If Ever

by Angie Stanton

  "Absolutely." I start cracking eggs into a frying pan with no idea how much two Broadway performers eat. Making breakfast is one of the few things I've thought of to help out around the apartment.

  Ryan drops onto the couch. "Your girlfriend is making me breakfast. I vote she stays."

  Tom casts me an approving smile and winks.

  "Ryan, you're too easy," I tease.

  "Don't I know it? Another top issue with my therapist." He blows on his coffee before sipping.

  Tom takes up the guitar from its stand, sits on the couch and strums softly. "Any luck with auditions?"

  "Nah, I get called back two or three times and then cut on the final round. I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "It's not you."

  "Am I already too old at twenty-five? Have I lost my touch? Maybe I should grow my hair out or lose some weight."

  "Dude, you know none of that will make a difference. It just hasn't been the right timing."

  It's impossible not to eavesdrop. I add shredded cheese into the bubbling egg mixture.

  "Well, I'm running out of time. I've been thinking about getting a grownup job."

  The strumming stops. "I hate to see you do that. Can't you hang in there for a while?"

  "I've been living on hopes and dreams for almost two years with nothing to show for it. I can't do it much longer."

  Tom starts playing again, filling the room with a cool, acoustic vibe. We're all in our own thoughts as I finish scrambling the eggs and set out a bowl of fresh fruit. "Come and get it," I call.

  Tom puts away the guitar and joins Ryan who's already grabbing a plate.

  "This smells amazing," Ryan says, loading up.

  Tom stands so Ryan can't see that his hands are on my behind, lightly groping me through my yoga pants. "Sure does."

  I let him have his fun, mostly because it feels damn good, and I like the crooked smile on his face. We grab spots in the living room and eat.

  That afternoon as we amble along Sixth Avenue, I tug on Tom's arm. “Please, we need to talk about it.” I’ve been a slug ever since I arrived and I need to figure things out.

  “Talk away.” He continues along without a care in the world.

  “But you aren’t listening.”

  He chuckles and slides his arm around me hooking his thumb in my back pocket as we check out the holiday decorations. “I am, but I’m also trying to rest my vocal cords.”

  So far we’ve come across a display of over-sized old-fashioned tree lights and a stack of enormous red tree ornaments sparkling in the December sun.

  “Sure you are,” I say sarcastically, pretty sure he’s making that up. “I mean it. It’s been almost a week and I need to make some decisions.”

  He sees how serious I am. “Okay. Everything stays as is. You relax and enjoy doing nothing for a while. Done,” he says with a smug smile.

  There’s a surge of relief that he hasn’t changed his mind about wanting me to stay, but I still need a plan. “Smart Alec. I need to figure out my life too.”

  He halts, his smile disappears. “You want to leave?”

  “God, no. But I can’t keep freeloading. Plus, it’s not fair to Ryan.” He waves off my concern and continues, guiding me along the bustling sidewalk. “I need to contribute or it’s like I’m a kept woman.”

  We pause at an intersection and he turns to me. “I never thought of it that way.” Then with a devilish grin says, “That’s kind of hot.”

  Shaking my head, I step in front of him, forcing him to focus. “As much as I love warming your couch—”

  “And my bed,” he adds.

  “I need to get a job, a purpose. I thought I’d be okay doing nothing for a while, but I’m not. You’re busy every day with your workouts and meetings. I need to do something.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, but you aren’t talking about leaving?”

  “I don’t want to. Not until you get sick of me. And I’m not sure what kind of temporary job I can find.” He frowns and I wonder which part of that he didn’t like.

  “Chelsea, this has been the best week, heck, month, probably year of my life. And I don’t want it to end.”

  His words are a symphony, easing my insecure ego. “Me too, but I can’t just do nothing. This is the longest I’ve gone without a job since I turned fourteen. I need a plan.”

  The light changes and we cross the street. “Okay, but what’s the rush?”

  “Well…” I pause because I hate to point out the obvious. “Because if this runs its course, I can’t be flat broke and homeless.”

  He stares me down. Not happy with the direction of our conversation. “And you don’t think we’ll last? That I’d kick you to the curb?”

  How do I tell him that I don’t know? I don’t think he would, but stranger things have happened. “Listen, I don’t have a great track record with people sticking around.” My high school boyfriend lasted about two seconds and my college boyfriend barely two months before I caught him cheating.

  He pulls me to the side away from the throngs of people and brushes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “Do you always over think everything?”

  I nod and dip my head. “When life falls apart, and mine tends to do that a lot, I have no one to rely on but myself. There’s no family I can call on to bail me out or parents to let me move home.”

  “Aw, shoot.” He pulls me into his arms. Our bulky coats prevent us from getting too close, but he places his chin on my head. “I wasn’t thinking about any of that. And while I have absolutely no plans of kicking you to the pavement, let’s find you some sort of job. There’s only so much shagging one can do in a day.”

  I giggle at that and we continue on our way, my heart lighter. In the distance I see a marquee for Radio City Music Hall. I tug on Tom’s sleeve. “Is that where you performed for the Tony awards?”

