Romantic Comedy(62)
“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.