Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
“And the harmonies—” I tell him around a mouthful of chicken Parmesan that might actually be from Italy. I have to stop my eyes from rolling back in my head. “Just chilling. This is delicious, by the way.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Tom says. “I always come here when I’m in the city.” We’re seated in the back of a restaurant called Melograno. It appears humble—simple ceramic dishware, old-fashioned exposed brick—but I can tell from the clientele that this is a fancy spot for fancy people.
Everyone is beautiful and wearing the kind of clothes that are too luxurious to even boast a gauche designer label.
Nobody’s batted an eye at Tom, but the ma?tre d’ brought us to an empty back room without being told to, which made me think it wasn’t his first time serving a famous person hoping to avoid the public eye.
Tom’s gaze is fierce with affection as he sips his water.
He hasn’t stopped looking at me like that all night.
Looking at me like he’s falling in love.
“The harmonies really were something else. Every one of their voices a more rousing instrument when strung together. I think I hear the music differently when I’m sitting next to you. ”
I can’t help my smile. “I love the way you speak. What did you say during intermission again?”
Tom shakes his head. “I can’t recall.”
Our waitress tops off our water and then lingers, studying Tom for the third time tonight.
She looks like she’s about to ask us something inane just to stick around.
How’s your steak, sir? Would you like a lap dance with that?
She’s young and attractive and I run my finger over the perfect curve of his thumb until she gets the hint. Mine.
“Sumptuous,” I say, ignoring her until she abandons our table. “That the end of act one was sumptuous. ”
He laughs his all-teeth laugh and I melt into my chair. “It was, though.”
“I know.” I remember the vivid sweeps of red lighting that accompanied the devastating finale, and the goose bumps that crawled from me every time Orpheus sang. “I’ll never get over it. My heart is permanently shattered.”
“The ancient Greeks knew a thing or two about heartbreak.”
“So did Shakespeare and your gal Nora Ephron.”
Tom’s mouth curls in a half smile. “Now what are you implying?”
I pause, debating how honest to be.
Tom is having none of my shyness. “Out with it.”
“You’re just proving my point, that’s all.”
“From the vending machines, you mean.”
“Look at the story we just heard: Orpheus loves Eurydice. She’s not sold on the whole thing but he seduces her anyway—”
“Some might say she was moved by his voice and his vision of a better world,” Tom amends, before taking a bite of his steak. “But continue.”
“Even still. Where do her romantic choices leave her? Condemned to an eternity in Hell. And him—without the woman he loves for all time. I say no thanks.”
“No thanks,” Tom echoes.
I know he’s flirting with me, but I’m determined to prove my point.
“I’ve seen so many musicals like this. In Once, she persuades the guy to fight for his ex-girlfriend, right?
Then falls for him herself in the process, and has to watch the love of her life move to New York City to be with this unnamed woman while she’s left behind in Dublin with her baby daddy and her piano. ”
“He offers her a newfound hope she never—”
“ Spring Awakening .” I think of the melancholy-pop, epic-tragic tale of heartbreak and youth in revolt. “Melchoir convinces Wendla to sleep with him and she literally ends up dead . ”
Tom chuckles. “I haven’t seen that one, I’m afraid.”
“ West Side Story . The most agonizing of them all. Where does Maria’s risk leave her? She gives her heart to Tony and ends the show sobbing over his lifeless body.”
“I’ve actually never seen that one, either.”
My eyes bulge. “No. ”
Tom laughs before my horror can take hold. “Kidding. If I recall correctly, Tony’s death brings about the conclusion of two endlessly warring groups of people. That’s the power of their union, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s beautiful. It’s my favorite musical for a reason—it breaks me every single time. I’m not saying love isn’t real or that it isn’t valuable. I’m not some scrooge waving my fist at heart-eyed teenagers. I’m just saying it’s a recipe for pain.”
“But it’s like anything,” Tom says. “The cycle of nature, something dies and another is born. You experience this lifting, this lightness, this enchantment of the heart, and then it crushes you, breaks the limbs of ye, and you lick your wounds and live to fight another day. It’s like breathing, or the tides of the sea. ”
Tom’s brain must be the most fascinating place in existence. I wish it was a multistory bookstore I could wander through all afternoon. “I hear you. It’s just not for me—I’d rather not spend an eternity in Hell, literally or metaphorically.”
“Don’t knock the hell of heartache. It’s rare to feel anything in life as severely as longing. I’ve broken bones that hurt less.”
