46. Noa
NOA
For all the segments we filmed months ago, this is my first time in the bright-white pillar of a studio spotlight.
I know I should feel nervous with the millions of eyes of a live national television broadcast upon me.
But right now, there is only one deep brown gaze that matters, anchoring me as I slowly stand up, clutching the ridiculous bouquet of ice cream scoops that Aiden helped me cobble together after Madge reached out.
When Madge appeared at my order window that night at the soft opening , I didn’t know what the interaction would be like.
But the second I popped out of the truck, she pulled me into a fierce hug, complimented my new business with her hallmark enthusiasm, and bought one of each split.
We didn’t talk about Aarti or the premiere or anything beyond ice cream and art, but there was a knowing in her eyes, an acknowledgment of all the things we weren’t saying.
I figured that would be it. A nice moment of closure with someone who’d been peripheral to my heartbreak.
When she called two days ago, I almost didn’t answer.
“Noa, I have something to ask you,” she said without preamble. “Aarti’s doing something big on Friday’s live show. Really big. And I think… I think she’d want you there. Not that she knows I’m calling. She doesn’t. But afterward, maybe you two could meet privately? Talk?”
My heart did gymnastics in my chest. “What’s she doing?”
“I can’t say. But it’s–well, I’m pretty sure it’s what you wanted. What you both needed.”
I gripped my phone tighter. “Can I… can I be in the audience instead? If she’s doing what I think she’s doing, I want to be there. Not hiding backstage.”
Madge was quiet for a long moment. “She might see you.”
“Good.”
Talking to Madge, it finally clicked: the night of the premiere I’d chosen myself, and that had been right–yet I’d misread Aarti’s refusal to come out as a verdict on my value.
Her hesitation was never about whether I was worth the risk; it was about whether she could withstand the quake her honesty would unleash, whether the world would still want every brilliant, complicated inch of her once it knew.
Coming out isn’t a gift you hand to someone else; it’s a truth you claim for yourself. Now, hearing she was ready to claim hers, I knew one more thing for sure. I’d be damned if I’d let her do it alone.
Now, watching her on that stage with shaky legs and her chin up, declaring her truth to millions, I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my entire life.
Aarti’s eyes find mine across the distance, questioning, vulnerable. I nod, already moving toward the aisle. The crowd parts as I set down the clattering bouquet and make my way to the stage.
As I climb the steps, Aarti reaches for my hand. The moment our fingers touch, that familiar electricity ignites between us. She turns to the audience, raising our hands together.
“Ladies and gentletheys,” her voice wavers with emotion, “Dr. Noa Hart. The genius who saw me before I could see myself. And who I–I had no idea she was here tonight.”
The audience erupts in applause. Aarti guides me onstage, trying to untangle all of her competing emotions, live, on broadcast television. I’m impressed by her all over again.
“Wow. I can’t believe you’re here,” she says to me, but also to everyone. “Noa Hart. She’s perfect, except she’s allergic to cats which is obviously a lesbian dealbreaker.”
The audience laughs, and somehow, through it all, Aarti still manages to shoot me a soul-melting wink.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure what avenues we’ll need to explore to release Sweet Talk to the world.
” I turn to the audience. “Her signature rainbow swirl, of course.” I turn back to Aarti.
“But I’ve got two fairy godmothers in Jen and Mary who can probably help us navigate that.
They’ve already helped me start my own truck. ”
“Truck?”
“Of the ice cream persuasion.”
“No way?” Aarti lights up.
“‘Split Happens’,” I grin.
She laughs that full-body laugh I’ve missed so desperately. Then her expression softens. “You’re responsible in so many ways for tonight. Do you want to say a few words to close us out?”
I turn to face the audience, still gripping Aarti’s hand, which she squeezes back.
“The last time I was on this stage, I impaled myself on a diorama of LA’s public transit system and exploded a canister of nitrogen.”
Laughter rings out across the studio.
“But even concussed and bleeding on that seven-hundred-thousand-dollar backdrop,” I continue, “I couldn’t help but feel I was in exactly the right place. Sometimes you have to break everything apart to see what’s at the center.”
I turn back to Aarti. We communicate everything in a single look–forgiveness, understanding, hope… permission. We both nod, ever so slightly.
“And for the record,” I say, looking directly into her eyes, “I love you and your rainbow heart.”
The audience explodes. But I barely hear them because Aarti pulls me close, and we’re kissing on live television–not the tentative kiss of new love but the certain kiss of two people who’ve found their way back to each other.
“I love you, too, Noa Hart,” she murmurs into my ear.
When we finally break apart, both of us crying and laughing, Aarti turns to Camera A with that mischievous grin I fell in love with.
“That’s it for tonight. And possibly my entire career! Sorry to Gretchen Gordon, but… I guess that’s showbiz?” she winks. “Thank you everyone!”
The credits roll, the audience is on their feet, and I’m exactly where I belong: standing beside the woman I love who makes life infinitely sweeter.