Brian McKenzie was twenty-eight,a fellow middle child, and a sports reporter for ESPN who traveled regularly for work. He was an exemplary physical specimen, a former minor league baseball player who still had the body, tall and built, with kind blue eyes.
Apart from a small romantic streak about the Brooklyn Dodgers, he harbored no poetic tendencies. He was smart, and dear, and laughed easily, and AJ justknewhe was the one—or, he would have been in a world where Noah didn’t exist.
They had met at the Stag’s Head on the Fourth of July. Brian approached AJ at the bar. He didn’t recognize her, which for AJ was a plus, though he would later shyly admit to seeing “No.”
He quickly identified her as a former athlete, and AJ identified him as what her brother Patrick would call “a good guy.” After talking about the Brooklyn Dodgers in earnest for twenty minutes, he invited her back to his apartment to watch the fireworks from his roof.
AJ was the one to initiate and found Brian to be a willing and enthusiastic sexual partner who did not make repulsive noises, sweat too much, or stare needlessly into her eyes.
“That was…wow,” he said after. AJ let him hold her until their hearts slowed.
Then she got up, slipped into the bathroom, and cried. Her body had done everything it was supposed to, but it was all wrong. Noah knew her by heart. He felt what she felt. Anybody else was just a…surface.Fuck.AJ had to get out of here. She couldn’t do that again. Ever.
But when she returned, Brian looked up from the bed, and he seemed so…light. Hopeful. He was made of possibility, and it showed in every toned plane of his body. There were no ticking time bombs here. There were no clocks at all. And as their eyes met, AJ saw how easy it would be with someone like Brian. So easy to hit every normal benchmark of a good and happy life.
Maybe she was being too hasty, she told herself. Maybe she should stay the night. Maybe she could get used to Brian McKenzie.
Maybe she just needed a drink.
In comedy, it wascommon knowledge that two beers was the ideal level for a set; you were still sharp enough to make connections while reaping the benefits of lower inhibitions and higher confidence. AJ had always participated out of a sense of camaraderie, not necessity.
That was different now. The pressures of her job were so high, she did need a drink or two at the end of the day in a way that sometimes left her wondering if she had misjudged her father.
Alcohol dulled out inconvenient feelings. Her nerves about her sketches, for one. The regretful twinge she felt whenever someone else got a big laugh from a line she’d written, for another. Then there was trying to forget Noah—alcohol really helped with that.
And AJdidlike Brian. There wassomethingabout him that felt like home. Perhaps it was that he drank while watching sports, which was most nights. When he was in town, the two of them often drank companionably at his apartment or hers. Unlike most, AJ actually lost weight when drinking, which only reinforced that she wasn’t doing anything all that unhealthy.
If AJ ever scared herself, say, by racing home to crack a beer oroccasionallybrowning out, she was able to stand on the knowledge that she never drank during the day. Did she sometimes get the urge to shotgun a Bud in the toilet stall during dress rehearsals? You betcha. But that expressed itself through obsessive counting down, i.e.,One more hour, then I can have one.
For example, in AJ’s third season atSNL,when she saw that Noah Drew was slated to be their next celebrity host, she comforted herself with the thought of her next drink.
Monday pitch meetings werea crowded affair, anointed by body odor and competitive spirit. There were no assigned seats. Everyone crammed into Lorne Michaels’s office and found a perch.
When AJ slid in a little after ninea.m., Noah was already in the room; her body flushed instantly, recognizing his presence before her eyes confirmed it. AJ hid behind her large iced coffee as she sidled up to Dave, who had saved her a spot leaning against the window.
“All right, everyone, good to see you,” said Dani. “Noah, great to have you.”
“Great to be here,” said Noah. AJ squirmed. That voice should come with a warning label.
They hadn’t interacted in three years. Not counting AJ’s unanswered email, which…ugh. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from scanning him for signs of change.
He was seated beside Lorne’s currently vacant desk in a black sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes, seemingly healthy as ever. He’d regained most of the weight he’d dropped to play the gaunt hit man, Nathan Mercer, inThe Contract;his biceps looked amazing. AJ lowered her gaze before it reached his face, suddenly aware of how many people were watching her watch him.
Dave noticed it, too. “Just to acknowledge the elephant in the room,” he said, “Noah and I were once in a cult show together and things were abitsteamy.”
Everyone cracked up including AJ, who flashed Dave a grateful smile, then glanced at Noah.God fucking damn it,no one should be that handsome. He was looking at her already, eyes glinting, and AJ felt a faint energetic hum, like an old favorite song playing in another room.
Shyly, she smiled at him, and he grinned. Her cheeks warmed, both because she’d always loved that dimple and because she knew she was visibly hungover. Not that she cared what he thought.
“Right,” said Dani. “Let’s get the ball rolling. Who wants to jump in? Noah, you’re welcome to share any thoughts.”
Then they were off. Pitch meetings were a lot like dodgeball; the writers unleashed a torrent of sketch ideas, and sooner or later every pitch either got shot down or pinned to the wall.
Each writer was allowed to bring two pitches, maximum. AJ usually brought two, but today she only had one—enough to show hercolleagues she was making an effort while significantly lowering her chances of having to work closely with Noah all week.
“I mean, I’m just going to say it,” said Grady, one of the most senior writers. He had been on the show longer than Dani and thought he should be in charge. “We’ve got three cast members fromInto the Bluein this room. I feel like we should do something with that. Maybe ‘No’?”
Dani shook her head. “It’s played out.”