  “It is. It’s also home of the Rockettes.”

  “Think they have a show? I’d love to see them perform.”

  “They perform their Christmas show all season.” Suddenly his face falls as if he’s remembered something terrible. “Aw, bugger!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He turns to me. “I just realized I forgot to tell you something and I feel like a total schmuck for not mentioning it before.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. I don’t know what he’s about to say, but I know it isn’t good.

  “What is it?” I ask bracing myself.

  “I’m going home for Christmas.”

  I pause. “To England?”

  He nods.

  “Oh. It never occurred to me you’d take time off, but of course, you would. You should.”

  “It’s been planned for months.” He rushes to explain. “My sister had a baby last spring and I haven’t been able to get home to meet her yet.”

  “Yes, the cute baby picture in your dressing room. I suppose you don’t get home too often.” I sink my hands into my coat pockets as we continue walking.

  “The last time was about a year and a half ago. It was two years before that.”

  I take a moment to process this news. “Well, it’s good that you’re going.”

  “I should have mentioned it sooner, but honestly, I’ve barely thought about it. Ever since you showed up, you’re all I think about.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you get to meet your niece and be with your family.” I say the words in the most honest tone, but it’s hard to hide my disappointment. All this talk about me staying with him in the city and he’s the one leaving. Now what do I do?

  “Please tell me you have plans for the holidays?”

  I look ahead as we walk. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  “But you just mentioned you don’t have family. You could stay in my flat. Ryan will be here so you wouldn’t be alone.”

  Staying in his apartment while he’s gone seems weird. Maybe this relationship is running its course faster than I feared. “No, I’m fine. I mean. I haven’t been home
since before Celebrity Dance Off. There’s so many people to catch up with, and Anna’s been wanting to nail down plans for her bachelorette party. I should take care of things at my apartment. It’s perfect timing.”

  “Are you sure? Because I feel like a total wanker when I just told you to stay indefinitely. I just wasn’t thinking about Christmas.”

  “I’m sure.” This time when I smile at him I see relief on his face. I guess I better book a ticket.

  “But I want you to come back as soon as the holidays are over.”

  * * *

  "Chelsea must love the show to be here again," Paige says Tuesday night during intermission.

  "She's not here. She's at my place Skyping one of her friends back home."

  Paige acts confused. "Are you sure? When I made my audience exit after the park scene, I could swear I saw her in an aisle seat on the left side."

  "Not her." But then I start to wonder. Chelsea wouldn't actually come to the show and not tell me, would she? "Show me."

  We sneak up to the second level where there's a side balcony on stage left. Paige parts the thick black curtains just enough to peek out.

  "Right there." She points. "Fifth row from the back on the aisle." She steps back.

  I peek through the slit. "Bloody hell." There's Chelsea, not a care in the world, looking at her phone. Dumbstruck, I say, "I had no idea."

  Paige bites back a grin. "I saw her last night too."

  "That little shit." My phone lights up with a text message. I shake my head.

  "Is it her?"

  "Yup."

  Paige laughs. "Are you going to tell her you know?"

  "Not yet."

  When I get home after the show, Chelsea's sprawled on the couch in yoga pants and her Crossing Lines sweatshirt. The clicker is aimed at the telly as if she's been here all night. I sit on the edge blocking her view. "How was your Skype with Anna?"

  "Great. How was the show?" She asks innocently.

  "It was a disaster." I shake my head and sigh dramatically.

  "It was?"

  Now I have her attention. "During the first act, one wall of set fell, nearly missing Paige."

  Her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

  "And then there was a fire in the final scene." Her face is adorable as she tries to figure out how she missed this.

  "You're making that up," she says.

  "I'm not," I say with a straight face. "We had to evacuate the theatre and do bows in the street."

  She sits up. "That did not happen."

  "How would you know?" I pin her with a stare. Caught in the act, her mouth clamps shut and her face goes red. "Because you were there?" I tickle her and she curls up giggling. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to see the show again? And again?" I add with emphasis.

  She ducks her head. "I was embarrassed."

  "Oh my God. Chelsea Barnes, are you a fangirl?"

  "No!" she declares, aghast, as if being compared with the fans at the stage door is an insult.

  "Admit it. You really like me." My fingers find her ticklish spot again.

  She falls into peals of laughter. "No, I don't."

  I jump on top of her, pinning her to the couch. "Admit it." I rub my scruffy chin against her tender neck.

  She shrieks and giggles. "No. Never!" She squirms against me, making it even more fun. So I give her sloppy wet snogs on the neck and then a little bite. She squeals and then snorts, which makes me laugh.

  "Stop, please stop," she calls out, breathless.

  I pull back and see happy tears shining on her cheeks.

  "Is this a bad time?" Ryan asks. He and Kirk are watching us.

  I look at Chelsea and we both crack up.

  "Their clothes are on. I think we're okay," Kirk says.

