Drew says:I could be…and the regret flows away.
That text could totally be the whiskey talking, yet I don’t let that stop me from sending:I’m doing a set tonight at the Hardy-Har Hideaway. Want to swing by?
I know it’s a risk, but a risk for friendship is a risk worth taking. Drew made clear that we should keep our interactions contained to the crystal hunt, but it’s hard to stop reaching out when he’s the only person who gets me. He’s always been that person for me. In the past, in the present. In this life, and surely in the next. I know he said he wasn’t anymore, but our connection feels too inescapable.
I don’t know, he types,it’s late.
Come on, Old Man. I’ve got a lot of power here. I can get my assistant to hook you up with the best table AND free drinks, I type. I hope my offer sounds appealing. Having one familiar face in the audience would surely make this easier and more fun.
More than two drinks and my acid reflux starts acting up, he sends back sans emoji. The joys I have to look forward to in older age. Weird to think that this doesn’t put me off in the slightest. I’d happily supply Drew with all the Pepcid he needs to enjoy his night. I’d even put on that ridiculous nurse costume he got from his cousin and deliver it to him on a tray if he asked. Anything to be around him more, to take what I can get after I hurt him so badly in both timelines.
Fine, 2 drinks and anything off the menu, I counter.
Fried foods are just as bad for acid reflux, Nolan.
The stern tone of his text makes me tingle. Only a little.Triple H does a salad that is distinctly not fried and definitely salad-adjacent.
Mmm. Appetizing.
How about this? I get my assistant to hand deliver you a poke bowl from my favorite place and have your drinks only made with top-shelf alcohol?I respond.At least that way the acid reflux will be worth it.
I wait with bated breath for his answer.When are you on?
About an hour.
I smile when I see:I’ll be there.
And sure enough, when I step up onstage, there’s Drew wearing a slight smirk, double-fisting his two drinks with a half-finished poke bowl on the table in front of him.
Just his presence alone in that button-down floats me as the crowd around him erupts with pleased shock over my arrival. It cushions the blow of having to deliver half-baked jokes with sour punch lines laced with negativity. Every time I get uproarious laughter over something awful, all I have to do is look to Drew—his chopsticks hovering midair in entertained disbelief—and know I’m not alone in this half dream, half nightmare.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“The prodigal son returns,” Wanda says with a hint of iciness upon wandering into the green room after my set. Her curly hair has gone gray. Fuller too. It’s nice to see she hasn’t retired her CLITERACY T-shirt, which she wears proudly as she steps up to hug me.
“It’s so good to see you,” I coo, trying to gauge where I stand with her. Wanda was like a second mom to me. Losing her respect would gut me even more.
She pulls back to look me over. “Is it? You seemed less than pleased when I came to the New York stop on your tour a few years back. Honestly, I was shocked when I got the call from Jessie—excuse me,Jessalynn.” Wanda’s eye roll is fabulously over-the-top. “Guess you both reinvented yourselves since the days when you were washing my dishes.”
I’d happily scrub, mop, and wash anything Wanda asked me to if it meant getting back to my own body and my own life. I hate the way she’s looking at me as if I have red horns poking out of my forehead, the Antichrist of comedy.
“Well, I’m here now and the crowd was excellent,” I say, even if I did notice some empty tables toward the back, which rarely ever happened when I worked here. Live comedy was the place to be every night of the week. A date spot, a chill hang. Tonight, I got the vibe thatmost of the attendees had been turned away at other theaters or clubs and found themselves here when they were out of options.
My appearance was the only thing that perked them up.
“Lying doesn’t change the reality, Maggot.” She’s fiddling with a peeling piece of paint on the wall beside the mirror. “Guess I can’t call you that anymore either.”
I chuckle. “Does that mean I’m a fly now?”
“Not just a fly.Thefly.”
“Ew, like that grotesque horror movie?”
“If the wings fit.” It’s not a compliment. The paint chip peels off, and she chucks it in a nearby trash bin with a hiss of dissatisfaction.
It’s a testy question, but I ask anyway. “What did you think of the set?”
She purses her lips, probably trying to decide how honest she can be with me now that I’m asomeoneand not just the someone who sells the most drinks on her staff. “It was certainly in line with the character you’ve cultivated.”
