Chapter 4 New York, New York #2
The line for the theater stretched back toward Ninth Avenue. Inside, Ian was waiting near the bar.
“There you are,” he said. “Good. I signed you both up. They’re about to open the house.”
“Signed us both—”
“For the jam,” said Ian. “It’s really important you play tonight.”
“What?” said AJ. Jams were a free-for-all, a set of disconnected improv scenes performed by the first twenty-five randos to enlist.
“Okay,” said Dave brightly. “I’ve always wanted to be framed at an improv show.”
As he walked toward the dressing room, Ian turned to AJ. “You too.”
AJ gave a start. “This is cryptic.”
“I’ll explain after,” said Ian, handing her his beer.
AJ glanced warily at the stage. “You know I don’t, like, enjoy performing.”
“You’ll thank me later,” said Ian, nodding toward the dressing room.
AJ downed the rest of the beer, dropped her stuff, and followed Dave out. Toni was already onstage, chatting avidly with an extremely handsome Asian man AJ had never met.
“Age, what are you doing here?” said Toni, beckoning them over.
AJ shook her head. “Ask Ian.”
Toni grimaced, then turned to her friend. “Guys, do you remember me talking about my hot friend Xiaobo from Second City? Look! He’s here!”
“Hi, Xiaobo,” said AJ, grinning. “We’re Toni’s hot friends from UCB—AJ and Dave.”
“AJ, of course! We’ve emailed.” Xiaobo laughed. “I’m still sad I couldn’t make Toni’s birthday party. It would have been my first DeLorean-themed soiree.”
“There’s always next year,” said Dave, drinking Xiaobo in. “Wait, weren’t you on 30 Rock?”
Xiaobo’s nose scrunched. “Only for a few episodes.”
“What brings you to New York?” asked AJ.
“Just this thing tonight,” he said.
Above, the lights flashed. “Come on down for the eleven-thirty jam,” brayed the MC.
Before AJ could ask Xiaobo what he meant, Dave and Toni shuffled her toward the backline, a garland of improvisers standing shoulder to shoulder.
As the audience filled in, more and more players took the stage. And to AJ’s mounting alarm, they weren’t randos at all, but the very best improvisers at UCB.
“This is kind of a stacked lineup,” she whispered to Dave.
“Stacked lineup,” Dave hissed back. “This is murderers’ row!”
AJ laughed, reaching up to redo her ponytail. She had no idea what Ian was up to, but—
The skin at the nape of her neck prickled. Her heart began to pound.
AJ froze, hands caught in her hair.
Her mouth went suddenly dry as every thought eddied from her head but one.
Noah.
A primal awareness clanged through her, reducing her nervous system to something ancient and alert. He was here. AJ didn’t know how, but she knew it as sure as she knew her siblings’ names.
Impossible.
And yet, AJ’s body was reacting as if a homing beacon had been switched on, alien tech encoded in her DNA, lying dormant for years until activated by some long-forgotten trigger.
As a large shadow eclipsed the stage lights, AJ had about half a second to register what it was.
His scent.
After seven years, it was still as familiar to her as the three-note song of her home phone number.
Then the lights hit his silhouette, gilding the six foot three frame, the shaggy black hair, the broad shoulders, and there he was.
Beside AJ, Dave gave a start. “Is that—”
“Noah Drew,” whispered Xiaobo.
A wave of recognition rippled through the theater. AJ distinctly heard the words “HBO” and “Sparta” and “Leonidas” popcorn through the crowd. She hadn’t seen the show, but she had seen the posters of Noah’s shield-compatible, war-splattered eight-pack at her L stop.
AJ didn’t move. She was tucked behind Toni and Dave. Maybe he hadn’t seen her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she clocked the typical dark clothing, the telltale roll of his shoulders, that wild grace. Then Noah stalked toward the other end of the backline.
For a full beat, AJ stayed where she was. Slowly she lowered her hands. The sounds of the black box were gone—all AJ could hear was her pulse in her ears.
What the living fuck was he doing at UCB?
She should leave. But how? If she walked back into the house, he would definitely see her. The backstop had two doors—she could slip through the nearest one. Tell Ian she was feeling sick.
The theater plunged into darkness. The show had begun.
Cold sluiced through AJ as the lights came up and one of their fellow players stepped forward to solicit a suggestion from the crowd. A volley of ideas launched into the air.
Motherfucker. AJ was trapped onstage. With the most brilliant improvisers at UCB.
And Noah Drew.
“The suggestion is ‘waiting,’ thank you.”
AJ watched Toni and Xiaobo begin a scene, half listening as more players jumped in. It was incredible improv, which was no surprise considering this all-star lineup.