I open my mouth and close it just as quick. It’s nothing specific he says that tips me off, but once I see it, it cannot be unseen.
“What?”
“Nothing.” There’s an addictive quality to learning more about him. Moments like this where a fresh layer is revealed are like hitting the jackpot. I might get gambling now.
“Clem.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You know the eyes of ye are too big to hide a single thing. Like magnifying glasses, they are.”
“Fine. Is it possible that’s actually part of your problem?”
Tom lifts both brows. “Breaking bones?” I tut at him and he concedes. “Heartbreak?”
“Have you ever heard that quote? Something like, ‘When the poet writes her a sonnet, it’s because he loves her. When the poet writes her two hundred sonnets, it’s because he loves sonnets.’?”
“You think I love to be heartbroken.”
“No. No, of course not.” How do I phrase this?
“What if you go for women who have no interest in anything serious”—I gesture to myself, which doesn’t earn me quite the grin I expect it to—“or who you know are going to use you up and spit you out—your witch-goddess girls—because maybe you take pleasure in that feeling? That longing, like you said. What if you like wading into the depth of human emotion, however painful, so you can write about it?”
“Ah, sure. Look, I wouldn’t say I like doing so. But I’m not afraid of the agony, if that’s what you mean.”
I can’t help my snort. “Tom, you’d toss your heart into an open blender because you know you’ll create something life-changing with whatever splatters out.”
Tom says nothing, bemused. The pretty waitress refills our water and suddenly, basking in the glow of my bluntness, I feel awful.
“Oh, God.” I sigh, head lolling into my hands. “I’m sorry. That was such an overstep and so—”
“Graphic?”
When I peer up he doesn’t seem angry.
“I’m really sorry. I’ve never been good at dates.”
But he only takes my hand from my face and rubs it soothingly. “You’re grand. And very insightful. I’m a big fan of that mind of yours.”
He’s giving me far more grace than I deserve. “I’ve just seen it before, I guess.”
“Your mam?”
My heavy sigh flutters the candle between us. “In some ways I wonder if she’s been re-creating the same relationship that fell apart twenty-four years ago over and over hoping eventually it’ll stick together. It’s the worst kind of pain, watching her suffer like that.”
“It never should have been your duty to pick up all those pieces,” he tells me softly. “Especially not when you were just a girl.”
Before I can respond, another couple is seated in our little enclave.
They exchange furtive whispers over the menu beneath the sultry jazz music.
It dawns on me for all the talk of Tom’s understanding of heartbreak and love, we’ve never talked about his past relationships.
He knows all about Mike. Frankly, more than I’d like him to.
And he’s not been shooing me away from the topic.
I’ve seen enough of his interviews to know how comfortable he is setting conversational boundaries.
I decide to wade into the shallow end. “Did you write To the End about someone?”
“Parts of it.”
“And Kingfisher ?”
“Similar. Bits and pieces.”
As impossible as it feels, I say nothing, allowing him to come to me like a stray dog mistrustful of strangers.
“Those bits across both albums reflect times in my life tied up in all kinds of lowness…” He examines his water glass.
“Some love lost, of course, but other challenging and beautiful periods of my life, too…” Tom watches the candle between us suffer and stir.
I study it, too, waiting for more. When I find his eyes again, they’re wet.
“I’m not sure if it’s sound dinner conversation,” he says in the end.
Where I anticipated jealousy or judgment only compassion blooms. I haven’t truly cried in front of anyone since I was eight. Not even my mom, though the closest I’ve come has actually been with Tom on this tour. It strikes me as immensely honest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He laughs a bit, sniffing whatever misted his gaze back in. “Not at all. It was a long time ago.” He takes a sip of water. “Who’s bad at dates now?”
Once again, he shifts the topic away from his past. Unease pulls at me, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter in the long run.
It’s not like he’s my boyfriend. Why should I need lengthy information on his mysterious romantic history?
We both know this thing between us has an expiration date.
Instead of prying, I say, “It’s never easy to open an old wound. ”
“This is the easiest it’s been for me, talking to you. Usually I don’t speak about her at all.”
Her.
Now, that hurts. Though not as much as the thought of him suffering in silence. That just about tears me to pieces. I realize I’d gladly bear the weight of his longing for Cara even if it crushed my shoulder blades, so long as he didn’t have to carry it alone. “You can talk to me about anything.”