New York, New York #18
“Really,” said Noah skeptically. “You’re probably disappointed it didn’t finish me off.”
AJ shook her head. “If I get that way, it’s because deep down I’m terrified of losing you.”
Noah blinked at her a few times, then to her surprise, he enveloped her in a hug. The audience was moved and so was AJ.
As they bowed, she felt a tiny sprout of hope.
They had six performances left.
Monday was “dark” on Broadway, so AJ and Noah had the day off. While he rose early with Bud, she slept in until he returned with coffee and the paper. Apparently, The New York Times had reviewed the previous night’s show.
“Watching AJ Graves and Noah Drew improvise is like listening to Don Felder and Joe Walsh on the 1980 live LP of Hotel California,” AJ read to him. “They play as if they’re one instrument.”
“I know that recording,” Noah scoffed. “That solo wouldn’t work without the bass.”
AJ rolled her eyes and continued to scan the review. It was mostly about the historic significance of the performance and Noah—they’d been careful to keep anything personal away from the press, including that AJ had been Eudora’s student. AJ did get one other favorable mention.
AJ Graves, best known as a staff writer for SNL, proves an excellent foil for Drew. Even as he bears down on her with a wall of emotion, she manages to keep him dancing on his toes.
She glanced up to see Noah watching her indulgently, and it hit her. He had brought the paper home just so she could see it. He didn’t read his own reviews.
They went for a run in the park, and AJ was glad for the fresh air. It was warm for mid-October, and being outside felt like finding a little sliver of their idyllic summer embedded in the city.
On the elevator ride back to AJ’s apartment, Noah pushed her up against the wall and started kissing her. Once inside, he tried to lead her to the bed, but AJ made an excuse about them being filthy (which they were), and they had Ektorp sex instead.
The truth was, AJ didn’t know how many times they had left. Couch sex seemed to imply a lot, so she could actually enjoy it. Bed sex, however, had started to reek of Last-Time Sex, and the thought of having Last-Time Sex with Noah made AJ sick.
She knew she had made the right call as soon as he hit the shower.
When AJ opened the closet to toss her laundry into the hamper, she was stunned to find that Noah had removed all of his black crew neck sweatshirts but one.
He must have taken his stuff out of the apartment that morning while she slept.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
When he emerged from the bathroom, she hadn’t moved.
“Your sweatshirts are gone.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his shoulders stoop. “It’s for the best.”
You cannot believe that, she wanted to shout. Instead, she averted her gaze and got in the shower.
The next night, she initiated by pronouncing Noah’s character dead.
“I just c-c-can’t believe it, Doctor,” she gasped.
“It is unbelievable,” said Noah dryly.
AJ then forced Noah to play a slew of rebound lovers to the bereaved W. She picked them up at a local dive by writing her number on their plates in ketchup.
The chair had been fixed again, and AJ used it to stage fuck W’s lovers in several positions.
After every one, she cried for missing F.
Once a respectful mourning period had been observed, AJ informed Noah that he was now Hank, the guy who would never live up to F’s memory.
They spent what felt like an eternity as W and Hank, during which a kindly Hank could not reach a disenchanted and emotionally unavailable W.
The set ended with W going back to the dive bar to try to feel something with a stranger.
Noah left the stage without AJ after one curtain call, and she did not know which he would rather do: yell at her or Heathcliffian Death Fuck her. The question had to be put on hold because Dave and Dani Chan were waving her down outside their dressing room.
“Age, nice job,” said Dave, giving her a quick hug. “That was…really dark.”
“Right?” said AJ, affecting cheer.
At that moment, Noah stalked up to them.
“Hey, Dave. Hey, Dani,” he said evenly. “Thanks for coming.”
“Nice job, Rho,” said Dave. Dani eyed Noah skeptically.
Five shows left.
For their second Wednesday performance, Noah initiated a scene close to his heart.
“We’re renovating the kitchen,” he announced.
“I have some news, too,” said AJ. “The FDA just approved a new treatment for your cancer. Sure is lucky we held out, even when they told us it was hopeless.”
Noah’s energy coiled like a serpent ready to strike. He nodded stiffly.
“Just in time for the renovation, too,” AJ added chipperly.
He agreed to the treatments, and for a while everything went well.
