfth year. And there were more reasons I didn’t want a twelfth year than reasons I did.
I kept moving in and out of certainty and uncertainty, composure and despair. As the sun set over the ocean, a loneliness seized me that didn’t pass. By this point, it was nine in L.A. and midnight on the East Coast, and while there was a time I wouldn’t have hesitated to call Viv or Henrietta at midnight, that time had been prior to them or their wife being extremely pregnant. I really should have made more than two friends back when making friends was still possible, I thought, and then I thought, Danny.
I texted Can you talk now? and a few seconds later, he was facetiming me, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, reclined on a floral sofa. He said, “What’s shakin’, Chuckles?”
“Can you imagine Noah being my boyfriend? Not just as a pandemic hookup, as a real long-term thing.”
“Hank and Roy have always said you’re a eunuch, and I’m like, ‘Nah, man, she’s got a beating heart.’?”
“Thanks?”
“Are you in a cave right now?”
“I’m in a hotel room, and only the bathroom light is on.”
“That doesn’t sound at all depressing.” Just as I decided that reaching out to him had been a mistake, his expression turned serious. “You okay, Chuckles?”
“Not really. I didn’t have contact with Noah from the time he hosted until about a month ago, then he emailed me, then we had this emailing frenzy, then I drove out here to L.A. and we had a great time, then I ruined it. I think I want to quit TNO and stay here with him, but why should I get to be Noah’s girlfriend? What makes me deserving? And anyway, isn’t being in a relationship with a famous person kind of terrible?”
“Okay, back up. To be crystal clear, you and Noah have been banging?”
“Correct.”
“You’re asking separate questions, so let’s go in order. Why should you get to be Noah’s girlfriend? You’re in overlapping industries, you met, and obviously you hit it off if he was still thinking of you two years later. And the banging was decent?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re easy to talk to, so that covers the conversation part. It’s not necessarily more complicated than that. Next up, what makes you deserving? You’re funny, you’re cool, and you pretend to be tough but you’re a softie.”
“I’m sorry to beg for compliments, but aren’t I the least cool person you know?”
“I don’t mean I’d take advice from you on what sneakers to buy. I mean cool like having your shit together. For the isn’t-being-in-a-relationship-with-a-famous-person-terrible question—yeah, probably. Or it has some sucky parts, but all relationships have sucky parts. Here’s my question for you. Do you like him a lot or a little?”
“More than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Lots of people don’t get what they want in life. Why should I?”
“Didn’t we already cover this?”
“I think I’m better at using rage and disappointment to fuel my creativity. Happiness makes me uneasy.”
When he laughed, I said, “I wish I was kidding.”
“I know you’re not. Here’s another way of looking at it. You’re, like, forty, yeah?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“But you’ve experienced your share of hookups and relationships that didn’t work out. Elliot or whoever?”
“Who told you I had a thing for Elliot? Elliot?”
“I never reveal my sources. My point is that even if Noah is the love of your life, your batting average is still pretty bad. So is mine, and so is most people’s. Of all the couples that ever existed, most aren’t together now. You’re not together with your ex-husband. I’m not together with Annabel. I believe you that you’re bad at dating, but you can be bad at dating and still fall in love once a lifetime.”
“That logic is enticing yet very, very tenuous.”
He grinned. “I’m good at falling in love, and it makes my batting average a lot worse than yours.”
“How are things with you and Lucy?”
“Are we finished with you and Noah?”
“The fact that he’s way more attractive than I am—you really think that doesn’t matter?”
“Oh, man, I’m excited you asked me this. There are three topics I’m an authority on. You know what they are?”
I shook my head.
“The movies of Bethany Brick. The menu at the Big Wings on Forty-eighth Street. And I don’t know if you’ve heard of this, but there’s something called the Danny Horst Rule. And the amazing thing is, I’m Danny Horst.”
“Touché.”
“Chuckles, you and Noah are the ones who decide if it matters. It doesn’t seem like it matters to him so that just leaves you.”
“When you put it like that, it almost makes me sound like a self-sabotaging asshat.”
“I’m not going to say the rule doesn’t exist, but it’s like Santa Claus. It’s only real if you believe in it.”
“Well, if you’re Jewish and I’m agnostic…thank you for this, Danny.”
“Anytime, Chuckles. And things are good with me and Lucy.”
“Give my regards to Nigel.”
* * *
—
When my phone rang the next morning at seven, I again, of course, thought it was Noah, until I saw on the screen that the call was from my aunt Donna.
“Oh, Sally, Jerry isn’t doing well,” she said after I’d answered. “I think he has it.”
“You think he has—” I paused, but I already knew. “Covid?”
“On Sunday we went over there with Barbara, and we were sitting on the deck, but it started raining so we went inside. We tried to stay six feet apart, then Barbara tested positive and I’m sure it’s because her grandsons are staying with her, and Nicholas works at Starbucks.”
“When you say Jerry isn’t doing well—do you mean—what do you mean?”
“I talked to him on the phone just now, and he sounds weak and a little, well, a little disoriented. He said something about clearing snow from the driveway. Sweetheart, I want to help, but with my diabetes and Richard’s cardiomyopathy, I’m afraid it’ll get all of us. I went there this morning and rang the doorbell, hoping he’d come to the window so I could see him for myself, but he didn’t. Who’s the mother in the family next door?”