“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.