A horn honks somewhere on Avenue A. The upbeat tone of the Doobie Brothers song hangs incongruously in the air between them.
“I miss—” Shit. Her voice is already wobbling. It’s like when you scratch your hand on something and it doesn’t hurt until you look down and notice you’re bleeding. “I miss you. And I get that you don’t want to, like, talk, but I need you to know that…you kind of m-meant the world to me.” She manages to get it all out before stifling something that feels like a potential sob.
He puts his hand down on the metal prep table and it makes a booming sound. “I don’t want to hear about how you used to feel.” His voice sounds strained and choked. “Because you’ve been two hundred miles away and I’m still here and I’ve been here this whole time, waiting for you to just—”
“Josh—”
“I fucked things up, too. I know that. You told me you weren’t ready for a relationship and I didn’t want to hear it, so I didn’t listen. I tried to center my world around you instead of actually rebuilding my life.”
Except why is he finally “rebuilding” with Radhya? Why is that fair? How is it possible that these two people who spent the last six years resenting each other can find common ground in cutting Ari out of the picture? Sometimes the more interesting person to the left is your best friend.
There’s a police siren whining in the background; he waits for it to recede into the distance before continuing. “It’s taken eight fucking months and two different therapists, but I get it now,” he says. “To me, that night felt like the beginning of something. You were so convinced it had to be the end. And that’s not something I can control through force of will.”
The lump in her throat feels like it’s pressing on her windpipe. Don’t cry. Say something.
“You’re where you’re supposed to be right now,” he continues. “And I guess I’m where…I am.” The tears start to make her vision blurry. Josh turns into a watery blob, but his voice is crystal clear. “I think”—he swallows—“I think there’s a part of me that still loves you.” There’s a pause long enough to make her hope that the next word is and. “But I’m not going to slip back into some inane conversation with you like we’re buddies. We’re not going to have any late-night phone calls anymore. I’m not your coffee date. I’m not your shoulder to cry on.” He inhales sharply. “I deserve more than that. Even if it’s not with you.”
She wants to answer. She wants to argue that he was so much more than that. But the words don’t come. He should be with someone who doesn’t make it so fucking difficult to be in love with them.
“You warned me, you know. You said we’d hurt each other. And I was so concerned with making you feel safe, it just didn’t occur to me that…” He sniffles, maybe. “You were right.”
Josh walks toward her, and for two ridiculous seconds, she thinks maybe it was all some big fake out. Like he might reach out his hand and just…
He walks right past her.
Ari watches him quietly stomp down the back hallway, leaving her in the dark kitchen.
She’s still in a liminal space, where her brain hasn’t quite processed the conversation. It feels like it might still be possible to rewind five minutes and try it again. Only she’s not sure how it could have gone differently. They’d have to take it back so much further to make any kind of meaningful revision.
It only takes a few more seconds for her brain to turn a corner into emotional torture porn.
This is the last time we’ll ever speak. This is the last time we’ll ever speak.
Yeah. That feels good and painful. The sweating, the panic setting in, the churning thoughts stabbing at her brain like a needle into the skin. Like getting a really detailed tattoo over scar tissue. All her good Josh memories getting rewritten with this one.
Ari takes a wobbly step farther back into the dining room. The shock wears off and morphs into giant waves of emotion building in her chest, unstoppable and overwhelming. She covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sobbing in case Josh can still hear. On the radio, there’s a commercial for a personal injury attorney. How fitting.
Ari’s about thirty seconds deep into the breakdown when a few familiar notes, heavy with reverb, ring out through the boom box speakers. Neil Finn launches into the first verse and it’s clearly a cruel cosmic joke that the “classic feel-good hits” DJ would put on “Don’t Dream It’s Over” at this precise moment.
27
ARI SIPS FROM A LUKEWARM bottle of Bud Light. She’s both jealous and relieved that she’s not the sweating guy at the microphone with a quivering handful of index cards.
It took two trains and a bus to get here from her sublet and she’d been relieved to find that the trip wasn’t for nothing: Gabe still hosts this open mic every Thursday evening. There’s no better setup for an apology than showing up at one of his events.
Gabe finishes reading Brad’s email and hands the phone back to her. “Did you burn that hideous blue shirt?”
“He withheld my last paycheck until I returned it.”
“And now you want to rejoin our Harold team?” He checks the timer on his phone. “Is that why you’re here?”
“You never made me perform in a button-down,” Ari says.
“Well, there is no team. Tim and Kamal left for Second City. Selina went to L.A. for pilot auditions and never came back. It’s been kind of hard to perform with only two people.”
“Gabe.” She sets the bottle down. “I’m sorry. I get that it was a sellout move, I just…needed a reset. And money.”
“The paycheck I understand.” He looks over his sign-up sheet and checks his watch. “You abandoned the group months before you left on your adventure in corporate America. You fed me some bullshit about being too busy. That was the insult. You could have just been honest.”
“You’re right.” Ari swallows hard. “Can I cash in my spousal abandonment sympathy points for another drink?”
Gabe signals the bored bartender for another round.
“The thing is,” he says, “I think you already cashed all of those in.”
She peels the label from the new beer bottle. “Why do I feel like I’ve been running laps for the entirety of my twenties, trying to make this a viable career?”
“Ari.” He looks her right in the eye, like they’re in the middle of an uncomfortable acting exercise. “You feel exhausted because you’re specifically not doing the thing that used to replenish your well. We came here to work shitty service-industry jobs so we could do that.” He gestures at the makeshift stage.
“Bombing at an open mic is some kind of reward for refilling pitchers of bottomless mimosas every Sunday?”
“No, but at this point you’re only doing the shitty service-industry part.” Gabe flashes the one-minute light at the open mic performer with the glistening forehead. “At least that guy is living his dream.”
“You’re doing a really terrible job of cheering me up,” Ari mumbles into the rim of the bottle.
“I’m not trying to cheer you up.” He takes a drink. “I’m still pissed. But let me tell you a little industry secret.” Gabe leans forward, gesturing for her to do the same. “It’s definitely not a viable career if you never actually, you know, do it.” He flicks his finger against her forehead. “It’s not even a hobby.”
“Crochet is a hobby.” She nods toward the stage. “That’s self-inflicted torture.”
“If you really want to make it up to me, I need you to do two things.” He slides off his stool. “First, LaughRiot won a grant for a series of comedy workshops for at-risk teen girls. You’re teaching every session.” He takes a long glance at the list of names on his open mic sign-up sheet. “Second, you’re up next.”
Ari plants herself more firmly on the stool. “I’m not getting up there. I don’t have any material.”
“You only need to fill seven minutes. I’ll even give you a pseudonym.” Gabe tilts his head. “You’re finally at a place in your life as a comedian where you can complain about your ex-wife. That’s the dream.”