AJ wasn’t a star. She was group game material at best. What the fuck was she doing up there?
Ian had lost his mind. Fuck. Okay. She would wait it out on the backline. Hide. Rip Ian a new one after and—
Why was no one editing this scene? The bit had stopped being funny thirty seconds ago. AJ stood inert, silently scripting endings in her head. Wasn’t anyone going to step in?
There was so much talent on this stage. Too much talent.
And that’s when it clicked.
Ian didn’t want her to star in the show. He wanted her to produce it.
Before she could stop herself, AJ moved.
“Order up,” she heard herself say; then she cut in front of the players to end the scene.
As the next one began, she felt Noah go still. His gaze was a physical thing as it swept her face, her throat. Quickly, she tagged out and rejoined the backline, her entire body flushed.
She didn’t need to look to feel Noah take a breath at the other end of the stage.
Now he was out, and the energy in the black box had shifted, and God, his fucking presence.
“This day is prettier than a Windows screen saver,” said his scene partner.
“But those birds can’t hold a candle to NOW That’s What I Call Music! 4,” said Noah.
As the crowd laughed, AJ felt the blood drain from her face.
Hi, he was saying.
Slowly, AJ allowed her eyes to drift toward him.
From her position on the backline, she could just make out his sharp, high cheekbones, the long profile, the dark sweep of his brow.
He looked so…powerful. The same broad shoulders she remembered, but now with a chest to match.
His hands and feet no longer seemed like flippers. He’d grown into them.
Onstage, an imaginary bird attacked. As Noah whirled around, AJ’s gaze dropped to the floor.
The jam progressed, and AJ made a game of helping other people’s scenes. Again and again, she sliced in like a scalpel, never off the backline for more than a beat. Whenever she stepped out, she could feel Noah’s focus engulf her like an old, ironic T-shirt—intent, amused, incredulous.
Noah was playing a game of his own—he seemed to want to be in a scene with everyone. The crowd was in a lather as he darted about, interweaving loose ends into hilarity.
AJ and Noah tagged in and out, black then white, missing each other by seconds.
Then he caught her.
As AJ stepped forward to initiate a callback, Noah met her center stage in two deliberate strides.
He towered above her, his dark, intelligent gaze latching on to hers with such intensity that the air left her lungs.
As their eyes met, time frayed, seven years trying to pass through the span of a single second.
AJ couldn’t help it. She stared at his face. His beautiful face.
Her shadow.
Her friend.
She had missed him so fucking much.
Noah inhaled sharply, his eyes full of unspoken words. AJ’s nostrils flared, throat constricting.
The audience unconsciously hushed, sensing their connection.
No.
AJ widened her stance, the heels of her sneakers digging into the tarry surface of the stage.
He didn’t get to come here, to her place, and look at her like that. Not after what he’d done.
Anger broke over AJ with an explosiveness she couldn’t contain. It was instinct to run at him. AJ took off, charging full force across the stage.
Her hands collided with the thick muscles of his deltoids, and it was a mark of how she had surprised him that she managed to drive him back a couple paces before he caught her.
AJ felt those enormous hands grasp her shoulders, his thumbs hooking her collarbones through the thin fabric of her shirt. They were lunging at each other now, foreheads inches apart, and his warmth, his fucking scent, had AJ baring her teeth, pushing him harder.
But he was too strong. He forced her back until they were center once more. With a small shove, he threw her off, separating them. AJ immediately felt a chill where his hands had been.
Somewhere in the distance, the audience roared with laughter.
AJ and Noah watched each other, breathing hard. She could feel herself trembling, but she refused to be the one to look away. Noah’s expression was unreadable. For a moment, he just took her in.
Then calmly, decisively, he shoved one of the prop chairs toward her. The last of the laughter died as it skittered to a halt at AJ’s feet.
She stared at it wide-eyed. An initiation. A challenge.
You can’t hide from me, he was saying.
As she lifted her gaze to his, she saw the muscle in his jaw tense and she felt it—that energetic thrum in her sternum, an unmistakable tug, as if by a wire.
The ambient sounds in the black box lowered half a decibel.
Your scene partner is your life.
AJ had believed that, once.
And very, very deep down, part of her still did.
In the space of a blink, she felt her conscious self give way.
Now this was AJ, but not AJ. Her energy had risen to meet Noah Drew’s. They stood facing each other, haloed opposites, him dark and her light. The crowd was spellbound. This wasn’t comedy.
It was theater.
As AJ stepped up onto the chair, Noah’s eyes never left hers.
Then the basement was gone, replaced by a moonlit garden. This was no chair; it was a balcony.
And once more, AJ and Noah vanished into those timeless lovers.