45. Aarti
AARTI
“A live show, hm?” Gretchen interlaces her fingers.
“A return to my roots, to that electricity that only generates when the audience knows you’re speaking to them in real time,” I pitch.
Gretchen leans back in her expensive leather chair. “It could be a fun gimmick to bring viewers back. But we need them to stick around past the gimmick.”
“Don’t worry, they will.” I look at Madge and she nods along with me.
“Well, as I told Tom Hooper when he signed on to direct Cats, it’s fine to embarrass yourself but just don’t embarrass me.
” Gretchen pulls a fidget spinner out of her desk and gives it three twirls, then slides it back in the drawer.
“He embarrassed a lot more people than himself and I will never get over it. Capiche? ”
Madge and I nod even more vigorously.
We hustle out of Gretchen’s office and down the hall, trying to contain our excitement.
“Phase one, done,” Madge says as we enter the elevator. “Now, we plan.”
For the next week, Madge, the writers, and I spend every spare moment planning the special Up Late!
Live episode. The theme comes to me during one of our late-night mind-melds: Unfiltered .
A celebration of people whose careers depend on their ability to think on their feet, to connect authentically with their audiences without a script or safety net.
The guest list kicks off with Brigitte Blanchette and her new girlfriend Mila, who just founded a non-profit using their runway modeling expertise to empower young women with confidence and financial literacy.
Then there’s Ava Garcia-Greene, the founder and ex-CEO of Gramsta who now runs The Photo Truck nationwide, whose career as an entrepreneur has hinged multiple times on her ability to talk her way out of sticky live interviews.
Carmela Clauson, the Paralympic swimmer who saved the life of one of her teammates who had a medical episode in the water during a competition.
Orville Madison, the trans jazz pianist whose keyboard improvisations will also soundtrack the entire live show.
“This is brilliant,” Freya says, reviewing our guest list late one night in the writers’ room. “They’re all boundary pushers in their own way.”
Madge catches my eye. She knows what I know–that every single person on this list also happens to share something else in common. But the beauty is, that’s not why they’re here. They’re here because they’re fucking brilliant at what they do.
We structure the show around improvised segments that play to each guest’s strengths.
Brigitte and Mila will do a fashion challenge where audience members suggest ridiculous scenarios and they have to “walk“ them. Ava will crowdsource a silly startup concept from the audience and then pitch it back to viewers as if they’re angel investors.
“And you?” Madge asks me quietly after Freya and the other writers have left. “When’s your big moment?”
I’ve been thinking about it constantly.
“I’ll know when it’s time,” I tell her. “Sometimes the best moments are the ones you don’t plan.”
I’m not sure if I believe myself, but I need Madge not to question me for now, and thankfully, she doesn’t.
The Friday of the live show arrives faster than expected. I’m in my dressing room, hands shaking as I adjust my pantsuit.
Madge pops her head in. “Twenty minutes to showtime. You good?”
“I might not do it,” I blurt out.
She steps inside, closing the door behind her. “You don’t have to. The show is already going to be incredible.”
“I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. “But if I don’t do it now, when will I?”
She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll support you no matter what. And I’ll do my part to ensure the cameras keep rolling.”
After she leaves, I pace my dressing room like a caged animal. My throat is dry, my palms are sweating, and I need something to ground me. Kombucha. My emergency kombucha stash will help.
I scurry back to my office and yank open the mini fridge, shoving aside bottles to reach the ginger-turmeric in the back. But my hand hits something else. A small pint container, frost-covered and forgotten.
My heart stops.
Noa must have left it there.
With trembling hands, I pry open the lid. The surface has a layer of teeny ice crystals atop it, the hallmark of being left in the freezer too long, but I grab a spoon from my desk drawer and take a bite.
The taste is familiar and nostalgic, a rich mango kulfi that’s impossibly smooth and creamy. But as I dig in deeper, my spoon reveals something that makes me gasp. A swirling rainbow core.
It’s the flag. My flag. Our flag.
I take another spoonful, then another, tears streaming down my face as I power through brain-freeze.
I turn the container, and on the side in Noa’s dainty scribble is the name: Sweet Talk.
The tears flow even more. It’s like Noa is here, delivering the punch herself.
That’s what we were doing, wasn’t it? Sweet-talking the network. Sweet-talking the world. Sweet-talking ourselves into believing we could work. And we couldn’t. We didn’t.
