He started to doubt it halfway through the first sketch, in which he played the father of one of the show’s signature recurring characters: an awkward tween girl who always got her period at the worst possible time. That one had gone fine, since the character was inexplicably popular, and all he had to do was play the straight man.
But next, he had to carry his first character sketch, playing a taxi driver who overshared about his sex life with his passengers. They’d given him a huge fake mustache that itched like crazy, pulling his focus, his New York accent fading in and out. He tripped over the punch lines, earning mostly polite, embarrassed laughter.
After that, he was so psyched out, it was hard to recover. The executive producer came over to him during a commercial break and clapped him on the shoulder, telling him he was doing great and he just needed to relax, which only freaked him out more.
He’d never experienced anything like this before. If nothing else, he was confident. Now, though, he had to admit that he was totally out of his depth. He could practically feel the other role—the one that, despite his better judgment, he’d let himselfget attached to over the past few weeks—slipping through his fingers. He knew he was stiff, his energy low, but the train was too far off the tracks, each flubbed joke landing worse than the last.
He felt like a cartoon character, running off the edge of the cliff only to find there was nothing but air beneath him, legs pinwheeling hopelessly for several long seconds before he plummeted to the ground in a cloud of dust.
…
From her vantage point in the audience, watching Shane struggle through the show, Lilah felt physically ill.
As he stumbled through one misguided sketch after another, his timing off and his delivery wooden—playing Borat as a courtroom judge; dressed in full granny drag in a knitting circle; pulling off tearaway pants and dancing to Europop in a silver Speedo—it struck her how, six months ago, she would’ve relished this. That he was finally getting his first taste of failure in the charmed career he’d stumbled ass-backward into. Instead, it almost felt likeshewas up there instead of him: blanking at the cue cards, lights roasting her skin, the uncomfortable silence of the audience pounding heavily in her ears.
He’d be able to bounce back from this. The next week or two would probably be bad, but beyond that, it would quickly fade from public memory—at least until it was time to aggregate a new “WorstLNLHosts of All Time” clickbait list.
But if this was supposed to be an audition for his next job, there was no question that his performance tonight had killed his chances. The two of them had that in common now, at least. Still, watching it happen in real time was viscerally painful, her whole body tense, a boulder of anxiety where her stomach used to be.
And, worst of all, she knew his confidence in himself was rattled in a way that would stick with him long after the public forgot. However badly he was doing, she could tellhethought he was flopping ten times worse. She was so attuned to his every microexpression that a single helpless twitch of his eyebrows was enough to make sweat bead at the base of her spine.
Something clicked into place then. Something she should’ve realized a long time ago.
She’d spent years resenting him for his easy charm, how effortless it was for him to make people love him—but for the first time, she understood itwasn’teasy. It wasn’t effortless. It was how he survived. He didn’t know who he was without it.
When she looked at him now, trying as hard as he could to win over an increasingly disengaged audience, all she could see was that scared little boy he’d once been, convinced he could fix everything if he was just agreeable enough, accommodating enough, lovable enough—whatever he thought everyone around him wanted him to be.
Her hands trembled from how badly she wanted to reach for him, to jump on that stage, wrap him in her arms, and tell him that he was enough.
It fucking killed her that she couldn’t help him. That she was powerless to do anything but sit there and watch.
But she wasn’t powerless, she realized. Therewassomething she could do. The idea took shape all at once, grabbing hold of her and refusing to let go.
She expected panic to follow, but instead, she felt strangely light. Peaceful. It was as if she’d been trudging around in head-to-toe armor for so long that she no longer noticed the burden, but now that it was suddenly lying in pieces at her feet, she was left both weightless and defenseless. She slipped out of her seat, her feet carrying her backstage without a second thought.
…
Shane dragged himself to his dressing room, back in his street clothes again after his last sketch. There were still a few minutes left in the show: a second performance by the musical guest, one more commercial break, and then the good nights. For better or worse, he’d made it through in one piece—physically, at least.
He opened the door, and Lilah was there, sitting on the counter, leaning against the mirror.
Until he saw her face, he’d been holding out one tiny bit of hope that his performance hadn’t been as tragic as it felt from the inside.
“I know,” he said weakly.
Her expression cleared as she quickly tried to regain her poker face.
“The writing was garbage. You were just doing your best.”
He collapsed on the couch.
“Fuck.Fuck.” He covered his face with his hands and groaned. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. This is all everyone is going to be talking about tomorrow, isn’t it? That I blew it?”
She didn’t say anything, just braced her palms on the edge of the counter and leaned forward, her shoulders pushed up to her ears. “Maybe,” she said carefully. “Or we could give them something else to talk about.”
He was so agitated that it took him a moment to process what she was saying. Or what he thought she was saying. He sat upright. “What?”
Her head was still angled toward her lap, but her gaze slid up to meet his. Her chest rose and fell. She said nothing.
