He grins. “That’s brilliant.”
I’m flying high the rest of the night. Finding a job in publishing hadn’t occurred to me, and even if nothing comes of it, I don’t care. It’s the boost I need. Tom introduces me to more people from the cast including his costars Max and Jordan, who seem like nice guys.
As the night goes on, the party gets louder and more crowded. I’m pulled into a conversation with some women from the cast about New Year’s resolutions. While they all have the lose weight goal, Tanya wants cheek implants, Paige aims to stop biting her fingernails, and a short brunette declares she plans to get laid more often, sending us all into peals of laughter.
Tom approaches with a chocolate truffle. He holds it out temptingly, I take a bite, closing my eyes at the delectable taste.
“I thought you’d like that.” His smoldering eyes reach my soul and I lick a smudge of chocolate from my lips. He rejoins Max and Jordan a few feet away.
Tanya stares at me and shakes her head. “I don’t get it. You and Tom make no sense. Why is he even with you?”
Paige and the other women gasp. I should ignore Tanya, but I’m in a great mood and a little drunk. “I know, right?” I say as if agreeing with her. “And I’m not even good in bed.”
Tanya’s mouth drops open. She’s dumbstruck, wondering if I’m serious. Tom chokes on his drink, while everyone else around us busts out laughing.
“You okay, baby?” I croon to Tom.
Tanya stalks off. I turn back to the girls and shrug.
“Was it something I said?”
Tom wipes his mouth and shakes his head, but his eyes are smiling.
“I like her,” Max says.
Greg stands on a chair to get everyone’s attention for the countdown to midnight while champagne is handed out.
Tom whispers in my ear. “You evil girl.”
“I’m sorry. But she’s been glaring at me all night like I’m the worst person you could be with.”
“It was perfect.” He hands me a flute of bubbly. “This is going to be the best year ever.”
30
Apparently January is pilot season, which means all the networks are casting for new television shows. Tom spends every spare moment studying scripts, speaking with his agent, and auditioning. I send my resume off to Greg Hamilton and hope he calls me, but not one to wait around, I throw myself into the job search, applying for jobs I’d normally never consider like working for a fashion designer, at the New York Public Library, and for a high-end tour company. Who knows what will stick, but considering I get an auto reject on about every other application, maybe I’m throwing my net too wide.
Tom is finally home after a two-show day, so we have time together while he unwinds from his high-energy night. He sits down beside me.
"There’s a going away party at a karaoke bar for one of my castmates tomorrow after the matinee. He landed the lead in a new play, which is a really big deal. I need to put in an appearance, but we don't have to stay if you don't like it." He pops a frozen treat in his mouth and offers me one.
I help myself. "And hang out with a bunch of Broadway stars? Yeah!"
He kisses my forehead, his lips cool. "Perfect. Then meet me after the show and we'll go."
The next day after Tom leaves for work I drop into an adorable bakery and call Anna.
"You have to tell him," She says, desperate to change my mind.
"No. It would be weird." I dip my finger into the edge of the mound of cream cheese frosting and taste.
"Then give me his number and I'll tell him."
"No way! I knew you three years before I told you."
"You are hopeless. So if you aren't going to tell your own boyfriend it’s your birthday, what are you going to do today?"
"Right now I'm about to devour the most amazing red velvet cupcake I’ve ever seen, then I'm going to buy something silly, and after that see his show."
"Again?"
"I don’t go that often anymore, plus I'm meeting him right afterwards anyway. The cast is going out to a karaoke bar."
"Sounds appropriate for a bunch of musical theatre geeks."
"That it does."
My afternoon is spent soaking in the magic of Tom on stage, an experience I will never tire of, and yet soon he’ll be done with it. I hope he finds something equally as great, but he’s seemed pretty frustrated lately. After the show I linger in the lobby to stay warm, biding my time before meeting him outside the stage door. When I step into the biting January air, he's still surrounded by a crowd of patient fans waiting for an autograph, picture, or quick word.
