“Blow everything up meaning what?”
“Meaning check into a hotel. Or throw a bomb about me dating models so we don’t talk for two years.”
I swallowed. “I think that’s fair,” I said. “Do you know the movie term lampshading?”
“I don’t.”
“It’s when something in the plot or the logic of a film doesn’t quite make sense and the screenplay has the characters acknowledge it without resolving it. It’s a trick to reassure the audience that you’re not trying to trick them.”
“Okay.” He looked puzzled.
“I want us to stay together,” I said. “I want to be your girlfriend. And I know that if I am, your professional identity will overshadow my professional identity and Internet trolls will criticize how I look and say they can’t believe you’re with me. I can work on not caring about those things or not paying attention to them, but I can’t keep them from happening.”
“If this helps, I can remind you that Internet trolls are Internet trolls.”
“I’m going to lampshade it because I don’t know how to resolve it. But you’re worth the risk. Even I know that giving up would be a huge mistake.”
“Oh, yeah?” He was grinning. “Even you?”
“This might come out wrong, but I haven’t been sure until now if you know how to be a normal person. For a celebrity, you’re amazing. But I didn’t know if you knew how to pick up takeout or live without assistants or stay in a crappy little house with wall-to-wall carpet. And I don’t think you’ve been trying to prove yourself, but if you had, it’s clear that you’re actually a lot better at being a normal person than I am.”
“I’m always trying to prove myself to you.” He made a wry face. “But maybe I’m lucky that you underestimate me so it’s not that hard.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask—do people recognize you at Target?”
“I don’t think so. I’m a middle-aged bald dude wearing a baseball cap and a mask.”
“I think it’s only a matter of time before the mom next door realizes you’re here, if she hasn’t already. Apparently, she’s a superfan.” I pointed toward the window facing the side of the Larsens’ house.
“Did she say something?” Noah seemed unruffled.
“That she’s a superfan.” I rolled my eyes. “She’s a nice person, and I don’t think she’ll alert the media or anything like that, but I might have to develop some skills for running interference for you.”
“If people ask you for stuff from me, you can always ignore them or else refer them to Leah and let her handle it.”
“I don’t long to be your secretary, but you’re not worried that I’d ignore something important?”
“People tend to be persistent when it’s important. And they shouldn’t be reaching out through you anyway. Regarding the neighbor—”
“Charlotte.”
“Regarding Charlotte, I’m happy to meet her. I can’t be all things to all people, but the family who took care of Sugar? I’m glad to.”
“That’s very nice, and I hope you don’t come to regret it.” I’d been wiping the kitchen table, and I squeezed the rag over the sink. “Anyway,” I said, “for as long as I live, I’ll always remember that you went and bought Jerry a bedside commode.”
“Don’t forget the shower chair.”
“And the shower chair. And the portable urinal with the glow-in-the-dark cap.”
“The funny thing,” he said, “is that when you were staying at that hotel in Santa Monica, I was brainstorming about how to win you back. I was thinking about how in romantic comedies, don’t they usually end with one of the people hurrying to be reunited with the other and publicly declaring their love? Like at a party or an airport? I didn’t know I just had to buy a urinal at Target.”
“The term for that is a grand gesture.”
“I was wondering if you’d like it or hate it if I came to your hotel and, well, serenaded you. In front of other people, I mean, like from the sidewalk.”
“Good question. I think maybe I’d aspire to hate it but secretly love it.”
“Why would it be better to hate it? Because it’s cheesy?”
“Well,” I said, “I once heard a smart person point out that it’s hard to determine where the dividing line is between cheesiness and acceptable emotional extravagance.”
He grinned again. “I didn’t tell you at the time, but I know exactly where the line is. When it’s happening to other people, it’s cheesy. When it’s happening to you, it’s wonderful.”
* * *
—
I got into bed a few minutes after he did that night, wearing a T-shirt and underwear, and immediately, before I’d turned out the light, he pulled me toward him, toward his warm, muscled, bread-and-forest-smelling chest—he was wearing only boxer briefs—and it was a joy to be close to him again, so much of our skin touching. When he was on top of me, I set my hands on either side of his head, my palms against the stubble, and said, “I’ve been meaning to say this since I first got to your house, but you’re actually even better looking with your head shaved.”
He smiled a little. “Actually?” he said. “Am I?”
“It’s true, though. Your hair before—it was okay, but there was something very teenage heartthrob about it. Now you look like an adult man. In the same way that I think meeting in our late thirties made us more interesting to each other, I think you’re even more attractive now than you were twenty years ago.”
He averted his eyes for a few seconds then looked back at me. “I have a confession,” he said. “I sometimes wore hair pieces before. When I was hosting TNO, that wasn’t all my real hair.”
“Well, TNO is the world headquarters of wig wearing, so welcome to the club.” I felt conscious of not wanting to embarrass him but also not wanting to feign astonishment—not wanting to lie to him, even about something small.
“I wouldn’t say I wore a full-on wig. I just had some help.” He seemed uncharacteristically abashed. “Do you think that’s cringey?”
I shook my head. “I’m very familiar with people in the public eye doing stuff like this. And I don’t just mean on camera. But the exact way you are right now, in this moment—you couldn’t look any better.” I paused. “Given how much has been written and said about how good you look for the last two decades, do you like being told that or does it seem boring?”
With his face a few inches from mine, he smiled. “Do I like when the woman I love tells me that I look good? Yes, Sally. I like when you tell me that.”
* * *
—
Jerry’s progress could be measured by the distance he ventured from his bed: first to use the toilet in his bathroom; two days later, downstairs to the kitchen in his seersucker bathrobe; the day after that, onto the deck. He announced he wanted a hot dog for lunch one day, and while the two of us waited in the kitchen for it to boil, he said, “I hope the male nurse isn’t too expensive.”
I squinted. “Do you mean Noah?”
“Who’s Noah?” Jerry asked.
“My friend. Or, uh, my boyfriend? The guy staying in our house.”
Jerry looked equanimous, and not all that interested, as he said, “I thought his name was David.”
* * *