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“NBS Studios.”
“Holy moly, Olivia! You’re gonna be on The Late Night Show!” Amy squeals while Chuck plugs the destination in his GPS.
“ETA is 1:34 p.m.,” Chuck announces, and attaches his device to a vent holder. As long as that number doesn’t go up, I may actually pull this off.
I pop my head in between the front seats. “You two may have just saved my comic career.”
The Mr. and Mrs. seem pleased with themselves and share a sweet kiss just inches from my face. For a split second, I almost miss Nick’s kiss. Almost.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Speak of the devil. It’s Nick, the bastard. I send it to voicemail and catch a glimpse of his face on my shirt. Geez, what a terrible idea it was to wear this.
“Honey, can I play some music?” Amy asks, and her hubby replies, “Whatever you want.”
You see. That should’ve been my first clue—what kind of selfish jerk makes me negotiate for one measly song an hour? Then the melancholy sounds of “Heartbreak Hotel” move through the speakers. Of course she’s playing Elvis. One of his little helpers just pronounced them husband and wife last night. I hate that it reminds me of Nick. The way he kissed me last night. I should forget about it. Especially since he’s just days away from forgetting about me.
How did I not know any better? And why, after I let him in, told him everything, did he still keep this from me? And what kills me the most is he’s giving up a comedy career stand-ups like me would kill for. The guy must be a lunatic.
Then, as if he can feel me thinking of him, he calls again. This time I almost pick up just to tell him off. But I wouldn’t know what to say, and I’m not in the mood to hear anything he has to say. So I ignore him once more.
I fuel all my emotion into reconstructing my set on paper, listening back to my show from last night, and keeping an eye on the ETA—1:37 now. Still ahead of schedule.
—
After stopping by a drive-thru Jack in the Box somewhere outside the Mojave Desert, we get back on the highway. The new ETA is 2:11 p.m. Totally fine.
Crossing into Los Angeles, the clock strikes T-minus twenty minutes. I glance down at my outfit. Nick’s face stares back at me. It’s almost showtime and I’ll be damned if I bring him along in any way, shape, or form.
“Hey,” I call to my escorts. “I hate to do this but I can’t wear this to my audition so I’m gonna need to change back here.”
“That’s fine!” Chuck says, and Amy smacks his shoulder.
“Save the show for the stage, okay?” she says playfully, but I’m already slipping a new top over Nick’s Buh-Bye shirt, so that Chuck doesn’t catch a glimpse of my goods.
Finally, I look the part of a late-night TV comic, but we’re slowing down. Way down. Four lanes of cars sit bumper to bumper. Windshields glare in the hot afternoon sun. Current ETA—2:18 p.m. No, no, no. I pull up the directions on my phone. That dreaded red line runs along the highway until just before the exit to the studio.
Fucking L.A. traffic! Is rush hour every hour out here?
Bernie was right to rush me this morning. And now I’m about twelve minutes from getting screwed. I didn’t want to do this but now I have no choice. I dial Bernie—maybe she can push back the audition time, tell them I’m a Texas–New York transplant that didn’t account for “the 5.”
There’s no answer so I leave her a frantic message. I don’t have a number to the studio but I dial whatever I can find online. It’s nothing but operators with Valley girl accents giving me the runaround. The closer we get, the more the ETA increases until finally I see the source of this mess. A broken-down bus taking up a whole lane.
I think back to when I left my apartment—Imani and I joking about not getting hit by buses. That joke is officially retired. I will be too because now my ETA is 2:39 p.m. Ten minutes late—any chance that’s on time by Los Angeles standards?
Traffic begins to move once more. “Hey, Chuck,” I say, “is there any way you can pick up the speed? I don’t know if I’m gonna make it.”
“I’m going as fast as I can. Any luck getting your agent on the phone?”
I look back at the screen for any missed notifications though I’ve been white-knuckling the phone for the past thirty minutes. “No.”
My head swims with what-ifs and fresh tears sting my eyes. I have to get there. I just have to.
