If Ever

by Angie Stanton

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world.

  His voice is strong and he cranks it out just like the original singer from Journey. We burst into applause. The DJ nods his approval and amps up the volume.

  Tom grins, showing off his gorgeous dimples, and leans the mic stand to the side in a rocker stance belting out the song.

  When he gets to the chorus, he does dance moves that I'm sure must be straight from the stage show. Everyone in the bar goes wild because he really nails the steps. I pound on the table and hoot.

  During each break in lyrics he grins as if about to bust into laughter again, but then jumps right back into the song with vocals that gives me goose bumps. His rocker act is hilarious, only because I know how much he wanted to be in that show. It really does go against his type, but he is adorable and my mouth hurts from grinning.

  Toward the end of the song, he calls out for everyone to join in. The whole bar sings along in one huge party chorus. When the music stops, we're all on our feet. Tom is cracking up and points to me across the room. I blow him a kiss.

  He hands the mic back to the DJ. The man high-fives him and says, "I've heard that song slaughtered about a thousand times, and I've gotta tell you, dude, that was totally dope."

  When Tom returns to our table, his buddies pound him on the back. He reaches me, grinning. "I can't believe you got me to do that."

  I wrap my arms around his neck. " I love your rocker side."

  "Good." He grabs my ass in front of everyone. The guys whistle, and Tom growls in my ear. "Cause you're going to be seeing more of him later tonight."

  31

  I tickle Chelsea's nose with a lock of her hair. Her face wrinkles and she opens her eyes.

  "Good morning."

  Her eyes focus on me and a lazy smile covers her lips. "Last night was great."

  "Sure was, you wild thing." I lightly nip her shoulder. She blushes, which I love. One second she's sweet and adorable, the next she's...not. "So, Tiger, what would you like to do for your birthday?"

  Learning that her mom passed away on her birthday was pretty shitty. I'd like to give her some new birthday memories that will be a helluva lot better, and I know exactly how to do that—with an engagement ring.

  "Last night was the best birthday ever. Today we relax." She stretches like a lithe cat. The sheet slides down exposing the curve of her breast, reminding me that she's naked as the day she was born.

  "Nope. You said you were born at 11:26 p.m. That means we have all of today that still counts as your birthday."

  "That's an interesting way of looking at it, Mr. Oliver." She turns on her side, propping her head on her hand, the sheet drapes her body over the dip of her waist and up over her hip. "So, what did you have in mind?"

  I take in her tousled hair and relaxed smile and know exactly what I'd like to do, but I have a busy day already and need to figure out how to give her a proper birthday. "Before we can start the celebration, I've got to workout and then I have a meeting."

  "You sure have a lot of meetings," she says with a wink.

  "I do. But if you can keep yourself busy until mid afternoon, I'm yours for the rest of the day."

  "In this city, not a problem." I love how easily she's accepted my crazy schedule.

  "The next question is what would you like to do?" I give her a quick peck on the nose.

  "Well, since you ask, there is one thing I want." She lifts her foot out from under the covers and draws it slowly up my bare leg, raising goose bumps, and igniting the fire I've been fighting to keep at bay. Her eyes flicker and the tip of her tongue peeks out.

  "Hmm. You are the birthday girl."

  An hour later, I'm in the middle of my third set of reps. I rest for a minute and think back to the day Chelsea literally danced into my life. I hadn't been looking for anyone. In fact, I'd declared a moratorium on dating for a full year since my last failed relationship with a woman named Barbie who turned out to be a soul-sucking psychopath. But Chelsea is the complete opposite. She’s smart, always positive, and makes me laugh. Plain and simple, she makes me want to be a better person. After straining through another rep until my muscles quiver with fatigue, I wipe down the machine and call it a day. Now to plan her birthday celebration.

  Late that afternoon, Chelsea's cheeks and nose are rosy. "Are you sure you're warm enough?" I tug the collar of her coat higher and adjust her scarf and hat. We’re having a cold snap that chills me to the bone. "Maybe this was a bad idea."

