Misadventures of a College Girl (Misadventures #9)(63)

“Now text your stage manager and tell her you’ll be there tomorrow night. I need probably another week before I can get on an airplane, but you go on ahead. My sister or dad will come hang out with me for a week.”

I put my palm on his cheek. “You’re an amazing man.”

“Bah. It’s the halo effect. I’m actually a total dick.”

I laugh.

Tyler kisses the top of my hand. “It’s all going to work out for us, pretty baby. And you know why? Because we’re written in the stars.”

I kiss him over and over again. But after a moment, I pull away from him, mute the football game on TV, and grab my phone. “We need a soundtrack for this make-out session. We’re going to remember this moment for the rest of our lives, and we need the perfect song for the memory.” I quickly navigate to one of my all-time favorite songs—a cheesy song my father told me was one of my mother’s favorites: “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley.

“Oh, I love this song,” Tyler says. “It was one of my mom’s all-time favorites. Second only to ‘Careless Whisper.’ She had a thing for cheesy eighties music.”

My heart stops. “This was my mom’s favorite, too. My dad told me she used to sing it to me all the time.”

Emotion washes over Tyler’s face. “Well, if that’s not a sign we’re meant to be, I don’t know what is.” He kisses me while Rick Astley serenades us, but around midway through the song, Tyler breaks free from my lips. “It’s all going to work out,” he says, smiling against my lips. “I promise.”

“You’re incredible.”

“It’s that damned halo effect.”

“Nope. I see you with complete, unfiltered clarity, Tyler, and you’re most definitely not a dick.”

“No, no. I was talking about your halo effect, cupcake. It makes me do crazy things to try to impress you. Always has.”

I smile broadly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’m so flippin’ excited.”

“You should be. We’re going to have the best life ever.”





Epilogue





“Happy Birthday to youuuuu!”

I clap uproariously. There are two handsome, singing figures at the foot of my bed. The larger one is wearing a T-shirt that reads I Love My Hot Wife. The much smaller figure is wearing a shirt stamped with My Mommy Rocks! “Thank you so much!” I squeal. “Look at all those pancakes! Wow.”

“I helped Daddy make ’em,” my four-year-old son declares proudly.

Tyler and I exchange a look. He’s so dang cute. “Thank you so much, Toby,” I say. “Come here.”

Toby crawls onto the bed next to me while Tyler sits on the edge of the bed with the tray in his lap.

“I made you a present, Mommy,” Toby chirps. He hands me a drawing made in crayon, and immediately, despite the artist’s rather loose interpretation of the human form, I know it’s meant to be a portrait of our little family. I know this for several reasons. First off, one of the little amoeba-scarecrow-blobs in the drawing has a green face. So, clearly, that’s me. I’ve only recently started playing Elphaba on Broadway after several years of playing in choruses and supporting roles in a myriad of different shows, but Tyler’s already proudly taken our son to see his green-faced mommy defy gravity at four matinee performances in a row. But, regardless, even without a green-skinned figure in the drawing, I’d still know it’s a portrait of our family because one of the other amoeba-blobs appears to be holding a brown piece of poop in its hands. Which means that’s Tyler. And that poop is a football.

The adorable thing is that Toby couldn’t possibly remember seeing his father play professional football. Tyler’s nine-year NFL career—the last five of which he played with the New York Jets—ended two years ago, when Toby was two. But, still, it’s no wonder to me Toby drew his daddy holding a football. Tyler’s many football awards and photos and memorabilia grace our sprawling penthouse apartment, right along with my UCLA and NYU memorabilia and framed playbills.

And the final figure in my son’s drawing? Well, it’s Toby, of course. I know this for certain because his representative blob is smaller than his mommy’s and daddy’s. Plus, it’s holding a football, just like the daddy blob. Not a surprise. There’s never been a child on this planet who wants to be more like his daddy than Toby Caldwell.

To be honest, I was kind of hoping my son would show early signs of being a blossoming musical theater geek like me, but it’s already quite clear that’s a total nonstarter. Toby Caldwell inherited his mother’s curly hair and nothing else. In every way, other than that boy’s hair, he’s his daddy’s mini-me, through and through.

“I love it, bubba,” I say, looking up from my son’s birthday gift to me. “Thank you so much. I’ll put it on the fridge.”

Tyler props up my pillows behind me and moves to place the breakfast tray over my lap.

“Hang on,” I say. “I’ve got to run to the bathroom first.” I hop out of bed and pad across the room. “Make sure Daddy saves me a pancake, bubba. You know how much Daddy loves eating all the pancakes.”