“No, you shouldn’t have.”

  I’m not even sure if I should say what I’m about to, because there’s only one reason someone keeps that token of love after the big D. “And I’m sorry about your divorce. I had no idea.”

  I watch him swallow something back before he looks at me—the Priscilla version. “I should’ve mentioned it before.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Nick knits his brow like he doesn’t know why. “I don’t like to talk about it. So I don’t.”

  “I get that.”

  “You do?” Nick stares at me as if he’s trying to see past the lenses and the lashes and the makeup. And I do get it. There are many things I refuse to verbally acknowledge because when you voice something, it’s real and you can’t take it back.

  “Yeah.” Maybe Nick and I have more in common than I realized. I’m not hiding a divorce but there are painful things in my past that I prefer not to address with anyone, not even myself.

  “So, can I buy you a burger? Any kind you want,” I ask.

  “Sure. As long as I can get out of this jumpsuit first.”

  “What’s the rush? You can totally pull it off.”

  “Really? Because I feel like Liberace’s nephew,” he says, and I laugh—grateful for the joke. “You look pretty though.”

  My face feels warm and tingly at his words. “I do?”

  “Yeah, in a drunk ’60s housewife kinda way.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Triple pay, free hotel makes for a very good night of sleep (alone—in case you were wondering). After our continental breakfast, we get our second cups of joe to go and soon we’re cruising south down I-55 toward Mississippi. Gray clouds cover the sky but so far no rain. So we ride with the windows down, Boston’s “Peace of Mind” playing on the radio. I attempt to craft some new jokes on my legal pad—something about macing a man with Paco Rabanne has to have a good punchline in there somewhere.

  “Question time.” Nick shifts in his seat then looks to me. “If you could have a burger tonight with any comedian, dead or alive, who would it be?”

  “Is this our version of punch buggy?” I blow a bubble with my cherry-flavored gum that lost its flavor ten minutes post-unwrapping.

  “Yeah, not a lot of Volkswagens in these parts.”

  I gaze out at the long stretch of road, flipping through my mental catalog of favorite comedians. One legendary stand-up, who more recently kicked the bucket, comes to mind. “I’m gonna have to go with Joan Rivers.”

  “Why Joan Rivers?” he asks.

  “Well, aside from being a pioneer, she’s the only comedian who’s performed in as much makeup as I did last night.”

  “Very true.”

  “You know she was making single-girl jokes in the ’60s on The Ed Sullivan Show? And they were hilarious!” I have to imagine my comedic heroes as young girls, sitting on the floor in front of the family television, watching Joan Rivers, opening their minds to roles they never thought possible—the single female stand-up comedian.

  “So what about you?” I ask.

  “I’m in a classic-comedian mood too, so I’ll say Lenny Bruce.”

  Oh, Lenny Bruce. The original icon of every rebellious stand-up. “You two could certainly have a smoke together.”

  “Yes, we could.” Nick pats around the center compartments for his cigarettes and flips the top of the box open, slinking out a stick.

  “He was only forty when he overdosed,” I say.

  Nick drops the smoke back in the box. “It’s too bad. A lot of great comedians die young—Chris Farley, Bill Hicks, Mitch Hedberg, Andy Kaufman—”

  “Patrice O’Neal,” I add.

  “His last special had me rolling on the floor,” Nick says, glancing my way.

  “Me too!”

  “You have to hear this song Bob Dylan wrote about Lenny Bruce.” Nick grabs his phone and with a few swipes, a soft, simple piano melody begins. It’s not the only song that mentions the trailblazing comedian.

  “You think Lenny Bruce ever thought so many people would memorialize him in their music?” I ask.

  “I doubt it. I doubt he knew how much he meant to people. How much he was loved. It’s a special thing, when a comic puts you, or a moment with you, in a joke, or a writer in a book, or a singer in a song.”

  I think back to Nick’s joke about the flat tire. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll be this world-famous stand-up, playing Madison Square Garden, and talking about the girl who changed the tire for him. That would be pretty cool. I sit quietly for a moment, taking in more of Dylan’s lyrics. “You really like music, huh?”

  “Yeah. Before you it was my only road companion.” He smiles. We may be talking about comedians from the past, but I can see by the look on his face we’ve moved on from yesterday. “A good song is like a good set.”

  “Yeah, except music is rarely ever funny.”

  “Yes, but a good joke and a good song require the same ingredient.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pain. The kind that connects with the audience on a deeper level. It’s like that quote, ‘To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it.’ ”

  “Liza from Funnies said that to me last week. Charlie Chaplin, right?”

  “That’s right. Tapping into that is what makes a song memorable. It’s what gets the punchline a real laugh. And isn’t that why we got into this business? For real laughs.”

  I sit back and close my eyes for a moment, and if I give myself just a second, I can almost hear my audience’s laugh. I let that audible memory wash over me. “What is it about laughs that are so . . . so . . .”

  “Delicious?”

  “Yes, that’s the perfect word.”

  “I don’t know. I think we’re just born craving them,” Nick says.

  “Mm-hmm. Bless our hearts.”