* * *
The crowd is larger than usual, which is how it seems to work whenever I have someplace I want to be. Between photos with a couple of fawning middle-aged women and an autograph for a college kid dreaming of life on the stage, I catch a glimpse of Chelsea leaning against the light post and texting on her phone. She's bundled up in her hat and mittens and wearing tall boots and the scarf I loaned her on her first trip to New York.
"You were my favorite," says an older lady, pulling my attention back to my task.
"I loved the show!" says another.
"This is my third time seeing the show." And slowly the crowd dwindles until there's one group left, a stylish woman with two daughters.
The older girl, about fifteen, eagerly presents her program. "You were wonderful. May I have an autograph?" she asks with a French accent that catches my attention.
I smile. "Of course. Are you from France?"
"Yes. And you have a British accent," she says in surprise, as I speak with an American accent in the show.
"That's right." I smile. "Are you enjoying New York?" I sign her playbill and hand it back.
"Oh yes, we visit every year."
Her younger sister, who looks about twelve, has been staring at me with dreamy eyes. She holds out her program. "Would you marry me someday?"
"Babette!" Her older sister says. The mother laughs and the girl blushes.
I don't want to embarrass her further. "That's a lovely offer, but there's a problem."
"Oh?" Her face is adorable. She'll be a real heart breaker someday.
"You see, I have a girlfriend, and I don't think she'd be happy if I promised to marry someone else."
"He's just saying that so you won't feel bad," the older girl says.
The little one eyes me skeptically as if I'm lying. "It's true," I say. "In fact, see that girl over there by the light pole?" I point to Chelsea.
"The one on the phone?" Babette says.
"Yup. She's my girlfriend."
The mother bites back a smile. Babette crosses her arms. "You're making that up."
I laugh and Chelsea looks up, taking in the scene of me with the family.
Babette calls out to her, "Are you his girlfriend?"
Chelsea looks behind her, as if checking to see who we're talking to. "Who me?" she asks, feigning ignorance.
I wave her over. The French girls watch Chelsea step tentatively closer. "Ladies, this is my girlfriend, Chelsea."
But Chelsea squints uncomfortably from me, to the girls, and back. "Excuse me, have we met?" she asks me with a Tony-worthy expression of confusion.
My jaw drops. The young girls and their mother watch in fascination. "She really is my girlfriend. She's just being cheeky." I give Chelsea a tilt of my head and the eye for her cute little act.
Babette crosses her arms and hitches her hip, drilling me with a determined stare. "See, you are making it up."
Chelsea steps closer to the French girls in a united front. "Do you know this man?" she asks Babette.
"He's Thomas Evan Oliver, the star of the show. He's the very best."
Chelsea gives me a critical once over. "Really? I'd never guess it looking at him."
I burst out laughing. "I'm right here, I can hear you."
The older sister intervenes to get to the bottom of this. "Only one of you is telling the truth."
"I am," I vo
lunteer.
"Can you prove it?" the girl asks.
"Sure can." I drag Chelsea to my side, and swing her into a dip. She squeals and I lay a kiss on her sassy mouth. "Remember me now, love?" I say into her startled eyes.
She giggles. "I think it's coming back to me."
I swing her up to her feet and without anyone seeing pinch her ass. She gives a little squeak.
"You are his girlfriend!" the little one says to Chelsea.
"After that kiss, I suppose I better be."
"You're so lucky," she answers.
Chelsea glances at me with a sweet smile. "That I am."
She offers to take a picture of me with the girls and their mother. We say our goodbyes and I tuck my arm around her and head off to meet my friends.
* * *
Tom and I are still laughing when we descend the steps to the cellar-like club. It's warm and cozy with a votive on each of the many cocktail tables, a long bar lines one side, and a small stage is located in the back. His show friends are already here—several with dates or spouses.