  She grins up at me, excitement sparkles in her eyes. "Do you have any idea how many years since I've ice skated?"

  We wobble our way to the edge of the rink. I take a small step onto the ice and turn to her, my skates sliding easily on the smooth surface. The sensation takes me back to when I was twelve and skating with my friends at the neighborhood rink. "Ready?" I hold out my hand.

  She gives me a look of fake terror and clings to the guardrail.

  "Come on, if you can do flips with Dominic Yardley, you can manage ice skating with me."

  "Okay, but stand back. If I go down, I don't want to take you with."

  There's probably something in my contract stating I'm not allowed to ice skate. Missing a show due to a skating injury would not go over well with the producers, but the thrill of adventure on Chelsea's face is worth the risk.

  She steps tentatively onto the ice, gliding forward and then wobbles, letting out a little squeal. She almost loses her balance, but then evens out. I take a couple strides and am surprised at how easily skating comes back to me. Chelsea seems to find her skating legs too, as she slides up to me with a grin.

  There are few people out on this freezing cold Monday, so we have plenty of room to goof off. The majestic New York skyline surrounds us as we take a first loop. Two boys dart past, weaving in and out of the other skaters.

  "Show offs!" Chelsea calls, her breath coming out in white puffs.

  I take her hand and together we find our inner balance, our skates lightly scraping the ice with each step. The crisp air stings our faces, but neither of us cares. Daylight is fading and lights dot the nearby skyscrapers.

  After skating, we walk several blocks to a restaurant I think Chelsea will like. She loops her arm through mine and leans her head against my shoulder.

  "This is the best birthday in forever." She turns her face to me for a kiss.

  "Your lips are freezing. We better find this place soon." I softly sing the theme song to Frozen and she laughs as we trek another two blocks and arrive at our destination. "Keeping with the theme of childhood birthday activities, I thought this fit."

  She looks at the entrance to Serendipity 3, a quaint, kitschy tourist spot and grins. "Is this the place from the movie?"

  I nod. "Want to try some frozen hot chocolate?"

  "Can we skip the frozen and just go for the hot?"

  "Sure." I hold the door and we enter the charming old-fashioned ice cream parlor crowded with customers. I work our way to the front of the line and give our name to the hostess. As she checks her list, I take Chelsea's coat. She slips off her hat, leaving her hair messed. I smooth it down, but she looks like a kid come in fresh from winter sledding, with her face pink from wind burn. I chuckle to myself, knowing I look the same.

  "Right this way, please." We follow the hostess. Chelsea is all smiles as she admires the whimsical white sweetheart chairs and Tiffany lamps.

  "I love it!" She chimes, hat in hand, as we're led to a corner table.

  I wait for her to sit, but she stops short staring at someone. It's a middle-aged man dining with his family. His wife's head is turned as she speaks to two girls who have their backs to us. "You know him?"

  She's frozen in place, like a deer locked in the headlights of a night driver. Her eyes never waver. Her voice comes out in a whisper. "That's my dad."

  32

  I do a double take. "Are you sure?" But before I can digest the situation, Chelsea, gripping her hat tightly, steps to his table.

  "Dad?"


  The man glances up. He's wearing a sharp suit and his perfectly trimmed hair is graying at the temples. He'd fit in better in a boardroom than here.

  "I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else. These are my daughters." He gestures to the girls with long brown hair across the table. They gape at Chelsea.

  Is it possible Chelsea's mistaken and just thinks she recognizes him? From what she's told me, she hasn't seen her father since she her mom died. But Chelsea doesn't budge.

  "You're Robert Barnes." Her voice wavers with emotion. "It's me, Dad. Chelsea."

  He's confused for a moment, then after closer inspection, sees past her hat hair and flushed face. Realization dawns in his eyes, then shock, which he quickly masks. He shoots a concerned glance at his wife. There's something familiar about her sleek hair and precision makeup, but I can't place it. She presses her lips together in irritation. It's mild, but I catch it.

  Chelsea's father sets his napkin on the table and stands to his full height. "This isn't a good time. I'm with my family."

