31. Aarti
AARTI
It should be impossible to sit amongst the bonsai at my favorite section of the Huntington Gardens and feel anything but tranquil. But here I am, hunched on the handmade wooden bench, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses on despite the shade, trying to become invisible.
My phone has been off since yesterday afternoon when #Gaarti started trending and I made the mistake of watching Brigitte’s viral response video. Her comments section was a battlefield between people calling us queerbaiters and others insisting they can see the truth in our eyes.
I know there are complex emotions underlying Brigitte’s commentary.
She knows there’s truth in what others are merely speculating on, and I’m sure seeing me beaming like a lovestruck teenager at another woman on a magazine cover stings.
I certainly didn’t help matters by ghosting her the minute things with Noa began to flicker into something real.
But the worst part? I can’t even claim her hot take is wrong.
I may not have stepped into that photoshoot with the intention of broadcasting queer-coded longing while refusing to claim it out loud–but that’s exactly what happened, intent be damned.
Speaking of queer longing, the other reason my phone has been off is so I don’t have to see the climbing number of texts and calls from Noa.
I’m acutely aware that talking to her will veer me into burn-it-all-down instincts so unreasonable and irresponsible my career may never recover.
It’s not fair to make her responsible for a decision like that when all of this has already been incredibly unfair to her.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I nearly send a fist to their face.
Instead, I take a deep breath to deal with the stranger. “As I’m sure you know, I’ve already had enough photos for the week.”
“Trust me. I get it.”
I look up to see Madge.
“How the hell did you find me?”
“When you didn’t show for the house band rehearsal this morning, I had to use my emergency Aarti tracker,” she says, settling beside me on the bench.
“Your what now?”
She holds up her phone, showing me a map dotted with locations. “Every place you’ve been known to run off to.” She tucks the phone away. “The paparazzi still camped outside your building tipped me off that you weren’t gonna be found there.”
“There are paparazzi at my building?” I had my driver take me to a hotel last night so I haven’t been home yet. I didn’t want to be findable, but I flinch thinking of Diti, alone, dealing with their prying eyes.
“Six of them when I drove by. They got some choice shots of your neighbor in an open bathrobe walking his Pomeranian.”
Cringing, I sink lower on the bench, aware that the next thing out of my mouth is going to change everything. “I can explain,” I say softly.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Aarti.”
I caution a glance at her. “Don’t I?”
She shakes her head. “I mean, you can say anything to me. I’m safe. You can trust me. But…“ she trails off.
I swallow hard. I’ve been avoiding this conversation with Madge for years, and yet–
“Have you always known?”
She shrugs, eyes averting to the Japanese maple before us. “For a while, I suspected. The way you’d edit pronouns out of stories. How you’d light up around certain women. But we had an unspoken agreement–I’d never push, you’d never have to lie to me directly.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“It wasn’t mine to say. And honestly? Part of my job is protecting you, including from conversations you aren’t ready to have.”
“Fuck.” I bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed by the odd combination of relief at Madge’s steadiness and dread over the uncertainty of basically everything else.
“I wanted this gig. I wanted this so bad, too bad, that I sacrificed everything I am for it. And now I’m paying.
Probably with my entire idiotic career.”
“If your career is idiotic, it's the smartest idiotic thing I've ever had the privilege to produce.” Madge rests a hand on my back and I peer through my fingers at her. “Can I be real with you for a second?”
I crack a tiny smile at the preposterous notion of Madge ever holding herself back around me. Although, with this latest epiphany, apparently she has untold restraint that I’ve never given her credit for. “By all means.”
“I get why this feels massive to you. But from a producer standpoint? This could blow over by Tuesday. You haven’t actually been outed.
It’s an ambiguous photo that’s been released into a universe of AO3 fanfic writers and shippers who see chemistry between any two people who make eye contact.
” She pauses. “If we don’t add gasoline to this fire, it could just as easily burn itself out. ”
“But what about Gretchen? And CBT? Aren’t they furious?” My network overlords are the other reason I’ve been keeping my phone off, not ready to face the music.
Madge shakes her head. “I called Diane this morning to get the temperature on the C-suite buzz and she said Gretchen’s on the links today.
No one else seems worried either, especially not the younger assistants who are aware of the chatter.
They’re used to these mini-non-scandals on an hourly basis.
And I fear the actual executives are all dinosaurs when it comes to online discourse. ”
“Can you tell all that to the adrenaline coursing through my veins at warp speed?”
“Aart, this is what the internet does. You know as well as anyone–look at KurtaGate last month.”
Perhaps my adrenaline catches up to what Madge has been trying to tell me, because suddenly, horrifyingly, I’m sobbing. Ugly, shoulder-quaking sobs that I try desperately to muffle with my hands.
I’m certain Madge has never seen me cry. I’m certain I could count on one hand the number of people who ever have.
Without hesitation, she pulls me into her arms, rubbing circles on my back as I completely fall apart.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry the world made you feel like you had to hide. I’m sorry the industry is so fucked up that being yourself feels like career suicide. I’m sorry for all of it.”
I cry harder, years of control dissolving in the shelter of her embrace. She holds me, murmuring reassurances while I soak her vintage band tee with tears and snot.
Finally, when the sobs subside to hiccups, I pull back. “I’m sorry, I don’t–I never–”
“Don’t you dare apologize for being human.” She pulls tissues from her bag–of course she has tissues. “You’ve been carrying this alone for so long.”
I wipe my face, knowing I look destroyed. “I don’t know what to tell Noa… I’m paralyzed.”
“You don’t have to figure it all out today, but she deserves something, even if it’s just ‘I need time to think.’”
I nod, looking around at the meticulously maintained bonsai, these tiny trees that have been shaped and controlled their entire lives to fit someone else’s vision of beauty.
“Can I just… sit here for a few more hours? Before I turn my phone back on and face everything?”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll run interference with Gretchen. If anything does come up, I’ll tell her you’re taking a personal day.” Madge squeezes my shoulder as she stands. “But again, Head Girlboss in Charge won’t care about you today unless you’re a par 4 or whatever.”
“Madge?”
She turns back.
“Thank you. For knowing. For not making me say it before I was ready. For finding me here.”
She gives me a soft smile. “That’s what I do. Even when you’re trying really hard not to be found.”
After she leaves, I sit among the bonsai and wonder what would happen if one of them was allowed to grow wild.