CHAPTER 56 (2)
They leave, and I jump on Timothy. “I’m so glad Shane's working out.” “Thanks to you.” “No, thanks to you,” I point out. “You’re the one who pushed for her. I just helped move things along.” I plant a kiss on him, then take the treats he brought up to Haley, who thanks me. “No treats for you?” I ask Timothy when I’m back downstairs. He looks up from his phone before tucking it away. “I have very discriminating standards.” “Bullshit.” I grab a bowl and the box of Rice Krispies. “You’d fuck someone for Circle Krispies.” He groans as he crosses to me. “If that someone is you?” he murmurs against my neck, wrapping an arm around me to drag my hips against his, “I’d fuck you for dryer lint.” I laugh, but every part of me lights up. I reluctantly pull back and pass him the bowl of butter and marshmallows. “We should probably make some Circle Krispies for Sophia.” “The kid’s going to be a walking marshmallow.” “Didn’t hurt us.” He chuckles and melts the marshmallows. “Why don’t we get sick of these after so many years?” I ask. “I can’t decide if it’s the sweetness or the chewiness.” “It’s because we always made them together.” God, my aching heart. I cast a look over my shoulder, thinking about the email sitting in my inbox since yesterday, the one I’ve read a dozen times. “I emailed my mom. She’s in LA. She said she’d meet me.” Timothy closes the distance between us. “Wow. That’s huge. You could come to LA with us when we go for the party. You don’t even have to tell your dad the reason.” I turn that over. “Maybe I will. What kind of activity says, ‘We’ve never met, but let’s connect as grownups’?” “Fly fishing.” I laugh. “Or drinks. Somewhere quiet but not so quiet you can feel the awkwardness.” “I can suggest a few places.” “Thanks.” We share a smile. “You’re so good with Sophia,” I can’t help saying. “You want kids?” “Depends who with. I figured you and I’d have three. The first one to practice. The second would be the refined model. The third, just because we were so fucking good at making the first two.” I nearly drop the wooden spoon. The microwave beeps, and he removes the bowl before turning back to me. “We didn’t have great childhoods, but we wouldn’t put our kids through that. It doesn’t mean everything would go smoothly, but we’d love the hell of out of them.” Timothy sets the bowl on the counter and takes the spoon from between my fingers, as if he didn’t blow me apart a second ago with this wild and enthralling idea of us procreating. We’re too young to think about it, but I know Timothy would be a great dad. He’d be caring and patient and consistent. He’d always take an interest, have a sense of humor about things too. “Are you asking me to have your kids?” I try to make it a joke, to hide the longing in my voice. He traces the handle down my forehead, my nose, my lips. “I’m telling you I’ve thought about it. With you, I’ve thought about everything.” My heart squeezes and I try to make sense of the jumble of feelings and thoughts swirling inside me. “So you’ll come to LA when we go?” he asks abruptly before I can respond. “I don’t see why not. But aside from hitching a ride on the charter, what’s the rush?” He heaves out a breath. “Because after this party…I’m staying in LA. My hand surgery is next week and after that, I’m scheduled to go back into the studio.” “Oh.” The backs of my eyes burn. He threads the fingers of his good hand into my hair, pulling me against him. I want to tell him not to go, but that feels petty and childish. I know it’s not only the logistics that are keeping us apart. The last time I went all in on him, I lost him. We’re older now, smarter, but the possibility of him changing his mind, or of the lives we’re building coming between us, is the most awful thing I can imagine. He moves behind me, wraps his arms around my waist. “Sing me that song again.” I close my eyes and give in to the feeling and do as he asks. I pretend for a moment it could always be this way—him asking for things, me knowing I can give them to him, that I can make this man happy. This man who, by breathing, gives me so damned much. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “What happens when this pitch session goes well?” Needing to distance myself even a few inches, I mix the cereal into the bowl, then spread the mixture into a pan, pressing it down with a wooden spoon. “If it goes well,” I amend, “we get commitment to move forward.” I take the pan to the freezer and return to him. “Then, if we keep meeting stage gates and the reception is strong… we could be off-Broadway in one year. On Broadway in two or three.” “Years. In New York.” Hope swells inside me, but it’s bittersweet. “That’s the dream. And it is a dream, Timothy. For so long I’ve wanted to be in the spotlight. I thought it was about me, but after doing the first show, I learned it’s more than that. When you’re performing live, you get to be intimate with people. Whether it’s a few hundred or thousands, they’re not a crowd. You’re touching every person in that audience. People like us who are questioning if they’ve got it figured out, or who know they don’t and can’t see a way forward. People who need a flash of inspiration, something out of the ordinary. People who need to feel something real.” He watches me steadily as he strokes a thumb down my cheek. “I have a call with my label this afternoon, but if you want someone to rehearse with first…” “I’d love that.” Timothy’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Then let’s go to work. I’m all yours.” But my chest aches because I want the second part of his vow more than the first.
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