“I’m really sorry,” I said. “Although do you think it’s over over? Given your history—”
“Remember on election night, when it was like, the worst could happen? And then all of a sudden, it was like, Oh my fucking God, it’s happening. And then it had happened.” He sniffed. “Her publicist called my publicist, and Belly already put out a statement, which I’m sure the publicist wrote because it’s phony bullshit wording.” He grinned darkly. “Then she blocked me on all her socials.”
It seemed, among other things, either stunningly insensitive or deliberately cruel to behave this way hours before Danny was scheduled to perform live on national TV. And it would have been a lie to say that I didn’t once again wonder about the fate of my Danny Horst Rule sketch, but this time it wasn’t the main thing I was thinking about. The main thing I was thinking was that Danny had dodged a bullet.
“Did something specific happen?” I asked.
He rolled onto his side, his back against the corduroy cushions. “I was at her apartment this morning, right? We’re chilling in the kitchen, we’re making smoothies, and she has this super powerful, top-of-the-line blender. We’re talking about how it has a ten-year warranty, and I start making dumb jokes like, by the time the warranty expires, all cars will be self-driving, all meat will be grown in labs, and we’ll probably be divorced but we won’t even care because we’ll both be banging robots.”
He was quiet, and I said, “Is there more?”
“For real, I was barely even awake. I was just talking shit. But she flipped out.”
“Did she understand you were kidding?”
“She said I’ve never been serious about her because I’m incapable of being serious.” He shrugged. “I come back here thinking, Okay, that sucked, but we’ve been through it before. She’ll show up here and we’ll have make-up sex”—it was not, I told myself, the moment to ponder which emissions this couch had absorbed—“and instead she went scorched earth.”
“I know this is easy for me to say, but what if you ignore social media, get some sleep after the show, and go see her in person tomorrow?”
“She’s a little crazy,” he said. “But when she’s not being crazy, she’s the sweetest, most caring person I’ve ever known. She has this huge bed with a million pillows and a big down comforter like in the fanciest hotel, and we just lay on it, looking into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know people did that gazing shit outside of movies until I met her.”
“That sounds nice,” I said.
Neither of us spoke for a few seconds, and Danny’s stomach grumbled.
“When did you last eat?” I asked.
“Good question.”
“Let’s have a page go get you a sandwich. What about something plain, like turkey and cheese? You should have some protein.” But when I stood, he held out an arm to stop me.
“You know when you’re really vibing with another person?” he said. “Like for once the loneliness lifts, and you fully get each other—do you think that’s all bullshit?”
I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think it’s bullshit. I think it’s rare, but real.”
SATURDAY, 6:27 P.M.
I told the two assistants at desks in front of Nigel’s office that I urgently needed to see him, and one stood, entered his office, then reemerged and motioned for me to come in. Inside, standing around the corkboard, were Elliot, Bob O’Leary, and two other producers. Nigel himself was behind his desk drinking from a tall, clear glass, and when he set it down, he said, “Sally, never underestimate the value of water.”
“We need to cut The Danny Horst Rule,” I blurted out. Because I hadn’t done this before, I wasn’t sure if the pronoun should have been we as in we need to or you as in you need to. “Danny and Annabel just had a big public breakup, and she’s putting stuff on social media, and it’s very messy.”
In a calm tone, Bob said, “Annabel is hardly essential in the sketch. Bianca was fine.”
“We need to cut it for Danny’s sake,” I said. “He’s really upset.”
“Danny’s a pro,” Elliot said. “He’ll be okay. Plus, don’t they break up a lot?”
“It seems different this time.”
“Might the sketch be cathartic?” Nigel asked.
Looking among their faces was disorienting; trying to get them to cut one of my sketches, after nine years of doing the opposite, was disorienting. Perhaps I was wrong and they were right? Both for Danny’s well-being and so that I could have a hat trick, I wanted them to be.
“It wouldn’t be cathartic,” I said. “It would be kicking him when he’s down.”
“Should we keep it in dress and see how it goes?” Bob asked.
“Or see if they’ve gotten back together in an hour,” Elliot said.
“We need to put Danny out of his misery now,” I said.
“Either way, he’s still on News Desk,” Elliot said.
“That’s not about him,” I said.
“You’re certain of this?” Nigel said.
Naturally, in this moment, I wasn’t. “Yes,” I said. “I’m certain.”
Nigel turned to Bob and said, “Let’s put Medicine Cabinet back in.”
Elliot and I made eye contact and—not judgmentally but more musingly—he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d lost your edge.”
SATURDAY, 6:35 P.M.
Both the host’s dressing room and the musical guest’s dressing room were on the same corridor, and their doors had been closed on my way to Nigel’s office. As I returned to the studio, the host’s was open and filled with people. I heard someone say, “Hey, Sally!” and Noah appeared, gesturing for me to come in. Behind him, standing or sitting on the surprisingly crappy furniture in the surprisingly unfancy space, were Autumn, Madison and Addison, one white man with a well-tended goatee, one Black man with a well-tended goatee, a spiky-haired woman in overalls, a blond-haired woman who looked like a suburban mom, and a white guy in a suit and tie. I assumed the ones that weren’t Autumn, Madison, and Addison were his agent, manager, and other members of his business team.
Noah was wearing a tuxedo and also a layer of makeup, and—perhaps because I was used to seeing both men and women in foundation, bronzer, and blush—I thought he looked radiantly handsome. If he really did wear a wig, it was exceptional.
“Hey,” I said. “How did bonding with the snake go?”
“We’re like this now.” He held up crossed fingers. “Honestly, it wasn’t bad. I thought it would be cold because of cold-blooded, but it was warm. Or I should say her, not it. Her name is Eleanor.”
“For real?”
He nodded. “I wanted to tell you—I texted Annabel, and it sounds like she and Danny broke up.”
“They did,” I said. “And the sketch was cut.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It happens. I mean, thanks for trying. How are you feeling?”