by Regina Kyle
He flashes me a thousand-watt smile, making my already dry mouth feel like the Sahara. “Surprise.”
“You can say that again.”
His gaze darts down to my hands, still motionless on the keyboard, then back up to my face. “Shouldn’t you be playing something? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Right.” And now that the shock of seeing him is wearing off and my brain is starting to function again, I know just the song.
“‘As Time Goes By.’” He nods, somehow fitting his hands inside the pockets of his tight jeans. “Excellent choice.”
Score one for the piano man. My mouth may have dropped the ball, but I can always count on my fingers to do the talking. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world. . .”
“I walk into yours.” His eyes flick to the other side of the room, where my boss is glaring at us from across the massive mahogany bar. “Can we talk?”
The three most ominous words in the English language. Does anything good ever come after them? I’m hoping whatever Chris wants to say is the exception and not the rule.
Either way, I need to know. But now’s not the time. I need this job. My rent won’t pay itself.
I shake my head. “I’ve got to finish this set.”
“Consider it finished.” This comes from Denice, who’s materialized from who knows where at Chris’s elbow. She gives him a quick once-over and shoots me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up from behind his back. “Take a break. I’ll run interference for you with the evil overlord.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. I’ll tell him hottie here”—she pats Chris on the arm, and I swear her hand lingers a little too long so she can cop a feel of his beefy biceps—“is your long-lost cousin. Or a process server. And if he gives you any grief, I’ll threaten to call the health department about the rat problem.”
Chris’s eyes widen. “You have a rat problem?”
“No.” She winks at him. “But the health department doesn’t know that.”
“Thanks. I owe you one,” I tell her as I rush through the final chords of what I’ve come to think of as our song. Time to go somewhere more private, where I can have Chris all to myself and find out what he flew all the way across the country to get off his chest.
“Just give me a raincheck for Macho Taco. I have a feeling you’re going to be otherwise occupied tonight. And you’re buying.” She glances around the bar, then points to an empty table in the back. “Table six is open. I’ll bring you a couple of vodka and sodas.”
“Make his an old-fashioned.” I stand, putting a possessive hand on Chris’s shoulder. Stupid, I know. Denice is my friend. And it’s not like Chris is going to be interested in her. At least, I don’t think he is. But jealousy is a green-eyed monster, and it’s not always rational.
“You got it.”
Denice heads for the bar to get our drinks, and Chris and I slide into the dimly lit corner booth she directed us to. I wait until after she’s dropped them off to ask the question that’s been burning a hole through my brain since I looked up and saw my boyfriend—if that’s what he is—leaning against the piano like he’s Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys.
“What are you doing here?” I realize almost immediately how shitty that sounds. Like my heart didn’t skip ten beats when I saw him, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “I mean, I’m glad you are. But I thought you had commitments back in San Francisco.”
“I did,” he says, his tone turning tentative. “But I don’t anymore.”
Okay, color me confused. I frown at him over the rim of my glass. “What about your job?”
He lifts his own glass and sips. “My job is here. Or, at least, it can be, if I want it to.”
I almost drop my drink, barely managing to set it down on the table with a shaking hand. “Are you serious?”
His free hand reaches across the table and snags mine. “As a triple pirouette.”
“But you’re a principal dancer for one of the best ballet companies in the world. I know how hard you worked to get there. I can’t let you give that up.” And grow to resent me in a month, a year, or whenever the doubts creep in and he starts to regret the choice he made.
“The way I see it, I’m not giving. I’m gaining.” Without releasing my hand, he slides around the table so he’s sitting next to me. He’s so close. I’m drowning in the fresh, clean scent of his shampoo and the warmth of his fingers in mine. Fuck, I’ve missed him. So much. I’ve been walking around like a zombie, except it’s not my brain that’s been ripped out, it’s my heart.
