If Ever(81)

Monday afternoon Tom walks in as I’m sliding a roast in the oven. Despite losing his tooth after a kick to the mouth, he went right back to the show and was out all day. His shoulders sag as he slumps down on the couch. “You’re cooking. It smells good.”

“It’s the garlic and onions. Long day?”

He nods. “I’m winning the battle, barely, but losing the war.”

When he’s not at the theatre, he’s constantly preparing for or at another audition, but I’m learning not to ask about it. His non-stop schedule is insane and having me around probably makes it worse. I join him on the sofa. “Tell me about it.”

He kicks off his shoes and stretches onto his back with his head in my lap. “Eight shows a week for a year is kicking my ass. My throat is killing me and I feel a cold coming on. I bet Paige gave it to me. She was sick last week.”

I cringe. If he’s catching a cold from stage kisses with Paige, then will I get it? “Do you want some pain killers?” I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.

“I just took some an hour ago.”

I know how worried he gets about his voice. If it gives out, he can’t perform. His brow is creased. I massage my thumb and forefinger along his brow line.

“God, that feels good.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “I don’t know how much longer my body can hold up.”

“Can’t you call in sick tomorrow?”

“No.” His eyes pop open. “My name is on the marquee. People pay a lot of money expecting to see me, not my understudy. It’s one thing when a kick to the teeth forced me out, but the audience always feels let down when they don’t get the headliner.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But I hate watching you run yourself into the ground.”

He sighs. “The only way I know how to perform is to give everything I have. And I will keep showing up and putting my heart and soul on that stage until I physically can’t.”

His eyes connect with mine and his dedication is admirable and frustrating. He continues. “But that’s also why I can’t keep doing this show. I love it, but it’s killing me. At least I’ll have Christmas week off, and then I only have a few more weeks until I can take a real break for a bit. Then I can finally give you all my attention.”

“But you have all these auditions.”

“True, because I also need another job.”

I shake my head. It’s an impossible situation. I resume playing with his hair, lightly running my fingernails against his scalp.

He gazes up at me with a grateful smile, his eyelids growing heavy, and mumbles, “What should we do tonight?”

“You’re kidding, right? You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“No. I miss you, and I don’t want you to get bored with me gone all the time. Any luck with the job search?”

“Nah. The investment firm turned me down. I didn’t really like it anyway. Turns out it’s hard to find a job right before the holidays. Now how about you relax for a while? Just close your eyes and let everything else drift away.”

His eyes open wider revealing flecks of gray along with the clear blue. “You’re bewitching me, aren’t you?”

I laugh and resume grazing my fingertips over his forehead, cheeks, and lips. “Trying to. Would you please stop talking and close your eyes.”

He kisses my hand and closes his eyes. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Within minutes, his breathing shifts to slow and steady. His face relaxes in slumber and he looks younger, peaceful, the burdens he carries are released for now. I admire his strong cheekbones, his straight narrow nose and solid jaw. How did I get so lucky? “I love you, Tom,” I whisper, and he sleeps on.

When he shifts to roll over, I slip out from under him, placing a pillow under his head and a blanket over his lanky form.

Two hours later, he appears in the kitchen yawning and rubbing his head. “Something smells delicious.”

I’m elbows deep whisking a flour mixture into juices from a roast. “Good. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m famished. What are you making?”

“Gravy.” I glance at him quick for his reaction, then back to my bubbling sauce. “I know you don’t usually eat anything with fat, but tough. You’re exhausted and working yourself to death. You need comfort food and calories.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says in way too agreeable tone.

I glance at him. “No argument?”

He sneaks his arms around my waist and says into my ear, “When a beautiful woman wants to make me a dinner that smells this good, I’m not about to argue.” He kisses my neck.

“Good.”

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asks carrying the platter of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots to the table.

“My mom. She made a roast every Sunday in the fall and winter.” I set a lettuce salad next to it. “When I was little, she’d push a stool up to the stove and have me stir the juices from the roast while she poured in the flour mixture. By the time she got sick, I was a pro.”

We take a seat and he looks ready to devour the whole thing. “I had no idea you could cook.”