Romantic Comedy(73)

“It should be real.” He raised his head and propped it on his left hand, his elbow just below the pillow. Our faces were a few inches apart.

I looked at a wood beam in the ceiling. “I have to tell you something. I felt so overwhelmed about staying with you that I told myself after I got here I’d only stay three days. I’ve been acting all breezy, like I’m not intimidated by this whole situation, but the truth is that I’m a super-anxious person. That’s how it’s not real.”

Kindly, he said, “Do you think I didn’t realize you’re anxious?”

“Wait, really?”

“It seems like you’ve found ways to manage it that work for you. And, I mean, coming from a recovery background, three days is impressive. Most of us just take it one day at a time.” I didn’t say anything, and he added, “Isn’t the goal to live with our demons, not to expect them to go away?”

“Also,” I said then stopped.

“Also,” he repeated.

“Sometimes when I speak, I feel like I’m writing dialogue for the character of myself. I’m impersonating a normal human when really I’m a confused freak.”

He laughed. “We’re all confused freaks. It’s just that most of us aren’t professional writers.” We made eye contact, and he said, “It seems like you’re describing what everyone does in all sorts of situations. Fake it ’til you make it. How do you think I felt the first time I performed at a big awards show? While a virgin, might I remind you.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. “In fact, we’re even, because I’ve been pretending I’m not intimidated by being around someone much smarter than I am.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” I said. “But come on.”

“You’re so terrifyingly, awesomely perceptive. That thing about writing dialogue for the character of yourself, that’s so clever. I wish I had thought of it years ago, so in interviews I could have pretended I was playing the part of a musician promoting an album.”

Wasn’t this more than I’d ever imagined I could wish for, that a kind, thoughtful, smoking-hot man would think I was terrifyingly, awesomely perceptive? That he understood how neurotic I was, and didn’t seem to mind? That he saw neediness not as annoying but as normal? Hadn’t it all seemed so unlikely that I’d genuinely made peace with never finding someone like Noah except perhaps in the pages of a screenplay I wrote?

He reached out and smoothed back my hair, which was something he did a lot. He said, “None of that means that what’s happening between us isn’t real.”

* * *

—

We’d gone for a hike in Temescal Canyon, walking a loop of just under four miles, and it was late afternoon as we returned to the trailhead. We both wore baseball caps, and Noah wore a backpack that contained our water bottles and the wrappers from the same brand of protein bars he’d sent to me in Kansas City. We’d eaten the bars while sitting on a boulder near an outcropping apparently known as Skull Rock, from which we could see Santa Monica Bay. Gesturing at the view, I’d said, “It’s so painful being reminded that the smugness of people who live in California is justified.”

As we approached the trailhead, we were discussing Noah’s wish to get a dog, and he said, “Do you think a golden retriever would mean my WASPy parents successfully brainwashed me after all?”

“What about a beagle?” I said. “To renounce your WASPiness and also because they’re objectively the best dogs.”

He took my hand. “Beagles are the best small dog. I’ll grant you that.”

“But they’re not small dogs. I mean, I’m sure no beagle thinks that. Small dogs are Pomeranians or Chihuahuas.”

“Doesn’t it depend on the beagle?” We’d reached the parking lot, and we were walking toward Noah’s car, which was a silver Lexus hybrid SUV.

“Sugar weighs twenty-five pounds,” I said. “Twenty-five pounds of beautiful, lustrous, formidable canine that could never fit in someone’s purse.”

“I’m not disagreeing that Sugar—” Noah began, but he was interrupted by a male voice saying with some urgency, “Hey, Noah!”

Immediately, Noah dropped my hand and said very quietly, “Keep walking.”

The parking lot was half-full, and about ten people in configurations of twos and threes were milling around. After scanning the line of cars to figure out who’d spoken, I spotted a man kneeling by a Volvo sedan. “Noah, who’s your friend?” the man said. “What’s your friend’s name?” The man looked to be in his twenties, holding a big black camera with its lens extended, and in the ensuing quiet, I could hear the shutter click repeatedly.

“Come on, man,” Noah said. “Not now.”

“You cut off your hair, right?” the man said. “Did you shave your head? When did you do that?”

Noah was walking so quickly that I’d fallen a foot or two behind him. He’d removed the keys from his shorts pocket, and there was a beep just before he climbed in the driver’s side door of the Lexus and started the engine. As I entered the passenger side, the paparazzo said to me, “Hey, what’s your name? Are you and Noah dating? How long have you known Noah?”