It was a particularly spicy evening for W and F. Noah had never kissed AJ onstage this much. To AJ’s embarrassment, this was deeply affecting. She could not help how her body responded to him, and every time he initiated physical intimacy, she would get increasingly turned on.
“God, you get me going,” he said, pulling her hips flush against his groin. The audience hooted as he brought their lips together, as she gasped. More.
Then it stopped.
The drug, Noah informed her, was having deleterious side effects. The prime one was that he no longer had interest in sex with her.
“But you never know, it might come back,” he said. “Hand me that demo bar, will you?”
Over the course of several titillating scenes, he came onto her, then backed off. He did it again and again, to the point where AJ could no longer hide how upset she actually was.
“I don’t understand,” she said in shame and humiliation.
“This just isn’t who I am anymore,” Noah informed her.
“Then let’s stop the medication,” she said, tears in her eyes.
“It’s not the medication,” he revealed. Noah looked directly at her as he spoke his next line. “This is a side effect of the disease.”
The set ended with a defeated W leaving F to live in the house on his own.
The next day, they found out that Em Tyner had attended the performance. They hadn’t heard him knock on the dressing room door. They’d been too busy Heathcliffian Death Fucking on the green leather couch.
Four shows left.
Thursday night, AJ wanted to make Noah hurt. She took center stage in the white shirt and announced that there had been a miracle.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Noah’s eyes flashed at her. “Are you sure?” he said, the energy inside of him rupturing.
AJ swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said and handed him an imaginary object she informed the audience was a red Hot Wheels.
It was a medical marvel. The formerly sterile F had somehow inseminated W, and now a baby was coming. AJ made it everything she knew he would want: the building of the crib, the selection of the perfect car seat. They both cried holding the imaginary baby for the first time.
The child grew quickly. F couldn’t leave the house, but it didn’t matter. They were all together, and they were happy. Then miracle of miracles, a sister. Now they had two children—Halloweens and Christmases and summers under the stars.
“Dad, tell me a story,” said AJ, clasping his hand.
For a second, Noah couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
After, he rounded on her in the wings, eyes swimming. “You,” he heaved, “are a cruel bitch.”
He didn’t go home with her that night. He took Bud from the dressing room and left without changing clothes. AJ waited for him for an hour, but he didn’t return. She walked home after midnight and waited still. Finally, at three a.m., she took two Benadryl and passed out.
Three shows left.
AJ had never been so scared to go on as she was for their second Friday performance.
She hadn’t seen or heard from Noah all day.
He didn’t appear in the dressing room beforehand.
AJ sat watching the clock and quaking. She was dangerously close to making a break for the lobby bar when the stage manager told her to get in position. Alone, she trembled in the wing.
Then the lights came up, and there he was.
He didn’t look as if he’d slept at all. They made their way through the scripted portion of the play mainly on muscle memory.
When the audience laughed at their first joke, AJ wanted to ask them Why?
As they arrived at the improvised section, AJ became increasingly aware of her pulse in her ears.
She met Noah’s eyes searchingly; his energy was ashen, unnervingly still. He indicated that AJ should sit, so she sat. He straightened out his white shirt and took the chair across from hers.
“Will you hand me that glue?” he asked.
AJ’s heart sank. “Sure,” she said. “What are you making?”
Noah bent forward over the imaginary table. “A model plane.”
It started with a tremor in his right hand, so slight it was barely noticeable. They were going about their ordinary domestic activities and everything was fine, except for small moments when his hand would seize. He’d laugh it off, tell her not to worry.
But then it wasn’t just his hand. He started raising his eyebrows in a way that was disturbing. Now they thought he might have cancer, too. They were looking into it with F’s doctors.
“Is this normal for cancer?” asked AJ.
“This isn’t cancer,” Noah informed her.
Back at the house, W was tripping and dropping things. And now his legs and arms were starting to move uncontrollably, in large windmill motions. They could barely hold a conversation for the rocking, and yet they pressed on.
Over the next half an hour, several years passed in W’s prognosis, until Noah was barely propped up in his chair. Drool was covering his chin, and his eyes were looking all around the set. AJ was striving desperately to understand him.
“You need something,” she tried. “You need water? You need food?”
Noah glanced at her briefly, then wet himself.
The audience murmured. It took everything AJ had not to slap him.