40. Aarti
AARTI
The show itself was a blur. I stood on stage. My guests were great, whoever they were. People laughed. Applauded. Stood on their feet for me, even. Pats on the back as I walked off. Everything recorded. Sent to air.
You did it, Aarti, you won the room. You won America!
The after-party is even more of a fever dream. The swanky nightclub pulses with music so loud I can feel it in my chest, but it’s nothing compared to the ache that’s taken up residence there since Noa walked out of my office.
I’m on autopilot, my TV persona cranked up to eleven. I air-kiss executives, pose for photos with writers, laugh at jokes I don’t really hear. The sequined purple suit that felt so powerful an hour ago now just feels itchy and over-the-top.
“There she is!” A surprisingly ebullient Gretchen appears with a martini, pressing it into my hand. “The woman of the hour! Phenomenal show, Aarti. Just phenomenal.”
“Thank you so much,” I hear myself say, the words automatic. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”
She launches into something about ratings projections and demographic reach, but all I can think about is Noa crouched by my mini fridge, tears streaming down her face.
“…quarterly earnings will be through the roof,” Gretchen is saying. I nod, smile, take a sip of gin that burns all the way down.
The writers have commandeered a VIP booth, and I can see them from across the room.
Syd’s Burger King shirt has been replaced with an actual button-down for once.
Rohan’s attempting to teach Freya some elaborate hand gesture that’s probably from an anime.
They’re celebrating, as they should be. We did it. We saved the show.
So why does victory taste like ash in my mouth?
I excuse myself and weave through the crowd. Everyone wants to stop me, congratulate me, take a selfie. I oblige them all because that’s what I do. That’s who I am. The consummate professional. The one who never lets them see her sweat.
Madge is having what looks like an intense conversation with Claire by the bar. Well, Claire’s doing most of the talking, gesturing animatedly while Madge watches on, completely oblivious to her traumatized talent spiraling thirty feet away.
I slip into the bathroom and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from my mom, probably wanting to gush about the show on her way home. Too many congratulations texts to count.
And nothing from Noa.
I try Diti, desperate to hear a familiar voice, someone who knows me without the suit and the cameras.
It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
Of course. It’s a Monday night and my premiere was just a pre-game for her continued weekend antics.
She’s probably at some med school rager, doing keg stands with future surgeons.
“Diti, it’s me,” I say to her voicemail, my voice cracking. “I just… I need… never mind. Have fun tonight.”
I hang up and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. My makeup is still flawless–whatever wizardry they used, it’s apparently heartbreak-proof. But my eyes look hollow, like someone dimmed the lights inside.
The bathroom door swings open and two influencers stumble in, giggling.
“Oh my god, Aarti Nair!” one of them squeals. “Can we get a pic?”
“Of course!” The smile snaps back into place like a rubber band. Click. Post. Tag. Repeat.
Back in the main room, the music shifts to something with a heavier bass, and the dance floor erupts.
Bodies press together, moving as one mass of celebration and sweat and success.
This should be my moment. Everything I’ve worked for since I was thirteen years old, and all I can think about is Noa at the Variety shoot, throwing her head back in laughter as she placed whipped cream atop my head.
Noa bringing me a damp washcloth to dab Diti’s forehead the night we rescued her from the bar.
Noa and the way she looked at me, first a quick glance, then falling deep into my gaze, in the freezer right before our lips met.
I can’t do this.
I duck behind a group of tipsy PAs and make my way to the exit. The security guard barely glances up as I push through the door into the cool night air.
The street is packed with the usual Hollywood crowd–beautiful people in beautiful clothes pretending their lives are as perfect as their Gramsta feeds.
One of the studio’s town cars idles at the curb, waiting to take me home.
All I have to do is walk over, slide onto the leather seat, let myself be delivered back to my empty condo.
Instead, I turn left and I walk.
Even my Louboutins aren’t made for this, but I don’t care. I need to move, need to feel something other than the crushing weight of success that tastes like failure.
Two blocks down, I spot the bus stop. The 4, on its way back from Santa Monica. The same route I used to take to and from the beach when I needed to clear my head after bombing at The Laugh Track.
A woman waiting at the stop does a double-take when she sees me.
“Hey! You’re–”
“Just trying to get home,” I say quietly.
Miraculously, she just nods, understanding something in my voice, and goes back to scrolling her phone.
When the bus arrives, I dig in my clutch for exact change before giving up and bribing the driver with a crisp twenty.
He doesn’t recognize me, thank god, just scoffs at the giant bill and then begrudgingly beckons me to board.
I find a seat in the back, and sway with the familiar rhythm of stops and starts.
A teenage boy across from me writes in a notebook, probably homework, maybe poetry. He reminds me of myself at that age, scribbling jokes on any available surface, convinced that if I could just find the right words, I could make the world make sense.
The bus lurches to a stop at Fairfax. More people get on–a tired-looking nurse, a couple speaking Portuguese, a guy with a battered guitar. Real people living real lives, none of them knowing that the woman in the ridiculous purple suit is supposed to be having the best night of her life.
My phone buzzes. A notification that #UpLateWithAarti is trending. I switch to airplane mode.
The city rolls by outside the window: taco trucks I’ve frequented, basement comedy clubs where I’ve bombed and killed and bombed again, the thousand little landmarks of a life built in public.
I used to love this view.
Now it’s just a reminder that no matter how far I travel, I’m still carrying myself with me. Still the girl who learned to hide in her performances and praise so early she never learned how to stop.
By the time I get off the bus, my feet are screaming and my heart feels like it’s been put through the industrial mixer in Noa’s lab. I limp the last block to my building.
My place is dark, silent.
I don’t turn on the lights. Just stand in my living room in my stupid expensive suit, in my stupid expensive condo, with my stupid expensive success, and let myself feel the full weight of what I’ve lost.