Romantic Comedy, page 20
Because Jerry was not a texter, I emailed to tell him I’d made it to Albuquerque. Then I put on a mask, left my room, hurried through the lobby—I passed a lone family carrying camping gear—and stood beneath the porte cochere inserting my earbuds. The sun had set, but the western sky was still faintly orange. When I called Noah, he said, “How was your dinner?”
“Thanks to your care package, delicious, and now I’m walking around the parking lot to get some air. How are you?”
“I’m trying to look at my house through your eyes to see if there’s anything I should hide. Also, Margit is about to order groceries. You drink grapefruit seltzer water and put oat milk in your coffee, right?”
“As long as you don’t have a Confederate flag, we’re good. And yes.”
“Even though Jerry thinks oat milk is weird.”
“Yes. Even though Jerry thinks it’s weird.” Hearing Noah say Jerry’s name, Noah knowing who Jerry was, still was both odd and sweet.
“One other thing along these lines, the thing I mentioned that we should discuss—do you remember that I don’t keep alcohol in my house? Are you okay with that?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Please don’t say it’s okay just to be polite. I’m being honest that not having wine or whatever in the house is my preference, but I’m sure we can figure something out if that feels too extreme to you. When I have friends over, they bring stuff and take it when they go, so it’s not like I’ve banned it on the premises.”
I was quiet for a few seconds before saying, “I’m honestly okay with it. If it was all the same to you, then sure, I’d have a drink when I get there, just because—well—not to sound dorky, but I’m a little nervous. But not having a drink isn’t a big sacrifice.” I thought, not for the first time, that plainly expressing your feelings about fraught topics was significantly harder than writing banter between imaginary characters.
“Will you tell me if that changes?” Noah said.
“The amount I’d want a drink is less than the amount I want it to be a non-issue for you,” I said. “But yes, I will.”
“Thank you, Sally, seriously. And last housekeeping item: My house is a little hard to find, up a bunch of winding roads, and I wonder if I should meet you in the parking lot of this shopping center and lead you back.”
“Oh, I can find my way. Thanks, though.” I felt the most anxious about the first seconds and moments in each other’s presence. Though I’d told him in an email that I thought our interactions at TNO meant we already knew what it was like to be in the same room, I’d conveyed that sentiment when being in the same room again had still been hypothetical. Now that I was halfway to L.A., I was less sure. And wasn’t meeting in a parking lot likelier to only increase the awkwardness?
“Let me know if you reconsider. Once you’ve gotten onto the 101, it’ll be about twenty minutes to Topanga Canyon Boulevard, and things are more twisty-turny the farther south you get. When you really start to think you’re in the wrong place, it means you’re almost to my house.”
“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
He laughed. “There’s a stone wall along the property, then there’s a gate in front of the driveway. Just pull up to the intercom, and after the gate opens, you go up the hill and I’ll be waiting for you in front of the house.”
Was this the moment to mention that I’d googled his house and the terra-cotta tiles in the front hall were lovely? Perhaps not.
“One other thing, in the interest of full disclosure,” he said. “If you change your mind about meeting at that shopping center, there’s a chance of paparazzi in the parking lot. They like to lurk outside the fancy grocery store. I’m assuming you’re kind of used to that with your TNO friends, but I wouldn’t want you to be caught off guard.”
“Okay.” A jitteriness swelled in my stomach, distinct from the swoony anticipation of seeing him; this jitteriness was sour.
“It seems like they’re there less during the pandemic, but you never know.”
I was passing the back of the Hampton Inn at this point; the curtains were closed in most rooms. In front of me, the mountains had turned black. According to my phone, it was seventy-eight degrees—already cooler than when I’d checked in and dry in a way that contrasted favorably to my last full day in Kansas City, when the temperature had reached a moist ninety-six degrees. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Would it be easier if I stay at a hotel?”
Slowly, after a silence, Noah said, “Easier in what way?”
“Logistically? I don’t know.”
“Would you be more comfortable in a hotel?”
Why had I introduced this possibility? What was wrong with me? It was almost like getting through the alcohol discussion unscathed had set me up for subsequent failure, like I was incapable of not somehow botching things. “I think it would be, uh—less fun?” I said. “But I also don’t want to impose.”
“I think it would be much less fun if you stay in a hotel,” he said. “And just so you know, I have plenty of bedrooms so however you want to handle that—like, not to assume anything.”
Surely there was some perfect, clever way to respond, some line that would make the conversation upbeat again instead of clumsy, that would charmingly convey that I appreciated his chivalry but very much hoped he wanted to share a bed. And if I’d had a day or two to come up with that line, or if I’d been writing it in a sketch for someone else, like Viv or Henrietta, I was pretty sure I could have figured out what it was. But as myself, in real time, I was tongue-tied. After a few seconds, I said, “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Again, there was a second or two of silence, but his voice was warm when he said, “You know how you said you’re a little nervous? I’m a lot nervous.”
“Yeah, right.”
“How could I not be? TNO’s star writer is coming to visit me.”
“Are you more or less nervous than when you last performed at MSG?”
