He shoves his hands, which were just roving all over me, into his pockets and backs away. “I’ll make sure that woman you almost assaulted with a martini is okay.” I thank him, then the door clicks shut behind him. He waves at me through the window, and my heart squeezes.
I answer the phone in a huff. “Hello? If this is a telemarketer, I want you to know you may have just ruined a pivotal moment in my not-quite relationship with my best friend, so this better be good.”
“Nolan Baker? This is Clive Bergman.” If I were still holding my martini glass, it would be on the floor right now, alongside my jaw. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
I glance out onto the wedding through the tiny window in the door before moving away from it, muffling the noise by cupping my hand around the end of my phone. “No, this is a great time. Excellent time. Couldn’t be better.”
Cruising down the hallway, I jiggle a bunch of handles.
Locked. Locked. One gives way, but I’m accosted immediately by two Doop employees dressed in all black who are poring over goody bags. “Hey, you can’t be in here!” a familiar one shouts while the other shields their activity from view.
Okaaaaaaay.
“Everything good?” Clive asks as I discover a housekeeping closet, flip on the light, and shut myself inside so nobody overhears or interrupts. “I got your number from the booker at the Broadway Laugh Box. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, totally. That’s great. Excellent—”
“Couldn’t be better?” His smile comes through in his voice. “To make a long story short, my usual opener for tonight caught a nasty flu and can’t come down to perform. I liked what I saw of your set a while back. It was just the right amount of unpolished energy I like to have at my shows, and the booker here said you left quite the impression.”
“I did?” I ask, shocked. “I mean, thank you. That’s really amazing to hear, but what are you asking exactly?”
“I was hoping you could come down to the Laugh Box in about an hour and do a tight-ten.” My heart and my stomach meet in the center of my torso, twist around each other, and then explode. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Only to me would it happen on the night of my sister’s wedding and Drew’s and my first real kiss.
Catastrophe.Why must my life always be in complete and total disarray? I thought I was taking actionable steps in the opposite direction.
Putting Clive on speaker, I check how far the Broadway Laugh Box is from my location. Without any unnecessary roadblocks, I can get there in forty minutes on the subway. Maybe even sooner if I call a rideshare.
But the ironclad itinerary is a familial anchor in my pocket. I’m due to make the grand entrance with the rest of the bridal party as soon as CeeCee is done changing into her shorter, flirtier reception dress—equally as expensive for less fabric (make it make sense). Then there’s the first dance, Dad’s speech, the dinner, slow-dancingdeliciously close with Drew, possibly on the verge of beginning something extra special.
I can’t dip.
“You still with me, Nolan?” Clive asks.
I wish Iwerewith him. In Midtown, prepping for a big gig. A gig that could open so many doors for me if I nail it and allow me to withdraw my Doop application. Get my five-year and ten-year plans back on track. But, of course, once again, my family steps between me and the dreams I’d just folded like a winter coat for storage in the attic during the summer months. I sigh. “Yeah, I’m still here, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I won’t make it in time.”
My body grows leaden. If I thought my comedy career died at my audition, this was its zombie resurrection, only for it to be killed again by a vigilante farmer with a shotgun.
“Ah, all right. You do you,” he says, when what he really means is “blow your chance if you wanna.”
“Thanks for thinking of me.” I don’t get it all out before he hangs up.
This is the adult thing to do. Isn’t that what my family wants from me?
That doesn’t stop me from calling Jessie to tell them what happened.
“Oh my God! Call him back! Call him back right now, Nolan!”
“I can’t just dip! It’s my sister’s wedding!” I shout. “Plus, Drew and I just kissed! Like, real kissed. There was even some tongue!”
“Uh, shit, okay,” Jessie says. “First off, congrats on the tongue-kissing. That’s rad, definitely need to hear more about that later. Second, read me your itinerary. There has to be a way to do both, right?”
I speed down the list. “Thoughts?”
“Go now!” they shout like that was obvious the whole time.“Skip the dinner, and you’ll be back in time for the speech. If anyone asks, play up your IBS. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy. You’re welcome.”
It does make sense, and it wouldn’t be hard to pull off.
Don’t let anyone—and I meananyone—try to squish you, Maggot.Wanda’s words are always there when I need them.