“I didn’t tell you this before because I didn’t want to get your hopes up if things fell through,” he continues, his voice quiet but earnest. “I didn’t come to New York two weeks ago just to see you. My agent got me an audition. For a brand-new Broadway show.”
“Broadway?”
He nods, excitement dancing in his eyes and softening his strong jaw. “It’s a tribute to some of theater’s great choreographers. Agnes deMille. Jerome Robbins. Gower Champion. Bob Fosse.”
“And you got in?”
“I got in.”
A kernel of hope starts to take root in my chest, making it feel hot and tight. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Hmm . . . let me think. Stay in San Francisco, all alone. Or move to New York to be on Broadway and with my boyfriend.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. “Seems like a no-brainer to me.”
“It’s a big leap.” What if the show flops? Or he hates the grind of performing eight times a week?
“I’m a dancer. Leaping is my forte.” He smiles fades and he bites his lip, suddenly tentative again. “But now it’s my turn to ask you. Is this what you want? Us, together, for real? If it’s too much, too soon, we can slow down. Manhattan is a big island. We could probably go weeks, if not months, without running into each other.”
“Shut up.” I know a better way to stop his crazy talk. I take his face between my hands and kiss him, hard and fast, not caring if my bastard of a boss or anyone else is watching. “Of course I want this. I’ve wanted it since I saw you walking across the quad, looking like you came straight off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Wanted it more the more I got to know you. I was just waiting for you to want it, too.”
“Thank fuck.” He lowers his forehead to mine. “Because I don’t know what I would have done if you turned me down.”
“Like that was going to happen.” I go to kiss him again, but my bastard boss picks that inopportune moment to stroll past, giving me the evil eye and tapping his watch. I straighten up and clear my throat.
“I’d better get back to work. This is my last set. Stay and wait for me to finish? I’ll have Denice bring you another old-fashioned.”
Chris wraps an arm around me, hugging me to his side. “You know I will. But make it a club soda. I want to be totally sober so I’ll remember every last second of this night when I wake up with you in the morning.”
Damn. He sure knows how to sweet-talk a guy. My boss is out of sight, so I give Chris that kiss, a long, lingering one that speaks of plans and promises. Then I slide out of the booth and stand, turning back to shoot him one last question before I take my place at the piano. “Got any requests?”
He takes a sip of his drink, and I’m momentarily distracted by the way his Adam’s apple bobs in the strong column of his throat when he swallows. Christ, that’s hot. This set is going to be the fastest one I’ve ever played. Every song at double—maybe even triple—time.
Then he speaks, snapping me out of my temporary trance. “I was hoping you’d go apartment hunting with me tomorrow.”
“Me?” I’m more than willing to tag along, but I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.
“Yeah. I could use your input.” He knocks back the rest of his old-fashioned, almost as if he needs some liquid courage for whatever it is he’s about to say next. “Your place is great, but I’m, uh, looking for
something a little bigger. Like large enough for two people. Maybe with a second bedroom where my boyfriend can put his keyboard. In case someday—when he’s ready—he wants to move in.”
Not exactly the sort of request I had in mind, but I’ll take it. More than take it. There’s only one fly in the ointment.
“What about your parents?” I ask. “Won’t they get suspicious if we start living together?”
“They know. I came out to them.” His chest puffs out a little, and mine does too with pride for my brave ballet boy. “I didn’t want to start our relationship with that hanging over our heads. I’m not hiding you. You’re too important to me.”
I’m almost afraid to ask how they took it, but I don’t have to. Chris answers my unspoken question.
“They were surprisingly okay. It helped that my sister was there when I told them. They want to meet you when they come visit.”
Wow. We’re already at the meet-the-parents stage. I’m grinning like an idiot and my heart’s doing a happy little tap dance in my rib cage. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” He shoos me toward the Steinway. “Go. The sooner you start playing, the sooner you finish. And the sooner we can get out of here.”
I like the way he thinks. And I’ve got the perfect song to open the set with. Who cares that it’s the last one I played before my break?
