If Ever(49)

"I hate to put you out."

"You're a high maintenance chick. I can handle it." He smirks. Tom is such a switch from any guy I've ever known.

Back outside with my arm tucked around his, and his scarf snuggled against my neck, we head down the street. He turns at the corner onto a fairly busy street where every other door is a restaurant, bar, or market.

"Don't you live in Hell's Kitchen?"

"That's right."

I shiver, not sure if it's because of the cold or because we're going to an unsafe part of the city.

After another couple blocks we turn onto a quiet street with brownstones and apartments on each side of a tree-lined walk. "Is it far?" I can't imagine a scary neighborhood near this one.

"Not far. In fact," he stops abruptly outside a brick building with an ornate wrought iron handrail. "We're here."

I glance around for sketchy criminals, but all I see is a peaceful street lined with residences, a senior center next door, and a yoga studio across the street. An old woman shuffles along the sidewalk.

"This is Hell's Kitchen?"

He laughs and climbs the steps. "It is."

"So where are all the criminals?" This quiet street looks like the least likely spot in New York for nefarious behavior.

"Years ago, it was a pretty rough neighborhood. I'm not sure where they moved. Maybe they're all reformed."

I jab him in the side. He laughs and pulls me close while unlocking the security door. Up two flights of stairs, he lets us into his apartment.

"This is it. Home sweet home." He drops his keys on the entry table.

It's more spacious than I would have guessed with two tall windows letting in natural light. There's a keyboard against one wall and a guitar case in the corner. "This is incredible. I thought New York apartments were tiny and cramped."

"A lot are, but this one is pretty great. I first moved here as a sublet."

"So it's not really yours?" I peek out the window. The apartment overlooks the intersection below, which features a Starbucks on one corner, a little market on another.

"It is now. I took over the lease about a year ago."

"Where's the original renter?"

"Out on tour."

"Is it weird living in someone else's apartment?"

"Nah, in the theatre world, people are always bouncing from one flat to another due to sudden casting, out of town tryouts, or tours. The bathroom is right here, and this is my room." He frowns and rushes to tidy up. "Sorry. I wasn't planning on company." He sweeps the scattered contents on the dresser into the top drawer, scoops up clothes from the floor and tosses them into a chair, then straightens the covers on the bed.

"I'm sorry to barge in."

"Seriously, it's no problem." He frowns at a stray sock on the floor and kicks it under the bed.

"Don't worry. I'm so tired, I'll be asleep in two minutes." But I love seeing his place. It's like a peek behind the curtains into who Tom really is.

He glances at a clock on the nightstand. "Shoot, I hate to ditch you, but I've really got to run."

"Not a problem."

"If you're sure." He scans the room as if looking for anything embarrassing or out of place.

I touch his arm. "Of course. Please go."

His eyes settle on me. "All right, but call or text if you need anything. I'm on stage during most of the show, but I'll check for messages during intermission."

"Thank you."

He runs a hand through his hair. "Geez, this morning went so fast. I'm sorry."

"Would you stop apologizing? Go to work." Which sounds so funny to tell someone performing in a musical to go to work.

"I'll be back between shows and then we'll go out for a late dinner after tonight's performance, so rest up."

"I think you're the one who's going to need the rest."

He grins. "True that." He kisses me on the lips slow and soft, leaving the promise of more. "Sweet dreams," he says. A few seconds later the apartment door closes and locks.

I take off my coat and glance around the living room getting a feel for his space. There's a dead fern collecting dust in the corner as well as giant plant that stretches up to the ceiling where hooks hold up the twining vines. Exhaustion is settling in, so back in his room I sit on the side of the bed. The bedding is dark and masculine. There are wood blinds on the windows. A desk is piled with papers, sheet music, and scripts. There's a stack of papers with his eight by ten head shot. I flip it over and see more pics of him and his bio, height and weight. He must use these when he auditions for a new show.

Tired, I grab his pillow and inhale. I can't help but grin. It smells just like him.





16





I enter my bedroom expecting to find Chelsea watching TV or on her phone, but the room is dark, lit only by the outside light streaking through the open blinds. Chelsea is buried under the covers. I quietly close the door to keep the noise from the living room out, and turn on the nightstand light. She's on her stomach with her face turned to the side, her lips parted in deep slumber.

"Chelsea," I call softly so as not to startle her. Her breathing is slow, her eyelashes rest like butterfly wings on her cheeks, her pert little nose is tucked against the pillow. "Chelsea, I'm back," I say a little louder this time, but she still doesn't stir. I laugh. She is totally out.