Paige slides over to make room for us, and Tom sneaks in another chair to the crowded table. She hugs me hello and we catch up while he fetches us drinks.
When he returns I ask which guy is leaving the show. He points. "Andy over there in the gray hoodie with the huge grin."
We spend the next hour talking and laughing with his friends, spilling popcorn on the floor, and listening to a range of people, both talented and tone deaf, singing karaoke.
"Please sing," I beg Tom again. Relaxed, with his arm over the back of my chair, he shakes his head—the stubborn man. "Why not?" I plead. He's the most talented person I've ever met and he should show it off.
"Because half these blokes will record it and load it onto YouTube before I've finished my next gin and tonic. I can't be the Broadway guy who sang bad karaoke. I'd never live it down."
I see his point, but doubt he could sing badly even if he tried. Unable to think of any other way to convince him, and loosened up after two drinks, I lean in close. "What if it was my birthday and the only thing I wanted was to hear you sing?"
He eyes me skeptically. "If it were your birthday, yes, I'd sing karaoke for you." He pops a handful of popcorn in his mouth.
I look at him expectantly and smile. When I don't break my gaze, his eyebrows crease with suspicion. I whisper in his ear, "Today's my birthday."
"Nice try," he laughs and pats my thigh, his hand warm and comfortable.
"No, really. It is." I wait, holding my breath now that I've told him.
He sits up. "That's not possible. Because if it were your birthday, I'd know about it, and we'd be doing something special to celebrate, and not out in some grungy bar with my drunk, wanker friends."
I shrug and smile, nudging the songbook toward him.
His smile fades as he realizes I'm serious. "It is not your birthday."
I nod.
"Prove it."
I laugh, which makes him doubt me even more. "You don't believe me?"
I wouldn't put it past you to say anything just to get me on that stage. You're sneaky that way." He tickles my side.
"I am not sneaky." I giggle.
He cocks his head, and I think of our earlier scene with the girls outside the stage door. "Okay, maybe a little, but only for good reasons." I grab my wallet from my handbag and pull out my driver's license.
He snatches it from my hand. His jaw drops as he spies my birthdate.
I grin.
"How could you go through the whole day and not tell me? I am the worst boyfriend ever. I should have rifled through your wallet so I'd know all your secrets."
"I don't celebrate my birthday, but if I can use it to guilt you to sing for me, well, that's another story."
"Why don't you celebrate?"
I hesitate, unsure what to tell him, but decide on honesty. I gaze at him and sigh. "Because my mom died on my fourteenth birthday.
His expression turns to remorseful embarrassment. "Aw, buggar. I'm sorry."
I don't want to go to that sad place, not today. I rest my hand on his arm. "Please don't let it ruin our night. I've had enough crummy birthdays."
He considers my words then he kisses me. "Deal. I'll sing, but only because it's your birthday."
I open the songbook for him. "Pick one."
He pushes his chair back. "Oh no. You want this, you pick."
Paige returns and leans over in surprise. "You convinced Tom to sing?"
I grin and nod while he shakes his head, still in denial.
"But only because it's Chelsea's birthday," he adds.
"Happy birthday!" She says to me then pokes Tom. "You big loser, why didn't you tell us?"
He levels me with an accusatory look. "Because I just found out."
"Which is why he's going to sing. What would be a good song?" I say, getting them off the topic of my birthday.
Paige smirks at Tom and laughs. "Oh, this is going to be fun. How about "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story?"
He rolls his eyes.
"Or "MmmBop" by Hanson," I say.
Tom drains his drink. "I'll let you two have your fun." He escapes to the bar.
I scoot closer to Paige and we skim through the book hunting for the perfect song, laughing as we consider everything from "Love Shack," to "Muskrat Love," and "Achy Breaky Heart." At the bar he's chatting with his friend Max from the show and tips his head my direction when I grin at him and giggle.