  Later, I ease Chelsea onto my sheets. Her warm body responds immediately as I touch her petal soft skin, lightly coasting my hands over her body, down her flat stomach, to her hips and beyond. As her heavy-lidded eyes gaze into my soul, her pulse races, and lips part. She makes satisfied sounds, but this time it's not laughter.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning while Ryan and I are playing Minecraft, Tom rushes about trying to get out the door for another meeting.

  "Bugger, I'm going to be late!" he says, rifling through papers and files stuffing them in his backpack. Finally set, he kisses me quick and dashes out in a whoosh of energy.

  “I don’t understand why he always gets so worked up for a meeting.”

  “He doesn’t have a meeting,” Ryan says.

  “He doesn’t?”

  “He’s got an audition.”

  I stare at the closed apartment door. “How do you know?”

  “Well.” Ryan sets down his controller and drinks his water. “First off, he’s got his backpack and was freaking out to make sure he had everything he might need, like sides, score, head shots, that sort of thing. He’s also wearing his navy polo, dark jeans, and brown Topsiders. He always wears that to auditions.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does he do half the things he does? He’s superstitious and more than a little OCD.”

  “He is?”

  He laughs. “You haven’t noticed?”

  I guess I haven’t paid attention. “He eats Fruit Loops every morning.”

  “And chases them with a spinach smoothie. He always goes to the gym on odd days and takes a run on even days. Have you seen his pre-show routine?”

  I shake my head.

  “You should go along sometime and watch. He does everything in a specific order. He checks in with the sound guys and talks about how his voice is feeling, drops by the orchestra to see who’s in the pit, and he always takes a couple minutes to sit in a different seat in the theatre to remind himself of the audience perspective.”

  I’ve never been to the theatre before the show. Only after. Now that Ryan mentions it, I see that Tom does keep a really structured schedule.

  “I’d say it’s all a waste of time, but it sure as hell works for him. He’s at the top of his game. I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to book more than Off Off Broadway cabaret.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a brutal industry. I remember taking an acting workshop the summer after high school. A tony winner was leading it. He said if there’s anything else we might possibly want to do, other than show biz, to do it. Broadway is an impossible dream. Only the most talented performers who are extremely disciplined have a shot. And then they have to be very lucky.”

  Deep down I guess I knew that, but spending so much time with Tom and going to his shows makes his life seem almost commonplace. It also makes me wonder again why such a successful guy is attracted to me. I turn back to Ryan. “But why is he auditioning if he has a job?”

  Ryan considers me, then picks his controller back up. “That you’ll have to ask him.”

  * * *

  The audition is a final call back for a new show. I’ve been though all the paces, but this time the executive producers, director, writer, choreographer and stage manager are all here. This is my final chance to woo them and hope I’m the guy they trust with their new musical. I shake off my nerves and get my head in the game. I’m fully warmed up, and I’ve memorized the sides so that I know them like the alphabet.

  I wait in the hall with two young women up for the lead, both look familiar, and Kyle Baccus, a guy I’ve competed with for several parts over the years. He’s a formidable talent, yet I won out the last part for Crossing Lines. I nod hello to the others and take a chair off to the side to calm my mind. Kyle is called next. I pop in my ear buds and crank the music so I don’t have to hear his audition and can focus on slow steady breathing.

  After an eternity, my name is called and my heart starts pumping and my nerves jump off the charts despite my best efforts. I enter the sterile audition room. There’s a row of two tables with some of the biggest names in Broadway sitting behind them. A couple people I know, a couple I only know by reputation. I offe
r a friendly nod and quick hello, sure to catch their eyes, then hand my music to the accompanist and discuss tempo.

  I take my place on the tape mark and the music begins. Once I start singing, I lose myself in the character and sing the hell out of the two songs they provided and actually enjoy myself. The material is smart and would be a blast to sing eight times a week. Afterward I perform a scene with their reader, in an American accent, and put everything I have into the quirky character. The director leans back in his chair and watches intently, the choreographer laughs at the perfect spot, but the producer looks bored. When I’m finished I get a thanks for coming in. We’ll let you know, and I’m done.

  Stepping into the empty hallway, I blow out my breath and try to come down from the high. I’ve given them my best, now I wait, the fate of my future in their hands. Damn, I want this show, but I try to push those thoughts away. I stuff my papers into my backpack and slip on my coat.

  If I land this job, I could be opening another show as the lead and relax in the security a steady job brings. If I don’t, well, I’ll keep taking every audition my agent deems suitable.

  I push out the front door and text Chelsea that I’m able to meet early for the English tea I promised her. She’s the perfect distraction to keep me from obsessing over the final callback.

  “This place is adorable,” she says as we take our seats at a corner table. Lacy curtains drape the windows and Christmas lights are strung between knickknacks on a crowded shelf. I order a tower of finger sandwiches, mini scones, and dainty desserts.

  “I don’t know what I like more?” She munches on a cucumber sandwich as holiday tunes play in the background.

  “The tea?” I tease as she’s only taken a couple of sips and wrinkled her nose each time.