  The woman rises, smoothing her skirt. "Yes, dear. I think we should go."

  Chelsea pales; there's alarm in her eyes.

  "Papa, why did she call you Dad?" asks the younger girl. The older one stares at me. Something about this family stands out, but before I can think it through, the younger girl points.

  "Mama, it's him, Thomas Evan Oliver. You signed my program after the show yesterday!" She smiles at me as if this were another stage door meet and greet.

  All eyes shift to me. What the hell? Then I realize these are the girls from France who I spent so much time talking with after the show yesterday. My heart sinks.

  The mother turns to her husband, lips pursed. He speaks in rapid French first to her and then his daughters. I took French in school, but it never held much appeal. Still I do catch him telling the girls he has no idea who Chelsea is.

  Chelsea gasps and responds in fluent French something about him abandoning her. I had no idea she spoke the language. Robert Barnes' eyes flare in surprise at her perfect accent, his jaw clenches. He gestures to his wife to gather their things as he tosses money on the table.

  "Come along girls," she directs.

  "Papa, is she my sister?" the older girl asks.

  He sighs, and shakes his head. "Go with your mother. You, too Babette."

  "But we haven't eaten yet," the little one complains.

  Their mother hustles them away, the two girls gaping at Chelsea, confused; but Chelsea's eyes are glued on her father. When he starts to follow his family, she steps in his path.

  "You can't go. I have questions," she says in alarm.

  He eyes the crowded restaurant. "This is not the time or place."

  I expect Chelsea to acquiesce, but she stands her ground.

  "No kidding. The right time was years ago when you drove away after my mother's funeral and cut me off with nothing. You're going to talk to me. Right here. Right now."

  Even though Chelsea's voice is strong and demanding, her hands tremble.

  He huffs. "Very well. But let's be clear, you were well taken care of."

  Chelsea's eyes widen. "By who? My grandfather who was delirious with Alzheimers and I had to take care of?"

  Her father startles and shakes his head. Chelsea continues. "I had nothing. After he died I lived out of his rusted-out car."

  "That's not possible. You were provided for in a trust fund," he says indignantly.

  "Your bully lawyer wouldn’t release my money until I needed it for my college tuition," she snaps. "I worked thirty hours a week during high school, because you refused to take my calls for help."

  His face turns red. Whether it’s from embarrassment or guilt for his actions it’s hard to say. Chelsea's anger is growing and her fierce words getting louder. My own outrage is building, and I'd like to deck him.

  "Listen, Chelsea. I know this is difficult for you to hear—” He pauses as if considering his words. “But you were an unfortunate accident that happened while I was in graduate school and met your mother. I tried to do the right thing by her. I really did, but it was never going to work."

  Chelsea's face is stricken; she fights to hold herself together.

  He moves to leave. "I'm sorry things didn’t go better for you. I truly am. But I must go."

  Pain darkens her eyes. I step forward and meet the man eye to eye. "Sir, I think, all things considered, you owe Chelsea a few minutes of your time."

  "And you are?" He tilts his head condescendingly.

  "I'm a man who stands by your daughter."

  He sighs and turns his attention back to Chelsea. "You're dating an actor?" he asks, as if I'm a second-rate loser.

  She nods.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose as if this conversation is taxing. "And are you in college?"

  I'm not sure if he actually cares, or is just trying to get the formalities out of the way so he can escape. I see Chelsea's anxiety. She wants this man to like her.

  "No, I have my degree in international business."

  He startles and looks at her with a bit of respect. I want to say, "Take that, you son of a bitch."

  "And you work here in New York?"

  Chelsea hesitates. "Um, no. I left my job to be on Celebrity Dance Off."

  His forehead creases. "I don't know what that is. You're a dancer?"

  She shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, no. It's a reality show—"

  He frowns. "You have a college degree, but quit your job, and now you're on one of those ridiculous reality shows?" He shakes his head and now I really want to give him a piece of my mind. A flush creeps across her cheeks and she swallows.