The singer on stage finishes her number and the audience applauds. Suddenly the perfect song pops into my head. I grab a slip of paper and jot it down. I deliver it to the DJ along with a ten-dollar bill so he'll get Tom up there before he can weasel out.
When I return, Tom is carrying a tray filled with shot glasses. He puts a glass in my hand, and the rest of our group all take one. Paige starts Happy Birthday and everyone joins in. I want to duck my head, but Tom catches my eye and winks, he's beaming as his friends sing to me, their spectacular voices blending perfectly and resounding through the room like a world-class choir. They end the song breaking into gorgeous harmonies that take my breath away.
"That is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Thank you."
They raise their glasses. "To Chelsea," Tom says.
"To Chelsea," the rest resound.
He clinks his glass to mine. "Happy Birthday, love."
I throw back the drink. The strong liquor curls my tongue, a second later an intense heat rises from my throat as I strain to draw breath to soothe my airways, reminding me of Hank's bourbon.
"Good stuff." Tom laughs as my eyes water. Around us everyone is high fiving and clapping.
The DJ calls up the next singer, a skinny girl in stiletto heels with kinky dark curls that reach her shoulders. She sings Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" in a breathy voice that doesn't quite reach every note.
Tom slides his arm around the back of my chair. I gaze into his eyes, dark in the low light of the bar. He curls his head down, his lips touch mine in a tender kiss tasting strongly of liquor, but I'm already drunk on love. I slide my hand along his jaw and neck. His skin is soft under the light scruff and he smells so good.
"Cut that shit out!" Max bellows over the sound of the kinky-haired girl's painful droning of the Titanic hit. Tom and I pull apart as he plops a drink in front of me. The contents slosh over the side and puddle on the table. "Happy Birthday, and thanks for turning this moody son of a bitch into a lovesick fool."
"Thanks." I turn to Tom. "So you're a love sick fool?"
"Never. I barely like you." He's winding his fingers through my hair.
I snuggle into the crook of his arm content with the touch of his side against mine. When the song ends and the girl leaves the stage to weak pity applause, the DJ says, "Next up is Tom Oliver."
He groans beside me as his friends cheer. I pat his leg with excitement. He reluctantly stands, chugs half my drink, smacks his lips, and gives me a final shake of his head t
hat he can't believe he's doing this.
As he makes his way to the stage, his friends hoot and holler at this unexpected performance. Paige slips into his seat next to me and clinks her glass to mine. "Way to go!" She takes out her phone and focuses it at the stage, as do a couple of others. I cringe hoping he isn't too mad at me later.
Up on the tiny stage, the DJ hands Tom the mic. He takes his place and we're all quiet. I'm on the edge of my seat.
Tom looks out at us and nods with a tight grimace. "You can thank my girlfriend for getting me up here. Chelsea, this song is for you." Then he pauses and turns to the DJ. "Wait a sec. What am I singing?"
He looks back at the audience and gives us an exaggerated expression of stage fright. We all laugh. The DJ hands him my slip of blue paper with the song title. He reads the paper and bursts out laughing. His eyes find me across the room. I cock my head and grin. He shakes his head in disbelief.
"Come on, baby, you've got this," I call.
Tom slips the paper into his back pocket and returns to center stage, this time focused as if he's getting into character. My pulse is speeding with nervous excitement. Just when I think he's ready to start, he bursts out laughing again, and doubles over with his hands on his knees, which gives me fits of giggles.
Max hollers out. "What's the matter, Oliver? Can't you sing without a spotlight and a twenty-piece orchestra?" His friends crack up as Tom, the perfectionist, struggles to get his composure back.
He shakes off his infectious grin and takes his place once more, this time he's thoughtful and it's as if I can see the wheels turning in his head. He takes a deep breath and nods to the DJ.
The intro begins to "Don't Stop Believin'," the theme song from Rock of Ages, his dream show. We all cheer for the rock anthem. Tom slides the mic in the stand, and with the intensity of a seasoned rocker, belts out the lyrics.
If Ever Page 26