I’ll just play it again.
Epilogue
Chris
“I’m going to take off. See you at the theater.”
I glance at my watch. The Omega Speedmaster David gave me on the one-year anniversary of our second first kiss. My call time’s not for another hour and a half, and I know the orchestra doesn’t have to be there before I am.
“What’s wrong? You nervous?” I can’t think why he would be. He’s subbed Broadway shows before. Okay, so it’s his first time subbing for the show I’m in, but he’s had the score for weeks and he can play his part blindfolded. I should know. I’ve heard him practicing for hours on the Yamaha Clavinova acoustic piano in the spare room of our apartment on the Upper West Side. My anniversary gift to him.
“No. I, uh, just have some stuff to do before showtime.”
He’s shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact, two sure signs he’s hiding something. Whatever it is, I fight my instinct to grill him. Things are good between us. I trust him. He’ll tell me what’s going on when he’s ready.
Won’t he?
I shoo away the doubt crows and plant a rough, possessive kiss on his lips. “Okay. See you there.”
He gives me a semireassuring smile and leaves, but I can tell he’s still distracted, off in his own world. I spend the next hour or so doing my pre-show ritual—stretches, vocal warmups, listening to Ricky Martin on my headphones to get me pumped up—and obsessing about whatever it is David’s keeping from me. Then I sling my dance bag over my shoulder and catch a number 3 express train downtown to the theater.
It’s only about twenty minutes from my door to the stage door. I say hello to the handful of castmates huddled around the sign-in sheet, scrawl my initials next to my name, and head for my dressing room.
“Hey, Beak.”
I grimace at the nickname. It’s affectionate when David uses it, a loving reference to my Roman nose, curved like an eagle’s beak. But coming from my dance partner and company bestie, Alyssa, it’s somewhat less charming. Even though I know she doesn’t mean anything by it.
Alyssa’s the one who took me under her wing and showed this Broadway virgin the ins and outs of working on the Great White Way. She has more Broadway credits than anyone else in the ensemble. That’s why she’d gotten the honor of donning the Legacy Robe on opening night. The robe gets handed down from musical to musical, theater to theater, each show adding a decorative panel before passing it on. It’s a tradition for the wearer to circle the stage three times, letting cast members touch it for good luck, then to visit all the dressing rooms to “bless” the production.
I reach out and tweak her ponytail. “I told you. Only David can call me that. One more time and I’ll drop you in the middle of our duet in the second act.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t. But it’s fun to tease her. Just like she enjoys needling me. “Fine. I won’t drop you. I’ll just stumble a little when I’ve got you in the press lift.”
She lets that jibe pass without a snappy rejoinder, which isn’t like her. Looks like David isn’t the only one who’s not their usual self today.
“Did my eyes deceive me, or did I just see your fine-ass boyfriend in the green room?”
Speak—or think—of the devil. I swear, I’m half convinced Alyssa’s a mind reader. She’s more accurate than The Mentalist. Or that guy on Psych.
A surge of hope—and happiness—rises inside me. Maybe I can talk to him before I go get into costume. Quell the irrational anxiety building in my chest.
I start to head for the stairs that lead to the lounge area where the performers hang out when they’re not on stage, but she stops me with a hand on my arm and a shake of her head.
“Not anymore. He went down to the pit about fifteen minutes ago. Said he wanted to get a feel for the keyboard before they opened the house.”
“Yeah. He’s subbing for Chip tonight.”
Even though I’m disappointed I won’t be able to catch David before the show starts, I can’t stop my chin from lifting with pride. He’s worked hard to build a reputation and establish relationships with the Broadway musicians. And it’s paying off. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s offered a permanent position in a pit orchestra before the year’s out. I just hope it’s here, with my show. There’s nothing I’d like better than having him work with me, dancing for him every night.
