Fifty-Two
There is nothing like walking into a bar at eleven at night and seeing a gorgeous man rise to his feet because he’s been watching
the door, waiting for you to arrive. Nate wore jeans and a flannel, his smile warm, his dark hair a little messy. Even as
I smiled at him, I could feel the paternity test in my purse, pulsing and glowing, radioactive. I still had no idea how he
felt about the fact he might be my kids’ bio dad.
“You look so alive,” Nate said. “And great! I mean, I’m glad you’re alive. And you look great.”
It was good to know he was nervous too. And that he’d noticed I’d put on a date outfit—a cotton sweater and jean skirt with
platform sneakers. It was so warm out my legs were bare. The bandage on my neck made me look like someone had recently tried
to slit my throat, but there was nothing to be done about that. “It’s good to see you. And to be alive,” I said, realizing
how true it was.
Once we’d jostled our way to the bar and were waiting to order, Nate swallowed hard and said, “I’m not supposed to say this,
for liability reasons. But my team completely screwed the pooch today. Agent Lanagan let you . . .” He paused. “We let you get kidnapped. Kidnapped! Classic interagency fuckup. So many cooks in the kitchen no one can even tell who’s actually
an arms dealer in a chef’s hat.” He hung his head in a way that reminded me of Phoebe when she was stuck on a math problem.
I patted his back. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m all right.”
“No! Keeping you safe was our number one priority.” His eyes filled with tears and his voice hitched as he said, “I wanted to be your security detail myself, but my superiors wouldn’t okay it. Said I was too ‘emotionally involved.’ But you could’ve been . . .” He shuddered.
I felt bad for him, so I said, “I mean, we already know in this country a couple white guys in suits can basically get away
with anything. Add fake FBI badges and their authority is hard to question.”
“Thanks for being understanding,” Nate said. “Still, I’m mortified.”
Hopefully you’ll be as understanding if you ever find out all the illegal things I’ve done over the last two weeks, I thought. But what I said was: “Sure.”
“How’s your neck?”
“Aside from the fact that I look like an extra in a slasher movie, it’s gonna be fine,” I said, though it actually hurt like
hell. “I was lucky.” Wanting to change the subject, I said, “But you saw my set? At least the part I got to do?”
His face lit up. “I didn’t think anything could beat your stand-up for the lower elementary crowd. But your adult material
is even better.”
As I gave an awkward little curtsy, my phone dinged. I glanced down to see if it was Emmylou, who’d come over to my side of
the duplex in case the twins woke up while I was gone. But it was only Layna. As a single mom, turning my phone off was a
“never” event. But this one time I decided to take the risk.
Once we’d gotten our beers and settled in on bar stools, Nate and I clinked pint classes to celebrate the fact that Ralphie
and Errol had been arrested and the ATF would be able to put the kibosh on Day of the Rope. We’d swiveled on our stools to
face each other. Even though the denim of his jeans kept our skin from actually touching, I was again acutely aware of the
place where our knees pressed against each other.
“You were so brave today,” Nate said. The adoration in his eyes felt so good, it was literally painful. There was no way he’d
look at me like that if he knew about all the lies, all the things I hadn’t told him.
I shrugged.
“You know, I’m ready to take that test,” he said. He moved his hand and for a moment I thought he’d put it on top of mine, but then at the last second he retracted it. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch me—or even say the word “paternity.”
“Maybe you’ll be off the hook.” I sounded salty, but I couldn’t help it. I’d been on my own for so long. I couldn’t let myself
be an idiot, couldn’t yearn for a fairy-tale happy ending.
“I don’t know what you want,” he said. “But I don’t want to be off the hook. I told my sister I’m afraid I want it too much—you know, to be the twins’ donor.”
My breath caught. It’d been years since I’d hoped to find a worthy guy. And I never once thought my kids would have a shot
at a great dad. Still, it was hard to trust this wouldn’t all turn into a tangle of complications. Hard to believe I could
start a real relationship on a foundation of lies. But I wanted to try. “My woo-woo friends don’t believe in coincidences.”
“What do they believe in?” he asked. We were so close now I could see his individual eyelashes. I couldn’t let myself kiss
him until we knew for sure if he was the girls’ bio dad. Otherwise things felt too muddled.
“They think coincidences are actually signposts from the Universe that you’re on the right track,” I said. This might not
be the right track at all. This could be a disaster in so many ways. But inside my chest, hope, that most dangerous of emotions,
fluttered and preened and stretched its fragile wings. I pulled the paternity test from my purse and slid it to him across
the bar. “I already swabbed Alice’s cheek so you just have to do your swab and drop it in the mail,” I said. He looked at
me and nodded, eyes solemn. My heart—straining with guilt and yearning—felt ready to burst. I couldn’t stay. There was too
much uncertainty, too much at stake (and also the cut on my neck really did hurt like a bitch). I stood up, leaned in to kiss
him on the cheek, and hurried toward the door.
It wasn’t until I’d parked the Impala behind my house that I remembered to turn my phone back on.
Text messages buzzed and dinged. For a second, terror that something had happened to the twins seized me, followed by the certainty Miranda was blowing up my phone about her mom.
But the messages weren’t from Emmylou or Miranda.
My friend Patzi, who worked at House of Intuition in West Hollywood, had texted: Damn, girl! You did it! Headed toward viral.
Miley O’Riley: T&A and great jokes! Perfection!!!!
Layna: That outfit I gave you looks hawt xo
As my agitated mind tried to make sense of the digital onslaught, a link Layna had sent burst open. A fifteen-second clip
of me onstage at the Winter Will Never End Festival, talking about how being a mom and being a stripper both involve telling
someone else not to put their hand down their pants.
The Winter Will Never End Festival had seven thousand followers on Instagram. But the video already had 75,000 likes. It took
some digging to figure out Patzi had posted it on her grid. All the hot LA influencers hire Patzi to do their birth charts
and tarot readings. Some of them had reposted the reel, which was what was giving it so much traction.
Another clip, of me lying on the ground doing leg lifts while joking about the genius Cookie Mueller, already had 50K likes.
I was too overwhelmed to go down the rabbit hole of who had posted it and why.
On America’s Got Talent, when a contestant performs with such undeniable genius that one of the judges hits the Golden Buzzer, the contestant always
bursts into tears as the golden tickets rain down. Sometimes she collapses onto the floor of the stage, so overwhelming is
the sense of finally being seen and recognized for her talents.
I’d always thought if this moment ever came, that’s how it’d be for me.
But instead, I had a feeling like when you’re at a party and you get stuck in the bathroom.
You can’t unlock the door, and right when you really start to panic, the lock unlocks and the door swings open, and you step back out into your real life.
That was the feeling: a profound and nearly cellular relief.
I hadn’t found my audience because I’d gotten the backing of a powerful but sexually deviant comic or a fickle manager at
a fancy agency. Not even because some network executive had reached down from on high and anointed me a Queen of Comedy. I’d
done it because a high school pal I’d long neglected had offered me a humble slot at a dinky festival.
And, despite threats to my person and my dignity, I’d taken a risk.