  "Robert," his wife interrupts in a sharp tone. "The car is here."

  "Well, then." He pauses and looks at Chelsea for a few seconds as if at a momentary crossroads. He clears his throat. "I wish you the best."

  And he moves past, disappearing around the corner. Chelsea darts after and I follow, only to see him exit the restaurant.

  "Wait!" she calls, but he either doesn't hear or doesn't care. Outside he hustles into a black town car.

  "Please, Dad. I only want to talk," Chelsea cries out.

  He closes the door, but his window glides down. "I'm sorry, Chelsea. You're part of my past. It's best we leave it that way."

  "No!" She cries.

  He frowns. "What is it? Do you need money?"

  She startles. "I don't want your money."

  "All right then. There's really nothing more to say." He looks forward, his window closes and the town car pulls away.

  Chelsea stares as he disappears in a sea of taillights and exhaust.

  I desperately want to pull her into my arms.

  She turns to me—destroyed. "I want to go home."

  "All right," I say and she starts walking.

  "Chelsea, your coat." I catch up, forcing her to pause long enough for me to slip her coat on her. Her eyes are vacant as she digests what happened. "It's going to be okay," I reassure her.

  "It's never going to be okay." Her voice is monotone and emotionless, stating it as fact.

  I pull her hat onto her head and then zip up her coat. When I get the zipper up to her chin I give her a little shake. She raises her eyes to mine. They are dark and watery, filled with anguish. Her chin wobbles and I can tell she's holding herself together by a thread. I tie her scarf around her neck. Gently, I say, "Let's go."

  We walk back in the frigid cold, every rush hour cab filled. There's no subway that goes the direction we need, but Chelsea trudges on unaffected by the icy wind. When we finally reach the flat, my fingers are frozen and face is numb.

  Once we’re inside, Chelsea's strength dissolves and she slides down the wall to the floor. She buries her face in her hat and lets out an anguished wail. I drop to the floor next to her. She pulls her knees close and covers her head with her arms as wracking sobs consume her.

  I've never felt more helpless.

  She raises her head,
her tortured eyes settle on mine. "I took their picture with you." She grabs her phone from her pocket and whips it against the wall where it cracks and ricochets across the wood floor.

  "Oh, baby. I'm sorry." I hold her as she sobs into my chest. She's devastated and there's nothing I can do. I want to wring that asshole's neck as the love of my life trembles like a wounded animal.

  "Let's get you out of this bulky coat." I fish my hands under her chin and unwrap her scarf, find her coat zipper and maneuver the coat off of her. Finally, I can wrap my arms around her lithe frame. Her face, damp with tears, is pressed against my chest, her hair catching on my chin.

  I whisper in her ear and rub her arms. "It's going to be okay. I promise." Her sobs eventually ease until she's left with ragged breaths as she comes back to me.

  "He doesn't give a damn about me. He never did." Her breath hitches.

  "Shh. He's an asshole. He doesn't deserve you."

  Tears roll freely down her face, soaking my jumper, and her teeth chatter. I hold her tightly in hopes she'll register the security I'm here to offer. My sweet Chelsea is grieving another blow from that bastard. "I love you. You hear me?" I kiss the top of her head.

  "I love you, too," she answers. I murmur every soothing thing I can think of. Seeing her like this, rips my heart out. After a while her trembling subsides and her body goes slack, her energy spent. I smooth back her hair and kiss her forehead, loosening my grip. She places her hand on my chest. I was going to propose tonight at the restaurant, giving her the perfect birthday gift, but now it will need to wait until a time when she can feel joy again.

  We stay there for a long time, me by the wall with her nestled between my legs and leaning against my chest. I'm afraid to move her or do anything that might upset the fragile thread she's clinging to, but then she shivers.

  I rub her arm. "Let's move to the couch and warm you up? Okay?"

  She nods and lifts herself off me, leaving my chest cool as the air hits my tear-dampened shirt. I sit her on the couch and tuck a throw blanket over her shoulders.

  "How about some hot chocolate?"