“Ooh, it’s his first time with us, right?” I nod, and she rubs her hands together. “He must be excited.”
I shrug and look down at the tips of my Stan Smiths. “I guess so.”
“What do you mean, ‘I guess so?’”
“I don’t know. He’s been acting kind of weird all day.”
Alyssa wrinkles her nose, drawing her brows together and creasing her forehead with worry lines. “Like, weird how?”
“Jittery. Evasive.” I stuff my hands into my pockets and rock back and forth. “I think he’s hiding something from me.”
“Like what?”
“If I knew, he wouldn’t be hiding it from me.”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the Dancing Shoes company,” our stage manager’s voice booms over the loudspeaker. “This is your half-hour call. Thirty minutes to curtain.”
I swear under my breath and hike my bag up higher on my shoulder. “I’d better go get into costume and makeup.”
“Okay, but I wouldn’t worry too much about David if I were you. I’ve seen how that boy looks at you. He’s totally smitten.”
“Smitten? Who uses that word anymore?”
“Me. And the Urban Dictionary. Trust me. It’s in there.” She turns on her heel and flounces off, blowing me a kiss over her shoulder as she goes. “See you on stage, Beak.”
“What did I warn you about calling me that?” I say to her back as she sashays away. “Wait until we get to the lift. You’re going down.”
But of course she doesn’t. The performance goes off without a hitch, as always. We’re professionals, after all. Although I do give in to temptation and manage to sneak a couple of not-so-professional glances at David in the pit, all serious and adorable as he tickles the ivories, his hair flopping over his furrowed brow to the beat of the music. Once we even lock eyes, and an endearingly shy smile flits about the corners of his mouth.
The knot of tension in my stomach eases a little. There, my head says to my heart. See? Alyssa’s right. David’s crazy about you. No reason to panic.
When the show’s over and we’ve bowed our last bow, all I want is to rush offstage, find David, and tell him how proud of him I am. Okay, yeah, and kiss the shit out of
him, too. You know what they say. Actions speak louder than words.
But tonight we’re collecting for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids, the charity that draws on the talents of the theater community to raise money to help provide essential services for people with HIV/AIDS and other critical illnesses. Which means that I have to stay on stage for a few more minutes and then go into the lobby with my bright red BC/EFA bucket, collecting donations from audience members as they leave the theater.
I try to catch David’s eye one more time as Alyssa, our dance captain, takes a handheld mic from the stage manager and begins her please-break-out-your-wallets-for-a-good-cause speech. But he’s not behind the keyboard. He’s not anywhere in the pit.
The doubt crows start circling again, but I shake them off. There’s nothing all that unusual about musicians packing it in as soon as they’re done playing. I’m sure David’s waiting for me in the green room. I’ll catch up with him there.
I turn my attention to Alyssa, who should be wrapping up her speech about now. Instead, I’m surprised to hear her mention my name.
“Chris, could you come up here?”
Huh? What is she doing? This isn’t part of her usual BC/EFA schtick.
I shuffle forward, thinking maybe this is some sort of payback for me threatening to drop her. Then I see a familiar, well-loved face peeking out from the wings, and my heart lodges in my throat, making it difficult to breathe.
“We’ve got a special surprise for you tonight, Chris,” Alyssa continues into the mic so everyone can hear. “For all of you, really.”
She gestures to the audience, and a murmur of anticipation ripples through the crowd. “I mean it’s not every day you get to witness—well, I’ll let David, our fabulous keyboard player this evening, explain everything. Come on out, David.”
He enters the stage, gives the audience an awkward wave, and crosses to center, where Alyssa meets him and engulfs him in a bear hug. I could swear he mouths thank you to her, confusing me even more. What is he up to? Why is Alyssa hugging him, and what is he thanking her for? Sure, she’s become one of my closest friends during the run of the show, and she and David have gotten to know each other as a result. But I didn’t realize they were on a hugs-and-thanks-for-the-favor basis.
