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.

  Forty-Four

  It’s 2:33 when Chuck’s rental screeches to a halt in front of NBS Studios. “Go, go!” Amy says, hollering at me like I’m yards away from the finish line.

  “Thanks for the ride!”

  “Thank us after you nail your audition.”

  I shut the car door, unload my luggage from the back, and race inside as fast as my baggage will allow. I’m only a few minutes late, that’s not so bad. I really hope it’s not so bad. Pulse racing, palms sweaty, and knees seconds from buckling, I say a silent prayer to the stand-up gods as the elevator climbs.

  Ding!

  The doors open and I start for the office, but I can’t move fast enough. This shit has got to go. Without a second thought, I abandon my baggage in the hall and dash toward the glass door, sweat beading on my brow. I fling it open and shoot a laser-like stare at the receptionist. “Hi, I’m Olivia Vincent,” I say, panting. “I have an audition.”

  “Uh-huh.” I catch her lip snarling at me before she clicks around on her mouse. “You had a 2:30 p.m., correct?”

  “Yeah, I’m a little late. I just came from Las Vegas. My ride’s Jeep was stolen overnight, I had to get to the car rental place, but it was crazy packed, and this couple I witnessed get married last night were there, so they gave me a ride but then we hit some traffic on the way—a broken-down bus of course—I tried to call but I couldn’t get through to the office because I didn’t have much information and—”

  She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Let me save you the rest of your breath. Your audition was the last of the day. The bookers just left for a company event. I’m sorry but you missed your chance.”

  “They’re—they’re gone? I’m only seven minutes late.”

  “Just late enough. You’ll have to reschedule. And might I suggest leaving earlier next time?”

  It’s like my heart actually splinters and shatters inside my chest. “I missed it?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  This is it. After everything I’ve been through to get here—the bad shows, the Elvis impersonators, Jeremiah’s funeral and scorned wife, Midland and my dad, the wild ride with Nick—I completely missed the Late Night Show audition? Seven minutes. That’s all it came down to, seven stupid minutes.

  Just like I learned in comedy class. Timing really is everything.

  I drag my feet to the hallway. My lump of luggage waiting for me like it wants to go home now. I do too. Though, I’m not even sure what that’s going to look like anymore. I make my way out of the studio building, standing on the shady sidewalk with nothing. My entire comedy career flashes before my eyes—all that was and all that could be.

  Then I hear footsteps close in on me and look up. We left the desert miles ago but I swear it’s a mirage. “Nick?”

  “Hey.” He stands there steadily, dressed in his black leather moto jacket in this July heat, gaze exposed without sunglasses, looking at me like he has so much on his mind. I don’t know what to say or how to react. He lied to me. But he’s here now, and I’d be lying if I said it’s not good to see him.

  “How did you get here?” I ask, feet glued to the sidewalk.

  He drops his head for a moment, then looks into my eyes. “Turns out my Jeep wasn’t stolen. It just got towed.” That damn chapel parking lot. “It took a while but I got it back. Everything’s in it. Including your garbage bag pillow.”

  So Nick didn’t lose anything that mattered to him. But I did.

  “Oh.”

  “Olivia, I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about L.A. I wanted to but—”

  “But what?”

  He releases a heavy sigh. “The thing is, when I was with you, it felt good to pretend like everything was okay. Like I wasn’t just divorced. Like I wasn’t about to quit stand-up. And like maybe things could turn out the way I wanted them to. I think a part of me didn’t want you to look at me the way you did this morning. Like I’m just a big disappointment.

  “I also don’t want you to think that this was just another tour and that you’re just another girl because you’re not. I really care about you, and I really do wish things were different.”

  I wish things were different too. I wish I could pretend everything was fine the way I used to. But I can’t run from reality anymore.

  He hands me my set sheet, the one I had to reconstruct in the car. “Anyway, I came to give you this. It was on the floor in my room this morning. I was speeding my ass off to get to you on time but I guess I just missed it.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  And when I can finally look into his now-honest eyes, I burst into tears. “I didn’t make it in time either. I missed my audition. I missed my one chance.”

  He moves closer and sweeps a loose strand of hair away from my face. “Hey, it’s okay. There will be other auditions. Bernie will see to it.”

  I cross my arms. “I don’t know. I have to go back to work now so I can support myself. Comedy’s going to have to take a back seat. Again.”