“Way more,” he said, and we both laughed. It was a belated realization to have, but it occurred to me that perhaps this was how grown-up conversations worked—not that your communication didn’t falter, but that you both made good-faith attempts to rectify things after it had.
* * *
—
In the morning, I woke at five, before the alarm on my phone went off, and even with my scrupulous showering and additional depilation, I was back on the highway by six. The sun rose behind me as I drove, casting a pink light on the land and vegetation on either side of the road. Because it was eight in New York, and because the highway was almost unsettlingly empty, I called Viv.
“Has the booty train left the station?” she asked.
“It’s barreling toward L.A. at seventy-five miles an hour, and I think I might have a panic attack.”
“Right now?”
“No, I’ll probably wait until I get to California. How was the massage lesson?”
“We both kept it in our pants,” Viv said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Viv had hired a doula to attend her delivery, a silver-haired sixtysomething woman named Gloria, and the previous night Gloria had provided a perineal massage tutorial over Zoom. In advance, Viv and I had speculated about whether Gloria planned to show her perineum to Viv or expected Viv to show hers.
“Did she use an anatomically correct mannequin?” I asked.
“She used a piece of paper and a pen. But speaking of perineal exploration, when do you get to Noah’s?”
“Late afternoon or early evening.”
“And why are you going to have a panic attack?”
“Real life is just awkward,” I said. “What if he finds me boring?”
“What if you find him boring? By the way, I’m boiling eggs, and you’re coming along with me now from the bedroom to the kitchen. You know what these eggs are?”
“Free-range organic?”
“They’re my second breakfast.”
“Congratulations.”
I could hear a sort of shifting and rustling in the background, then Viv said, “Theo thinks you put the eggs in before you bring the water to a boil, but they’re so much better when you boil the water then put in the eggs.”
“I only make scrambled eggs, so I’m Switzerland here.”
“Have you heard Bianca is getting fired? I got a text from Tony last night.”
“Oh, that sucks,” I said. “Patrick told me Elliot told him the retreat definitely isn’t happening this year.” This was an annual TNO getaway at a resort in the Catskills prior to the first show week, and it was meant to foster professional unity while invariably resulting in even more cliquish behavior than happened in the studio.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Viv said. “So is the thing you’re worried about pooping at Noah’s house?”
“Did I already tell you that?”
“Sally, I’ve known you for a long time.”
The rule I’d imposed on myself after Noah and I had started emailing, but even before he’d announced how much he trusted me, was No forwarding and no screenshots. I could summarize to Viv and Henrietta what was happening, and certainly I could editorialize about my many, many feelings, but I couldn’t show them anything, nor could I share any truly personal details that Noah revealed to me about himself.
I said, “What if because I’ve written sketches about diarrhea and BO, he assumes I’m comfortable with diarrhea and BO?”
“I don’t think he’s that much of a psychological simpleton.”
“But we’ve never discussed that stuff.”
“Really? While writing long, romantic emails about your yearnings and your inner souls, that didn’t come up? I’m shocked. Okay, here’s what you do. When you’re on the toilet, as soon as the doodie comes out, like the second it hits the water, you flush. You might have to flush a few times, but that way, it doesn’t stick to the bowl as much and you stink up the bathroom less.”
“Is that true?”
“It’s probably moot because he must live in a mansion with a million bathrooms. I’m giving you tips from when I’d go home with guys who lived in studios, but you’ll be pooping half a mile away from Noah.”
“Pooping under the same roof as a guy you like is a state of mind.” Then I said, “What if I get there and he’s like, ‘I so value our robust platonic friendship’?”
“Then you platonically shake his hand, tell him good luck, rent a sweet little place on the beach, and get on Tinder.” A timer beeped, and she added, “But since he unambiguously told you he’s attracted to you, I’d be surprised.”
“Are those your eggs?”
“Those are my eggs. Take deep breaths and keep me posted.”
It was outside of Flagstaff, Arizona, five hours into the drive, that I realized how I should have replied when Noah had said “Not to assume anything” about sharing a bed. In a jaunty tone, I should have said, “Assume away!”
* * *
—
The gas station in Canoga Park, California, was, according to the directions on my phone, 10.3 miles and twenty-four minutes from Noah’s house. It was a little after five Pacific time, a dry and sunny seventy-four degrees, and the stretch where I’d stopped didn’t look so different from strip malls in Kansas City except for the palm trees lining the road. After I’d filled the tank, as I walked toward the entrance of the convenience store, my heart pounded and my entire body shook. Although I’d believed myself to be nervous when I’d spoken to Noah by phone the first time, and also when we’d first facetimed, those episodes seemed, in retrospect, quaintly mild. For Christ’s sake, Noah was 10.3 miles away!
Outside the doors of the convenience store, I put on my mask. Inside, I found the bathroom, peed voluminously and washed my hands vigorously, then set my toiletry kit on the (germy? or recently cleaned?) counter by the sink. I removed my mask, brushed my teeth approximately three times more thoroughly than I normally did, rinsed my mouth with mouthwash from a travel-sized bottle I’d bought at a drugstore in Kansas City two days before, applied lip balm, and put my mask back on. Holding my travel-sized deodorant, my hand shook so intensely that I almost missed my armpit on the first try. I reminded myself of someone, and then I realized it was Sugar during a thunderstorm.