“Five minutes!” Claire calls through the door.
I dry my eyes, find a stray powder puff to address the mishap that is now my face, and ready myself.
The live show is electric from the moment I step onstage to give my opening monologue and introduce the Unfiltered theme.
The audience is with me for every joke, every improvised moment, every unscripted interaction with our guests.
Brigitte and Mila have the crowd screaming with their “these pants need a belt“ runway walk.
Ava formally announces a ludicrous new Passive Aggressive Weather app without breaking once.
I’m in my element, fueled by the sugar rush of my pre-show indulgence as well as the life-affirming panic of knowing I’m back on live television with only a three-second delay.
The stage lights blind me as always, transforming the audience into an anonymous sea of laughter, which makes performing easier.
Madge stands in the wings, the only person I ever glance at while onstage, ready with her encouraging thumbs-up. Tonight is going well. I could quit while I’m ahead, but there’s an urgency in the pit of my stomach thrusting me head-on into the scariest promise I’ve ever made to myself.
As we near the end of the show, I gather all the guests back onstage.
“Tonight has been about being unfiltered,” I say, my heart hammering. “About showing up as yourself, no script, no safety net.”
The audience quiets, sensing a shift.
“And I realize I’ve been asking my guests tonight to do something I haven’t been brave enough to do myself.
” I take a breath. “I’ve been hiding behind scripts my whole life.
Even when I’m improvising, I’m still playing a version of myself that feels safe, that I committed to playing long ago, for a thousand reasons that used to make so much sense to me. ”
Brigitte catches my eye from her spot on the couch. She knows. In fact, as my eyes travel across the stage, I suspect they all know, or at least have some inkling of what’s coming. And their faces are telling me: it’s okay .
I walk to center stage, hopeful that no one can see how badly my legs are shaking, and stare into the void of the crowd, wishing for the first time that I could actually see their faces, too.
But since I can’t, I just gaze into the abyss and try to conjure the face of the one person I wish was there.
“A few months ago, we launched my ice cream, Aarti After Midnight , with the legendary Jen & Mary’s.
Millions of you tuned in to watch Dr. Noa Hart work her magic during those first weeks of Up Late, witnessing her extraordinary gift for translating sensory snapshots of my life into a pint that represented who I am.
But the ice cream we released? It was delicious, but it wasn’t the real one. It wasn’t the real me.”
There’s a wave of murmurs in the audience.
My throat tightens.
I stare out into the black. “Noa stopped herself from submitting her true masterpiece because it revealed parts of myself that I wasn’t ready to own publicly. It had a secret: beneath the surface lay a symbolic swirl. Hidden, but there. Waiting for someone brave enough to dig deep.
“I don’t know if you’ll ever taste Noa’s true creation, but I couldn’t go another night without sharing my unfiltered self. Because she taught me that telling your truth doesn’t have to be bitter. It can be the sweetest thing you’ve ever tried. So here goes.”
The studio is suddenly so quiet I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Am I really doing this?
I startle as a comforting hand lands on my back.
I turn to see Brigitte, eyes glassy, a warm smile on her usually sardonic face.
She gives me a nod, as if to say go on, I’ll be standing right beside you .
I hear the creaking of the couch as my other guests stand up and link arms on either side of me in a show of quiet solidarity.
“My name is Aarti Nair. I’m the first woman to host Up Late. I’m also the first Indian-American. People have been calling me a diversity hire, so I figured, why not give them their money’s worth?”
The audience chuckles hesitantly. I clear my throat.
“I’m all of those things, and as of right now, I am also Up Late ’s first openly gay host.”
The audience gasps. I nod as tears pool in my eyes.
“I’ve been so afraid of being too much. Too brown, too female, too queer. But you know what? I am all of those things. And, frankly, pretending I’m not has been as exhausting as the mental gymnastics required to explain why I own fifty flannel shirts despite never having been camping.”
Thank goddess, they laugh. Truly laugh. The weight lifts more with each passing moment, and I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be.
“The truth is, I’m rich and complex and sweet and surprising, with a rainbow heart I’m done hiding.”
There’s a collective thrum as people stand and clap.
I look to the wings for reassurance from Madge, only to find her back turned, in deep conversation with one of the lighting techs.
Before I can question why she’s checked out at the biggest moment of my career, a spotlight blazes to life in the audience, illuminating the one person I hoped against hope would be out there listening.