21. Aarti
AARTI
The Kitty Compound is exactly what it sounds like: a sanctuary for cats and the humans desperate enough to pay fifteen dollars for the privilege of being ignored by them.
The moment we walk in, Noa’s eyes pop, the greenish flecks near her pupils catching some sun through the window.
Something told me that she’d love this place, and when I see the smile spreading across her pink lips, my stomach flips in on itself.
“Two for the Catbana?” I ask the heavily tatted barista who’s tapping away on their phone.
They don’t even look up. “Twenty extra.”
I fork over the cash and we’re led through a gauntlet of wannabe influencers sprawled on bean bags, all desperately trying to coax apathetic felines into their laps for the perfect Gramsta story.
The Catbana is a small, private room painted electric blue with fake palm trees and seven cats in seven unique states of repose. One particularly rotund tabby is sprawled across a miniature beach chair.
“This is…” Noa starts, then sneezes. “Adorable.”
I grin. “Cheaper than Soho House and way more private.”
“Private is kinda rare in your world.”
“Only gonna get rarer.”
We settle onto the floor, and a black cat with one white paw makes a beeline for me, headbutting my knee with determination.
“Someone likes you,” Noa says, reaching for an orange cat who promptly walks away. I scratch behind the black cat’s ears, and we’re quiet for a moment.
“So… up on those rocks earlier,” she says.
“Up on those rocks,” I agree, leaning back against the wall. The black cat claims my lap–most definitely a bad omen. “Do you know what the headlines were when they announced me as host?” I ask.
Noa shakes her head.
“‘Diversity Hire.’ ‘ Up Late Goes Woke.’ ‘The Death of Comedy.’” I laugh bitterly. “One Gramsta account coined me ‘Affirmative Action Aarti.’”
“Jesus.”
I focus on the cat’s purr, steady and grounding.
“Last month, I wore a kurta to a network event. Just a simple kurta with jeans. The next day, there were think pieces about whether I was ‘playing up my ethnicity for points’ or ‘finally embracing my heritage.’ A fucking shirt, Noa, turned into a referendum on my authenticity.”
Noa sneezes again, more violently this time. “That’s– achoo –exhausting.”
“If I came out? I wouldn’t just lose the show for no longer being the uncontroversial, apolitical pawn the network needs me to be.
I’d become the reason every queer woman after me doesn’t get a shot.
” The words tumble out faster now. “I’m not just carrying my own dreams, I’m carrying theirs, too.
And I don’t know how to set that weight down without crushing everything underneath it. ”
A gray cat approaches Noa, who reaches out hopefully. He sniffs her hand and walks away.
“I get it,” she says. “I mean, not the fame part, obviously. But the weight of representing something bigger than yourself.”
“When did you know?” I ask. “About being…”
“Queer? Bi? Pan? I still don’t have the perfect label.” She shifts, and I notice her eyes are getting red. “But I knew in seventh grade when I had simultaneous crushes on both leads in the school play.”
I snort. “What was it, The Music Man? My Fair Lady? ”
“ Little Shop of Horrors. ” She grins, then sneezes so hard she startles the tabby in the beach chair. “Sorry, buddy.”
“You okay?”
“Fine, just– achoo –cats are really– achoo achoo –fluffy.”
I study her more closely. Her eyes are watering and her nose is red.
“Oh my god. You’re allergic.”
“No, I’m– ACHOO –fine.”
“Noa Hart, are you seriously sitting in a room full of cats while being allergic to cats?”
“You seemed like you needed to be here. And I– achoo –wanted to keep talking.”
Something in my chest does a complicated twist. “Come on. Let’s get you some Benadryl.”
We extract ourselves from the Catbana, Noa sneezing the entire way out. The bodega on the corner is blindingly fluorescent after the mood lighting of the café. I grab the antihistamine, a bottle of water, and throw in some candy because Noa looks pathetic.
“That’s $12.47,” the cashier says, then does a double-take. “Wait. Holy shit. You’re Thing-a-ma-jig Cindy!”
I freeze. Thing-a-ma-jig Cindy was a recurring character I did on Midnight Live, a QVC host who could never remember product names but sold them through pure chaotic energy.
“Do the thing!” He’s bouncing now. “Please? My girlfriend loves you. Say the thing about the whatchamacallit!”