I had decided ahead of time that I’d change every article of clothing, even my underwear and bra, or especially my underwear and bra. I did so inside a stall, standing on top of my sneakers while trying to avoid setting my socked feet against the bare floor. After I was wearing my favorite and most flattering black T-shirt and cropped jeans, as my last act of transformation, I bent to peel off my socks and stepped into black sandals. My feet weren’t horrifically sweaty, nor were they daisy fresh. I’d cleanse them with disinfectant wipes in the car, I decided, and wished that being aware of my own ridiculousness could somehow decrease my ridiculousness.
There was nothing left to do except go see Noah. I regarded myself once more in the gas station mirror and thought, as I hadn’t for years, of what my mother had said after I’d repeated Elliot’s line about confusing the romance of comedy with the romance of romance. First she’d said, “What a pretentious turd.” Then she’d said, “I promise that someday you’ll find the love you deserve, but it might not be when or how you’re expecting it.”
As I left the bathroom and passed the refrigerators of soda and iced tea and bottled water behind their clear glass doors, I squinted in uncertainty—could it be?—and then, under my mask, I couldn’t help laughing. It wasn’t that loud, but it was unmistakable: Through the store’s sound system, a Muzak version of “Making Love in July” was playing.
* * *
—
It was true that as I entered Topanga Canyon, I quickly felt as if I were in the middle of nowhere, in a way that was beautiful and might, under other circumstances, have been calming. The winding two-lane road appeared far more rural than a place less than an hour from downtown L.A. had any right to. It led me past the craggy Santa Monica mountains on one side and steeply sloping descents on the other, past thickets of chaparral and sandstone outcroppings and the occasional house built into the tree-filled hillsides. Turning south, I caught my first glimpse of the hazy turquoise of the Pacific Ocean. It disappeared and reappeared as the road curved.
After fifteen minutes, I made a sharp right. I was by this point not sure my heart could beat any faster without it qualifying as a medical event. There was then the stone wall, the gate, and the driveway behind it, which rose up a hill of scrub and trees in such a way that it hid the house. I was so nervous that when I braked and tried to ease up to the intercom at the gate, I missed by about five feet. I backed out and tried again. Extending my left arm out the window, I pressed a silver button, and Noah’s voice—as opposed to the voice of some manservant—said, “Hi there, Sally. Gate’s opening now.” Atop stone columns flanking the gate, I noticed video cameras, and I felt the same uneasiness I had when Noah had mentioned paparazzi in the grocery store parking lot. The gate opened, and I drove onto the property.
I’d ascended perhaps 150 feet when the land leveled off and the house appeared, the same sprawling stucco hacienda I’d seen online. The real-life fact of it reminded me of encountering one of the famous Monet paintings of water lilies at the Met after studying it in an art history class. Indeed—it did exist. I was still a hundred feet from the house, and a male figure was approaching the car in jeans and a teal T-shirt and a black mask, and my heart was an exploding firecracker. Even with a mask on, even from this distance, Noah was shockingly handsome.
I braked again when we were ten feet apart—Noah fucking fake-surfer Making-Love-in-July Brewster and me, Sally Milz—and my window was still open from speaking into the intercom, and my decidedly inglorious first words were “Should I be wearing a mask?”
From behind his mask, he said, “Should I not be wearing one?” Above his mask, his eyes crinkled in a way I was pretty sure meant he was smiling, and he said, “Welcome to California.”
“Should I park here or pull up by the garage?” I asked.
“You should park here because you’ve been in that car for way, way too long.” He pulled his mask down to his chin. “And I should take this off because starting now, we’re in a pod together.” He unhooked the straps from his ears and stuffed the mask into a back pocket, and the reveal of his face—well, it wasn’t as if I needed confirmation that he was very attractive, but if I did, his blue eyes were intense, and his lips were slightly puffy and framed by laugh lines, and his thick eyebrows and stubble were light brown. And, though this was hard to fathom, there was some openness in his expression and bearing that made him seem palpably, disorientingly pleased that I’d arrived.
I turned off the engine, made brief and panicked eye contact with myself in the rearview mirror, and got out, and Noah was right there, zero feet away, and our bodies were smashed together and our arms were wrapped around each other. Because he was a few inches taller, my face was pressed to his partially stubbly neck, and the feel and smell of his skin and his stubble and his whole clothed body against mine was the nicest feeling I had ever felt. It all was both comforting and exciting in a combination I hadn’t previously known existed, and we stayed like that for a long time.
And then, finally, because I was me and compelled to break the moment even as I wondered if we were about to begin kissing passionately, I pulled away and looked up at him and said, “Your directions were excellent.”
“Do you need a bathroom or some water or anything?”
“I’m okay because I stopped before I got to Topanga.” I appreciated not only his considerateness but also the unromanticness of acknowledging pee. I extended one leg. “I changed into my fancy shoes.”
