Romantic Comedy(42)
He squinted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My heart was beating more quickly, and not in a swoony way. In a pre-combat way, like in rewrites when I steeled myself to argue with Elliot. I said, “I didn’t realize models were so educational.”
Noah’s expression was no longer confused. It was stony, and a few seconds elapsed before he said, “I thought we were just having a real conversation. Why would you say that to me?”
“Haven’t you dated a lot of models? Is that not factually correct?” He scowled—it was definitely the handsomest scowl I’d ever seen, and it was also, to an extent that I was only starting to absorb, horrifically regret-inducing—and I added, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Right,” he said.
“Sorry, but I did warn you that I’m an asshole.”
“Wow. That’s just—” He shook his head. “That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”
We looked at and away from each other with a new awkwardness, a not-fun awkwardness, while the hum of the room, which had previously been almost unnoticeable, seemed to swell. On the one hand, I desperately wished I could rewind the conversation ninety seconds and un-say those things about models. On the other hand, feeling attracted to this man, experiencing his attention—it had been stressful and confusing, not just in the bar but for the last several days, and now it seemed like that stress and confusion had run their course. I could get back to my regular non-hopeful, non-tormenting life.
“If you don’t want to accept my apology,” I heard myself say, “then I guess that’s that. It was nice to meet you or whatever.” I lifted my drink toward him in some sort of farewell salute.
He seemed deeply frustrated and maybe even angry as he said, “？‘I didn’t mean to offend you’ and ‘I told you I’m an asshole’—neither of those is an apology. I just wish—” Then he paused. Again, he shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. I guess I should be grateful that you warned me who you are before things went any further.” He tucked his hair that I knew was a wig behind his ears in a way that was oddly decisive. “So, yeah. Take care, Sally.”
And then he turned and walked away.
THE FOLLOWING DAYS
I’ll describe what happened next not chronologically, because even now the chronology is hazy to me, but in order of my awareness of the events. The first thing I was aware of was that Noah did not leave the bar immediately, but chatted briefly with a cluster of cast members, then left ten minutes later. I sought out Viv, who was talking to Dr. Theo in such a soft, intimate way that if I hadn’t been so worked up, I’d have left them alone. As I stood about fifteen feet from Noah, I watched him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if I should approach him and try to make things right; if I were drunker or more impulsive, I’d probably have attempted it, but it seemed unlikely that I’d succeed. Also, I didn’t want to overestimate the importance to him of our skirmish. Might he barely remember it by the following morning? I felt devastated and relieved when he walked away from Josh and Hakeem and Lynette, toward the exit sign at the bottom of the staircase, paused to pull out his phone and type something on it, then disappeared up the steps to the ground floor. But of course I’d already felt devastated—I’d felt that way as soon as I ruined our conversation. It was the dramatic shift in tone, the fact that I could ruin it, that allowed me to admit to myself that the dynamic between us, not just at the after-after-party but for the last six days, had had enough heft and energy to be something; it had not been nothing. If he hadn’t been famous, I’d definitely have thought he was hitting on me. Though whether we really had been about to kiss a few minutes prior—now I’d never know if I’d been shockingly correct or laughably wrong.
The second thing that happened was that the Cheesemonger sketch went viral. By Sunday night at 8 P.M. it had more than five hundred thousand views on YouTube, by Monday it had more than a million, and by Friday it had more than three million.
The third thing that happened was that a week and a half later, Noah’s tenth album was released, and when he returned to New York to promote it on both morning and late-night talk shows, he was asked repeatedly about the Cheesemonger, discussed it warmly, and never mentioned me. Even worse, he and Annabel Lily were photographed hanging out together on two separate occasions. One afternoon, they went window-shopping in SoHo, and the next day, they had dinner at a sushi restaurant in the East Village. That night, he was seen leaving her apartment around 11 P.M. It was Henrietta who alerted me, texting after the first round of photos showed up online, What are they thinking???? And then, as if I didn’t understand, Poor Danny!!!
I masochistically continued to google Noah for a few weeks, and there wasn’t any more documentation of him with Annabel. Though the photos had been accompanied by disavowals from unnamed sources, meaning their publicists （“Noah and Annabel are just old friends”）， another diner at the Japanese restaurant had noted their “flirty vibe” （“They were really enjoying each other”）， and the episodes seemed patently staged. I mean, window-shopping—did anyone do that in real life? And for fuck’s sake, just get takeout sushi! But I couldn’t have said if album promotion was the point and cruelty was the byproduct or if exploring a sincere attraction was the point and album promotion was the byproduct.