I can feel Noa watching me. Can feel the moment sliding away from us, from Aarti and Noa having a real conversation to Aarti Nair, TV Personality, performing on demand.
“This dealy-bob right here?” I slip into character, holding up the Benadryl. “It’s got those thingamawhos that make your whatsits stop doing that thing they do!”
The cashier loses it, pulling out his phone. “Can I get a selfie? She’s gonna die.”
“Sure,” I say, the word automatic.
He leans over the counter, snapping several shots while I hold my smile like a hostage. Noa stands to the side, provisions in hand, watching.
“You’re the best,” he gushes. “We’re definitely gonna catch your new show. Up Late , right?”
“Right.” My smile is starting to hurt. “Two more weeks!”
Outside, the late afternoon sun feels too bright. Noa’s already popping a Benadryl, washing it down with the water.
“That was…” she says.
“What my life is. What it’s about to become times a thousand.” I can’t look at her. “Everyone thinks they own a piece of you. And maybe they do. Maybe that’s the deal.”
We stand there on the sidewalk, the moment from the Catbana officially dead. A woman walks by with her phone out, and I instinctively turn away.
“I should go,” I say.
“Yeah.” Noa’s voice is small. “Me too.”
“See you tomorrow?”
She nods. “Taste, right?”
“You’re gonna love Don Chente’s. Best tacos in LA.” I could use my emotional support chorizo right about now.
She gives me a small smile and a nod, then we part ways.
I slip into my cab home. My phone buzzes–the cashier’s already posted our selfie. The caption reads: THING-A-MA-JIG CINDY BOUGHT WHATSITS FROM ME!!! #UpLate #CantWait #FunnierInPerson
“Can I change my dropoff?” I ask my driver.
I’m making myself wait to savor Don Chente’s tomorrow with Noa, so there’s just one other place to go where I can always eat–or drink–my feelings.
The dinner rush has already begun when the car drops me in front of the familiar ivy-covered doorway. I weave through the bustling patio, making my way to the dimly lit indoors. My shoulders drop several inches when I spot the person tending bar.
Benny, the emerald dangling from his nose ring twinkling just like his eyes, whirls around at the sound of me sitting down, face lighting up.
“Aart! Does Arj know you’re here?”
“Nope, it’s a surprise.” I’m going for nonchalant, but Benny sees right through me.
He’s an empath through and through, and not in the narcissistic constantly-alludes-to-being-an-empath way.
No, he’s just intuitive and perceptive, with endless compassion and a heart of gold.
Lord knows I adore my uncle, but he and Maa have their rough edges, necessary coping mechanisms for the turbulence of their childhood.
Benny smooths out Arjun’s prickliness just enough; it’s not hard to understand how they’ve made their relationship work for over a decade.
“Long day, huh, kid?”
I shrug. “Long life?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t I know it. You want a hug?”
I snort. Our family has never been touchy-feely and Benny knows this, but it’s never stopped him from offering hugs to any of us–at least any of us Nairs he really knows.
Even though he and Arjun have been together for my entire adult life and then some, Benny’s never been introduced to Maa and Dad as more than a colleague.
That's why Uncle Arjun and I have always understood each other–we both know what it's like to hide parts of ourselves. I’ve felt a kinship with him since I was little because he was so different from my parents. Where they sought to control my future to protect me from repeating their struggles, Arjun always celebrated my rebellious streak. He’d whisk me away to spend weekend afternoons at the restaurant when he first took it over from my grandparents, sneaking me contraband candy from his pockets, and swinging me by Amoeba Music to buy bootleg vintage Midnight Live tapings before he dropped me back home.
He was the only adult in my family who seemed to understand that wildness wasn't something to be tamed.
When I was thirteen and found him kissing a man behind the restaurant, just months after my own secret first kiss with a girl, the reasons for our lifelong kinship suddenly made even more sense.
He understood my need to escape, my urgency to have an identity beyond the one my parents predestined for me.
“Your Maa and Dad are good people, they’re just so traditional, beta,” he’d said after he’d bid the ‘friend’ he was Frenching goodbye and ushered me to the same bar I’m sitting at now. “No need to bother them with something they won’t understand. Not everything is meant to be shared with everyone.”