  Dylan’s song concludes with the piano melody outro and then the Jeep is silent. For the first time since we’ve been on the road, nothing’s playing on the radio and neither of us does anything about it.

  “Can I ask you something personal?” I say.

  “Only if I can ask you something personal too.”

  Of course this is a quid-pro-quo situation. “All right,” I say. “But me first. If you believe our job is to tap into our pain, then how come you never talk about your divorce onstage?”

  He lets out a sigh and settles his wrist at twelve o’clock on the steering wheel. “You know how we comedians find humor in everything?”

  “Yeah.” It’s true. When you’re a comedian everything is funny ha-ha, even really inappropriate things. Humor provides us humans a way to cope with hard things. Comedians are just experts at it.

  “Well,” he continues, “I haven’t exactly been able to find the humor in the ending of my marriage.”

  His confession makes me wonder if that’s why I never make jokes about my dad kicking the bucket. How funny can death be anyway? Then again, I’ve seen George Carlin pull it off so . . . “That’s understandable,” I say. “How long were you married?”

  “Five years.”

  “Wow!” I jerk back in my seat.

  “What?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t really see you as the commitment type.”

  “That’s because I’m not . . . anymore.” Of course. All the hot ones are commitment-phobes.

  “Do you miss her?” I ask, then realize it’s a stupid question. Of course he misses her. Why else would he keep his wedding ring with him?

  “I don’t know if I miss her as much as I miss what we had. When it was good anyway.”

  “Is that why you keep your wedding ring?” I ask, gripping the edge of my seat. Why did I ask that? Of course I want to know (I’m sure you do too), but I don’t ever actually ask these kinds of questions. Now it’s too late to take it back.

  He looks my way like he’s surprised I’m this nosy after everything that’s happened. “No,” he says, and I feel the door of that subject close, lock, and nail shut. “Enough about me,” he says, breaking the silence. “Let’s talk about you.”

  “Me? I’ve never been married. Never even been a bridesmaid.”

  “You sound bitter about that,” he says.

  “You try spending your adolescence watching ’90s rom- coms. I just want to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Nick chuckles at me, shaking his head. He’d probably advise me to skip it. “I have a question for you now.” I brace myself for whatever intrusive inquiry is coming. “Did you really fake it the other night or did you just say that because you thought I made you the other woman?”

  Why did I not see this coming?

  “No, I really faked it,” I admit.

  “Oh, did I do something wrong?” The poor guy sounds discouraged.

  “Try not to take it personally. I just can’t get there.” This is a painful truth. Wonder if it’d make a good joke.

  “You mean during sex?”

  “I mean at all.”

  He takes his eyes off the road completely. “Wait a sec—you’ve never had an orgasm?”

  “God no, of course I have!”

  “Oh, whew!” He mimes wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “I just haven’t been able to for a while. It’s like when I moved to the city, I misplaced it somewhere between Fifth and Madison Avenue. No idea why. I even had a very humiliating conversation with my doctor and she said to be patient, that it’s probably stress-related. Everything is stress-related these days. But this is the least stressed I’ve been, and after you said you were so good, I thought maybe I’d find it again. But . . . yeah, still a no-show.”

  “Oh.” I bet he’s regretting his question right about now.

  “See, that look on your face. That’s why we fake it. It’s just cleaner. Simpler.”

  We sit in silence for a moment too long. Like it or not, there’s nothing clean and simple about this tour anymore. Maybe Bernie was right.

  Twenty-Eight

  We’ve been cruising down a two-lane highway lined with trees for almost an hour listening to Cheap Trick. Nick follows the GPS off the main highway. Having just traveled from major cities like New York, D.C., Atlanta, and Memphis, this place really sticks out. Because it’s the sticks. Even Midland looks like a metropolis in comparison.

  “What exactly is this place? I thought we were going to Gulfport.” I survey the gas station on the side of the road, catching a Wendy’s up ahead.

  “No idea. We’re just outside of it.”

  “Are you sure this place even has a comedy club?”

  “Yep, it’s new. Just opened up.”

  I like the idea of a small town like this in the middle of Mississippi opening a comedy club. It must mean they have a good sense of humor down here. At least I hope they do. “So Bernie booked this for you?” That woman never ceases to surprise me.

  “Actually, they called me directly,” he says. “I guess someone special-requested me. And it fit perfectly between Tennessee and Louisiana so I figured why not.”

  “Aw, Nicky.” I bat my lashes. “You have a fan.” He shoots me a sideways glare. If his merch sales are any indication, he has many fans. Now it’s only a matter of time before someone special-requests me (even in a podunk town like this).

  A couple hours later, after getting settled at our motel, we arrive at The Comedy Club—both its name and function. It sits in the middle of a quaint main street area of some little town in Mississippi that I keep forgetting the name of. The moment we walk in, my nose crinkles from the stench.

  What the . . . the place smells like an ashtray—the old-car kind that can’t close because it’s jammed with sticky tar. The farther we get inside the club the more I see why. Sooty old ashtrays litter each tabletop. Either the city hasn’t gotten the smoke-free memo or they just don’t give a damn.

  “Ugh. People actually smoke in here?” I ask.

