If Ever(88)

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."