Chapter 39
39
Tatum
Aproducer escorts Dawn, Carson, and me through the labyrinthine halls, passing all manner of staff and talent on the way back to our dressing room.
“That was really brave,” I tell Carson, who is walking so fast they might as well be running, especially since their legs are so much longer than mine.
“Please don’t be sincere right now,” they say back. “I already want to vomit.”
“Wait until we’re in the room,” Dawn warns. “They have a trash can in there.”
“I don’t suppose you want me to be sincere to you either?” I ask her.
“Don’t even dream of it.” She does hug me again, which is just as good as accepting my praise. Maybe better.
When we get inside the dressing room, the producer lets us know we’re welcome to stay as long as we need. They shut the door, leaving the three of us alone.
Dawn looks at herself in the mirrored vanity lining the wall, turning from side to side like she’s trying to see what the audience just experienced. Carson sits down on the couch, staring at the wall, dazed.
“You nailed it,” I say, incapable of continuing to silence my sincerity. “Both of you.”
“I can’t believe I just did that,” Carson says, still in a trance.
Dawn, however, receives my compliment. She’s been much more affectionate this trip. It’s almost like she might have missed me. “I hope Eleanor saw that. I don’t share my spotlight with just anyone.”
The producers told us to leave our phones in the green room. Sure enough, when I press Carson’s lock screen, mistaking their phone for my own, there is a voicemail notification. From Eleanor.
“She called you,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement.
This breaks Carson out of their fugue state. They press the phone to their ear, their dazed intensity shifting to giddiness in a matter of seconds. “She’s in Trove Hills,” they tell us as they listen. “She came to find me.”
Dawn throws her hands in the air. “You’ve got to be kidding. I thought your generation was supposed to be better about telling each other where you are.”
“At least you got to see her apartment,” I tell them.
“And I got to show everyone in America how hot I am,” they say.
Yes, they are certainly back to normal again.
“Only thing left to do is get your girl,” they remind me.
“Let’s hope it goes smoother than this,” Dawn adds. “I’m not giving up any more of my press opportunities for the cause.”
···
June lives in Brooklyn, which nearly sends Dawn into a tailspin. “If she’s not here, you’re paying for my ride back,” she tells me.
“She’ll be here,” I say. “I’ve been texting her all morning, asking her what she’s doing. And she’s either running a very elaborate lie that involves having several photos ready to send me as a misdirect, or she’s in her kitchen making her own oat milk as we speak.”
I show Dawn the step-by-step images June sent me fewer than ten minutes ago. “Okay, good. But we’re not coming up with you.”
“That works out well,” I tell her. “Because you weren’t invited.”
June doesn’t have a doorman at her building, but she does have a locked entrance. Lucky for me, one of her neighbors comes down, granting me immediate access so I don’t have to blow my cover early. Instead I text her again.
Tatum: You should make some soup instead.
June: Hahaha! It’s almost cold enough for soup season here, but we’re not quite there yet.
Tatum: Damn. Wish I could feel it.
June: I wish that too.
Her text comes at the perfect time, with me finishing my trek up three flights of stairs and arriving in front of her door. I don’t waste any more time contemplating how to approach or what to say. I just knock, announcing my presence by saying, “Wish delivery service here for one June Lightbell.”
June opens her door wearing an apron smattered with wet oats and a protective wrap over her hair. There is no makeup on her face. No shoes on her feet.
“You’re here ,” she says, no question as to how or why. Just relief.
“Oh good. I was worried you saw me during Dawn’s interview.”
“Shit, I totally forgot to watch.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “We won’t tell her.”
She stands there, still too shocked to move. It’s my perfect opportunity.
“I love you,” I blurt. The first time I’ve ever said it. “I’ve loved you since that very first day at the diner. I’ve loved bringing you your meals of the hour. I’ve loved waiting long past my shift for you to close out your check. I’ve loved watching you work, head in your hand, thinking. I love you. Everything you do, everything you are, I love.”
I thought somehow this would be hard. But as I look at her, the love I feel makes all the worries float away.
“You love me,” she says, her dimples pricking into her cheeks.
“I love you,” I say again. “And you love me back.”
At once, she throws her arms around me, holding on so tight she wraps her legs around me too. I breathe her in, savoring this moment. This love.
“I love you,” she says, clinging tight enough to make breathing difficult.
“I figured out what you can do for me,” I whisper into her ear.
She unwraps herself from our tangled embrace. “Make you soup?” she jokes.
“Let me move here,” I say. “I want to figure out who I can become when I am not Tatum the waitress. Maybe I am a writer. I don’t know yet for sure. But I do know that whatever I want to be, it’s not happening in Trove Hills. It’s here. And hopefully, if I’m lucky, it’s happening with you.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, no hint of hesitation. “Yes, yes, yes.” She kisses my face, my cheeks, my hands.
As she works her way across all my visible skin, I tell her, “I don’t think we should live together right away. I want to find my own independence here. And I know that’s important to you too. But I was hoping I could crash on your couch for a bit until I figure it all out.”
She laughs. “Crash on my couch?”
“You know what I mean. Crash in your bed.”
Her hand holds my face as she reads it, studying my eyes for the rest. “Of course you can. Welcome to New York, Tatum.”