  “Oh, hell yeah! I love this club.” Nick whips out a cigarette and pops it in his mouth.

  Gross. “How is this even legal?”

  “Why don’t you chill and have a smoke.” He offers his open pack for the second time this trip. I didn’t take it then and I sure as hell ain’t takin’ it now.

  I swat his hand away the way they taught us in the D.A.R.E. program. “What about smoking kills do you, and the patrons of this club, not get?”

  My tour buddy puts his arms around me, an unlit cigarette resting on his lip—Slash-style. “Let me share some wisdom with you.” I glance up at him. “Nonsmokers die . . . every day. That’s a fact.”

  “It’s also a Bill Hicks joke. You gonna steal any more of his routine tonight?”

  “Nah,” he says. “But I will enjoy one of these onstage like him. I really missed out on the ’90s comedy scene.”

  Nick gets his wish because The Comedy Club in Sometown, Mississippi, is like living in a ’90s time warp. The moment I step out in the spotlight, cigarette sparks flicker throughout the room and smoke billows out from the audience. I let out a rough cough. It’s like Philip Morris’s wet dream in here.

  When I take the mic, some dickwad whines, “Oh, man, not a woman.” I don’t know what idiot started the rumor that women aren’t funny but I’d like to chop his balls off so he knows what not-funny really looks like. (C’mon, like you’ve never threatened a man’s scrotum before?)

  I don’t let his misogyny throw me. Instead, I hold my head high so all the ladies in the audience know that we don’t back down. This time, I’m ready. Besides, Nick has fans here tonight and I want some too. So I lean into my Texas twang as I deliver my first punchline. It lands better than expected. Good. I keep truckin’.

  Then, thick clouds of cigarette smoke barrel onstage in what feels like a deadly assault. I wave my hand to clear the air but the smog sticks to me like a spiderweb. Stay calm, Olivia. Don’t let it get to you. Even smokers deserve to laugh. Assuming they can do it without wheezing.

  As I set up my next joke, my muscles stiffen as if the smoke is coiling around me like a boa constrictor. The mic trembles in my hand. What’s happening? I gasp for air but I can’t breathe.

  Oh my god, I can’t breathe. Am I dying? I think I’m dying.

  I can see the headline now—Unknown Comedian Olivia Vincent Drops Dead During Stand-Up Routine.

  That can’t be my story. I have to get out of here.

  My foot miraculously breaks free from this death spell and I take a step, leaving the mic in my place. After two steps, my blood surges with adrenaline and I run out of the club. I run until I reach the black Jeep and grab the door handle. It’s locked. Still gasping for air but not dead yet, I manage to climb on the hood and lie back, staring at the dusky sky.

  My shallow breaths grow deeper and the tingling feeling in my feet and mouth subsides. I slap two fingers on my neck and feel a thumping pulse. Is it normal?

  What the hell just happened?

  I peel my back off the hood of the Jeep and rub my eyes beneath my lenses. Did I really just have some kind of weird panic attack and run offstage? That’s never happened before. Why is it happening now? The only difference is I’m away from New York. That, and stand-up’s all I have at the moment. Why isn’t this working? Why is it . . . why is it such a disaster?

  I dig inside my pocket for my phone and dial Imani. It rings. And rings. And rings until it reaches her voicemail—Hello, you’ve reached Imani Turner. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a detailed message or text message, and I’ll respond as soon as I am able. The one time this tour I actually need her and she’s not there.

  Part of me wants to cry and the other part wants to scream in light of the possible truth. Was Imani right? Was my dad right? But I’m not leaving that on her voicemail. So I lean against the windshield, pull my knees close, and fake a smile.

  “Hey, Imani. Just calling to see how you are . . .” I want to tell her that I miss her and I could really use an evening of fuzzy socks and white wine with her. But I’m afraid if I say it, I’ll lose it. So I end with: “Hope your week’s good. Call me later.”

  Sitting in silence for the next hour, I try to decide if I can somehow redeem myself on this comedy road tour. Or will staying only make it worse? Guess what the evidence suggests?

  “There you are.” Nick appears from behind the Jeep. “I was worried about you. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I was telling jokes one minute, then the next I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Are you okay? Do you need to see a doctor?” he asks.

  “No, but . . .” I start.

  “But what?”

  I slide a hand down my face, wishing I didn’t have to say this out loud. “Ugh. I think maybe it’s time to admit that this isn’t working.”

  “What’s not working?”

  “Me on this tour. I think I should go back to New York, where everything makes sense. I can just fly in for my audition and pray I don’t bomb there too.”

  “What? No, Olivia. I’m not letting you leave.”

  “Why? Because I make you look so good after I die onstage?”

  He folds his arms in a firm stance. “No, because I thought you were a winner, Olivia Vincent. Weren’t you the one who said you were going to kick this tour’s ass?” Nick asks, and I shoot him a look. “I know what you’re thinking—the road sucks. And you’re right. But it’s also where you’ll learn to be great. I don’t care if you bomb every night the rest of this tour, I’m not letting you give up, capeesh?”

  I look into his eyes, biding my time as I search my soul for a valid rebuttal. But I can’t find one. “Yeah, capeesh,” I say.