“It was selfish of him,” said Bertram’s sister. “I miss him every day.”
Noah’s character was compelled to console each and every one of Bertram’s bereaved, but Noah himself stalked off after the blackout.
AJ needn’t have pushed so hard that night—nothing she said onstage affected Noah as much as her own father showing up at their dressing room after, clapping him on the shoulder, and saying, “Proud of you, son.” On their cab ride home, Noah brought it up three times.
“He didn’t have to say that,” he kept repeating.
On Sunday night, there were so many people in the theater, they had to bring in extra ushers to keep the house running smoothly. Yet, despite the large crowd, you could hear a pin drop as Noah, now in white, burst into tears at the top of the improvised segment.
“You resent me for being healthy,” he said. “It’s written all over your face.”
As the cancer patient F, AJ was obliged to take on every bitter attribute he gifted her character. F hated being cooped up in this house, hated being dependent on him, hated that he was able to leave when she was not. Every terrible thing Noah said or implied, AJ had to justify.
The audience thought it was clever, subversive even. People were rarely open about caregiver burnout or how difficult sick people could be.
Only AJ understood that Noah was forcing her to play his own mother.
“I’m doing everything I can, but I can’t help that you’re sick,” he said, spraying an imaginary can of air freshener over the couch.
“You could stop flaunting your health,” AJ heard herself say. “You could be ateensybit sensitive to what this is like for me. And stop trying to embalm me in lemon Lysol. I’m not dead yet.”
He was giving her a front-row seat to the thanklessness he had experienced, the rancor—what he didn’t want for her. He had AJ on the run for most of the act.
Then, about five minutes before the blackout, the faulty chair—which evidently had not been replaced, just repaired—blew out again, sending Noah crashing to the floor.
AJ was down beside him in seconds, helping him back up. Noah was so flustered, he didn’t have time to tell her how resentful she was. AJ took the opening.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said.
“Really,” said Noah skeptically. “You’re probably disappointed it didn’t finish me off.”
AJ shook her head. “If I get that way, it’s because deep down I’m terrified of losing you.”
Noah blinked at her a few times, then to her surprise, he enveloped her in a hug. The audience was moved and so was AJ.
As they bowed, she felt a tiny sprout of hope.
They had six performances left.
Monday was “dark” onBroadway, so AJ and Noah had the day off. While he rose early with Bud, she slept in until he returned with coffee and the paper. Apparently,TheNew York Timeshad reviewed the previous night’s show.
“Watching AJ Graves and Noah Drew improvise is like listening to Don Felder and Joe Walsh on the 1980 live LP ofHotel California,” AJ read to him. “They play as if they’re one instrument.”
“I know that recording,” Noah scoffed. “That solo wouldn’t work without the bass.”
AJ rolled her eyes and continued to scan the review. It was mostly about the historic significance of the performance and Noah—they’d beencareful to keep anything personal away from the press, including that AJ had been Eudora’s student. AJ did get one other favorable mention.
AJ Graves, best known as a staff writer forSNL,proves an excellent foil for Drew. Even as he bears down on her with a wall of emotion, she manages to keep him dancing on his toes.
She glanced up to see Noah watching her indulgently, and it hit her. He had brought the paper home just so she could see it. He didn’t read his own reviews.
They went for a run in the park, and AJ was glad for the fresh air. It was warm for mid-October, and being outside felt like finding a little sliver of their idyllic summer embedded in the city.
On the elevator ride back to AJ’s apartment, Noah pushed her up against the wall and started kissing her. Once inside, he tried to lead her to the bed, but AJ made an excuse about them being filthy (which they were), and they had Ektorp sex instead.
The truth was, AJ didn’t know how many times they had left. Couch sex seemed to imply a lot, so she could actually enjoy it. Bed sex, however, had started to reek of Last-Time Sex, and the thought of having Last-Time Sex with Noah made AJ sick.
She knew she had made the right call as soon as he hit the shower. When AJ opened the closet to toss her laundry into the hamper, she was stunned to find that Noah had removed all of his black crew neck sweatshirts but one. He must have taken his stuff out of the apartment that morning while she slept.