  “I know it’s hard but you can’t let this little setback stop you. You have to be relentless.”

  “Relentless, huh? Is that why you’re quitting?”

  “I’m quitting because I don’t know that I’m getting out of it what I wanted. But you? You’re just getting started. And you’re good. You might actually make it. Headline shows I can’t even afford tickets for.”

  “Like Ellen?” I say.

  “Yeah, but much hotter.”

  A little laugh tumbles from my lips but the levity doesn’t last long. “I have so much to figure out when I get back to New York. It’s a disaster back there.”

  “Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. Tonight we have a show at The Comedy Shoppe. You and me, babe. And the bride and groom from last night.”

  “Chuck and Amy.” The heroes who almost got me here on time.

  “Right, those guys. Let’s just go all out. Let’s close this tour and our time together with one last killer show. Let’s get enough laughs to last us a lifetime. What do you say?”

  Forty-Five

  I stand off the stage, at the famous Comedy Shoppe on Sunset Boulevard, otherwise known as the Sunset Strip. Performing here is a pretty big deal, and I want to enjoy every second of it. I’m still really bummed about missing my audition. But things don’t always go to plan. And when they don’t, I have to figure it out. Bounce back.

  It’s like Nick said, Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. So I am. Tonight is about going out with a bang—that’s a bang, not a bomb, I hope. I stretch out my hands and mouth, shaking my jitters away.

  “Hey.” Nick pats my shoulder, startling me. “You ready to rock this club?”

  I nod, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

  While the emcee wraps up my introduction, I look to Nick, knowing that this is the last night I’ll ever open for him. The last night we’ll ever tour together. There’s so much I want to say but right now, there’s only one thing that really matters.

  “Wish me laughs.”

  Nick gives me a warm smile and nods. No doubt he’s wishing me all the laughs.

  “Please welcome to the stage Olivia Vincent!”

  With a grin, I walk to the stage and grab the mic. All the electricity in my body begins to settle enough for my hands to steady.

  “Woo!” I hear a woman holler from the crowd. Sounds like I’ve got a fan. I glance over the dimly lit faces and spot Chuck and Amy cheering their asses off like it’s Friday-night football in Texas and I’m the star quarterback.

  “All right, Los Angeles!” I say, and the audience cheers. Why do we love hearing our city announced onstage? I don’t know but it works. Every time. Maybe I’m feeling wistful but there’s a gorgeous energy about the dark, blue-and-purple-tinged room. Maybe it’s the crowd’s glowing skin and blinding white teeth.

  “Happy to be here. It’s my first time in L.A., so I thought I’d tell you a little about myself. I’m from the country in West Texas,” I say with an accent. “You probably can’t tell because I left my Wranglers at home. Anyone here from Texas?” A loud yee-haw leaps from the audience. No joke. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Did you lose your virginity in the back of a pickup truck too?” This little crack gets a decent laugh.

  “I was raised by a single dad”—I wait an extra beat then continue—“which explains why I’m now a stand-up comedian.” Another laugh rolls in, boosting my confidence.

  “I’m also a millennial, so I’ve got that going for me in this economy . . . I know, I know. We’re entitled and we complain a lot. But there’s one thing we’ve got over older generations. Millennials never have to worry about retirement planning. Because . . .” This is where I really take my time, let the tension build. “You’ll never be able to retire.” The crowd offers one of those sad but true laughs. The kind of joke that sticks because it’s truly relatable.

  “Seriously, it’s not gonna happen if you’re thirty and renting your parents’ basement . . . Yeah, right, you can’t afford your parents’ basement! What are you, a thousandaire?” The sight of wide smiles and sound of sincere laughs slowly mend my afternoon heartbreak.

  “Let me put it to you this way, if you clench up every time you log into Netflix, praying your dad hasn’t changed the password, you’ll be working for life. Luckily, my dad doesn’t know how to change his password. But if he wanted to find out, he’d probably ask Jeeves.

  “Any dads in the audience tonight?” I ask, and get more cheers than I expect. “Okay, I see you, rockin’ those New Balances.” Now here’s where I share a little more about me. “My dad was into jokes. He was great at dad jokes. You know the ones with the corny-but-obvious punchlines? Here’s one I remember well. He asked me, ‘Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?’ And I thought about it. Then it dawned on me. I don’t know how to spell pterodactyl.” Another healthy laugh from the audience. Okay, I’ve got traction. Momentum. Now let’s hope for magic.

