“Of course not,” he says, checking the time on his phone. “We discussed it over text first thing this morning.”
“See,you’rethe ones making it into something more than it is.”
Gabe puts his phone in his pocket and puts his hands on Ari’s shoulders. “There’s a window. You waited too long. The window for a no-strings hookup closed on the two of you months ago.”
“That’s not true. I always leave the window open a crack.”
“Say whatever you want, but it’s gonna be one hell of an awkward DTR conversation,” he adds. “He has heart-eyes.”
“I think we can just…walk it back.” Even as the words leave her mouth it feels hopeless.
Gabe gives her a patronizing “sure you can” nod. “I have to ask…what the hell was he doing to you that made you say the phrase that shall not be named?”
Ari chokes on her comically large drink. She feels nauseous—not just because of the smell of sour alcohol and musty garden-level air. “Hey,” she says after the coughing fit subsides, “have you ever heard of something called WinProv?”
“Great segue. You should teach classes on avoidance.” He tosses back his drink. “Some corporate comedy training bullshit?”
“Bullshit with travel and an actual paycheck.” Ari pulls out her phone and shows him the WinProv website.
Gabe scans the screen, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” he says. Something passes over his face—worse than actual anger. Disappointment. “What about LaughRiot? Our Harold team? You’re really going to walk out on us?”
“You guys have been performing without me for months. You don’t need me.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re actually considering doingthis.” He thrusts her phone back at her. “Not you.”
“You played Gaston in Japan for six months!”
“That’sacting,” he insists. “This? Is disloyal. It’s selling out. You’re better than this.”
“I’m just considering my options.”
They stare at each other for a long beat before Gabe shakes his head and walks away. It’s somehow more cutting than a huge blowup. There’s something especially awful about his subdued disillusionment.
Ari takes a breath in, turns around, and heads for the exit, fumbling to swipe the WinProv website off the phone screen.
Something even more fraught replaces it.
Mon, Jan 16, 9:57p.m.
Josh:Sup.
It’s almost worse than heart emojis.
She stumbles through the doorway and into the chilly night air, hittingcallbefore she can decide not to.
JOSH PACES THElength of his apartment in large, steady steps.
“You were chatty today,” Ari says. “Is there anyone in this city you didn’t contact this morning?”
“That was an accident,” he points out.
“I don’t want to get a congratulatory message from your mom next…or your therapist, or your accountant.” There’s a long pause.
“Can we talk about this?”
“Can we?” The line goes silent for thirty seconds. His jaw is practically grinding into the phone until she adds, “It was—”