I took his words to heart, promising his private life was safe with me. When I eventually told him my own secret, he showed me so much warmth and pride and acceptance that it almost counterbalanced the loneliness of never sharing that part of myself with my parents.
When Benny came to work at the restaurant, Arjun transformed.
He was lighter, with an ease about him I’d never seen before.
By the time I was sixteen, sobbing through my first real heartbreak, they were both there to counsel me through it.
In their classic Good Cop/Bad Cop fashion, Benny rocked me back and forth in his arms while Arjun told me she was never good enough for me anyway.
All these years later, they’re still together, still a secret from my parents, still the safest place I have to fall apart.
“No hugs, fine, but then take a liquid hug, eh?” Benny pours two shots of whiskey, sliding one across the bar to me. We cheers, and I down the burning amber with a grimace.
“Traitors!” Arjun strides in from the kitchen, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he leans over the bar to kiss Benny. “Having all the fun without me?”
“If only, my love,” Benny sighs, shooting his partner a loaded look. I have a theory that when no one is around, the two of them are capable of silently communicating entirely via eye telepathy.
“Uh-oh.” Arjun takes a seat beside me. “What’s troubling my favorite niece?”
I snort. “What about Diti?”
“Ah, Diti!” He hits his head in pretend frustration. “I do love that little imp. But unfortunately my favoritism is inversely proportional to my sister’s approval and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
He’s not wrong. His unwavering admiration for me has been a lifeline in my darkest moments, especially the ones I couldn’t share with my parents.
“So,” Arjun leans in. “Lay it on us.”
I sigh. “Remember the woman I brought to lunch last week?”
“You mean the one you blindfolded 9 ⒈／⒉ Weeks -style with one of my white linen napkins? That one?” Benny teases.
“Oh god. You saw?”
“If you think we don’t have cameras all over this place, you’re sorely mistaken, my darling,” he says cheekily.
Arjun waves his hand at Benny. “Enough! We’re lucky to get the hot goss. Now, what about Miss Curly Thang?”
I tell them about the dumpster and Gretchen and the nitrogen incident and the sidekick ultimatum, all the way up to today’s sneezy non-date in the Catbana.
“…why can’t I just keep things simple?” I finish miserably. “Why do I have to fall for someone right when everything’s at stake?”
Arjun and Benny exchange one of their telepathic looks.
“When sparks fly like that,” Benny says gently, “it’s hard to deny them. Trust me, we know.”
Arjun reaches across the bar to squeeze Benny’s hand. “When this one started working here, I thought I’d lose my mind. Having him so close to the family business, to everything I was trying to protect… It felt like playing with fire.”
“But you found a way,” I point out.
“We did,” Arjun agrees, but something in his tone makes me look at Benny, who’s intently studying the glass he’s been polishing for several minutes.
“It’s not perfect,” Benny says. “Twelve years together and I’m still ‘Arjun’s business partner’ at family events. If I even get invited.”
The words hang in the air. I’ve never heard Benny sound bitter about it before.
“We make it work,” Arjun adds quickly, though I catch the flash of guilt in his eyes. “Because the alternative–not being together…”
“That wasn’t an option,” Benny finishes for him, finally setting down the over-polished glass.
“None of this is easy or simple, beta,” Arjun says, patting Benny’s hand. “You’re allowed to feel complicated about it. Hell, we feel complicated about it every day.”
“So what do I do?”
“Right now?” Arjun gets up, heading toward the kitchen. “You focus on tomorrow’s shoot. Do your job. One step at a time.”
“Don’t put the cart before the horse,” Benny adds. “Or in your case, don’t put the U-Haul before the second date.”
“Technically… the first.”
“Oh, you’re screwed,” Benny laughs, and despite it all, I laugh along with him.
“Thank you, Benny.”
Arjun returns with a plate of sizzling pakoras.
“The answers will come with time.” He sets the tray down on the bartop. “For now? We eat.”
As the dinner rush swirls around us, we share food and laughter and the easy comfort that comes from being known. But I can’t shake the image of Benny’s sad smile, or the way Arjun keeps glancing at him with an apology in his eyes.
Maybe there’s no perfect solution. Maybe there’s just choosing what you can live with, and hoping the people who love you can live with it too.