  The audience goes quiet again and I let the silence linger. “Actually, my dad kicked the bucket recently.” I drop my head as if giving him a moment of silence. Aw reactions spill out from the crowd. “Yeah, he really doesn’t like buckets. He just—” I grunt and mime the action. My Converse striking air. Laughter bubbles up.

  “No, I’m kidding. He’s dead. He died.” This gets a nice big laugh. Bigger than expected. “I never know how to say that. Because if I deliver it straight-faced like I just did, people are gonna think I did it. And if I deliver it sad, which I am, then what do people say? ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Sorry for your loss.’

  “What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you . . . Why? It’s not a compliment.” I swagger across the stage like I’m checkin’ someone out. “Wow, you’re looking good. Did you just lose a parent?” Another solid laugh. So maybe death can be funny. I bet my dad would find it funny.

  “I didn’t tell my last boyfriend about my dad’s death because, again, I didn’t know how to say it. He was a really nice guy and suggested I invite my dad to dinner. So we had spaghetti . . . and a séance. It was nice.” I love that this is going over so well with the L.A. crowd. Now I’m really hitting my stride and it feels amazing.

  “After I lost my dad, I moved to New York City, which is totally different from West Texas. For instance, where I’m from you might see an old man on his front porch whittling a piece of wood. Whereas in the city, you might see an old man on the subway . . . stroking his wood.

  “Yeah, it’s a little scary braving the streets alone, especially late at night after performing in comedy clubs. To feel safe, I used to carry pepper spray. But now I carry a can of desperation. Because nothing scares a man more than a woman ready to commit.” This time the laughter hits the ceiling. If only it weren’t true.

  “Seriously, I’ve been single too long. The only guy I see on a regular basis is the pizza delivery guy. And all I want is a man who makes me coffee in the morning and offers to buy Plan B. Is that too much to ask?” Now it’s like the crowd’s having multiple laugh-gasms.

  “My favorite part of a relationship is the beginning. You know what I mean, before you meet his mother.” Oh, the ladies get this one—guys too. “I love that initial stage when attraction sparks. You know, when your brain’s hijacked by some boy-crazy spell with Siri’s voice saying, Crush activation complete. Loading romantic pop playlist.” Giggles spill out of the girls in the audience, and I think about the way Nick made me feel the night we first met. “After two weeks of those Taylor Swift lyrics swirling in your lady brain, you start thinking—maybe it’s a good idea to ask him to move in.

  “It’s not,” I say with a cautionary-tale sigh. Now I’m going to get really personal. “Anyway, I’ve been on a bit of a losing streak lately. I lost my dad. Then my job. And my rent-paying roommate. If all that wasn’t bad enough, I also lost my orgasm. It’s true. I don’t know what happened. It’s just gone. Like it fell out of my panties’ pocket or something. You know that weird, useless pocket in women’s underwear? Turns out, maybe not so useless.

  “I searched everywhere—couch cushions, Jacuzzi jets . . . my ex-boyfriend. Couldn’t find it. So one day, I had too many mimosas at brunch and asked my girlfriend for advice. ‘How can I find my missing orgasm?’ And she said, ‘Maybe you . . . should fuck a detective.’

  “I figured it was worth a try. So I meet this guy. And I swear to you his name was Detective Cummings! This has to be my guy, right?” The audience is bursting with laughs and I hold them like a man waiting for a woman to finish in bed.

  “So we’re in bed together. It’s getting late. By now he can’t find my bra hooks. So an orgasm is out of the question. At this point, after a failed search, I have two choices. Recite the periodic table song to myself until it’s over. Or . . .” I gesture to the audience with the mic and they holler back, “Fake it!”

  “That’s right. The tried-and-true method of faking it. Anyone here fake it?” There are a slew of woos, one from a guy in front. “Sir, you faked it? How?” I ask, and he shrugs, chuckling along with the audience. “That’s impressive.

  “Here’s the thing, men know women fake it sometimes. But they’re so cocky they never think we fake it with them. But I’m here to tell you, fellas,” I say, then get really serious, “every five minutes, an unsuspecting man is the victim . . . of a fraudulent. Female. Orgasm.” It’s a lot of fun to see the ladies laugh more than the guys at this one.