Chapter 34 Tom
Chapter thirty-four
Tom
The restaurant is loud, a steady hum of clinking silver and overlapping conversations, but I'm barely paying attention to the room.
The waiter sets down Sam's wine glass and I'm halfway through telling her about the wedding where the groom's ex showed up in a white dress.
"She walked straight down the center aisle during the ceremony," I say, cutting into the crab cake. "Full veil. Bouquet. The works."
Sam's fork freezes midway to her mouth. "No."
"Security had to escort her out. I got three shots before they cleared the room." I take a bite, grinning. "Sold two of them to a tabloid the next week."
She laughs so hard she snorts, then immediately covers her face with both hands.
I set down my fork. "Do that again."
"Absolutely not." Her voice is muffled behind her palms.
"Come on. That was adorable."
She drops her hands. Her cheeks are bright pink now, and she avoids my eyes, taking a long, desperate sip of wine instead. I watch her swallow, a slow, helpless grin taking over my face.
I'm still grinning twenty minutes later when the check arrives.
***
The elevator ride back is quiet. Sam leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely, eyes half-closed. I watch the floor numbers climb.
When we reach the room, I toss my jacket over the chair and head toward my duffel to grab my shower stuff. I'm digging through clean shirts when I turn around and see it.
A piece of hotel notepad paper. Taped to the bathroom door.
I walk closer.
BATHROOM SCHEDULE:
9:00-9:10 PM: Tom
9:15-9:25 PM: Sam
Designated "bathroom access windows" for morning (TBD)
I read it twice. Blink. Read it again.
"You made a shower schedule?"
Sam looks up from her suitcase, completely serious. "We need a system. Otherwise, it's chaos."
"Sam." I turn to face her fully. "It's a bathroom. Not a production timeline."
"Exactly. Which is why we need structure."
I can't help it. I grin. "This is the most you thing I've ever seen."
"Just stick to your time slot."
I grab my towel off the bed. "Oh, I'm definitely not sticking to my time slot."
***
I take my time. The water's hot and I'm halfway through rinsing shampoo when there's a knock on the door.
"Ten minutes are up!" Sam's voice cuts through the sound of the spray.
I turn my face into the water, grinning. "Can't hear you over the chainsaw snoring!"
There's a pause. Then I hear her laugh through the door. "I hate you!"
"No you don't!"
I take another three minutes. Maybe four. When I finally shut off the water, I dry off and wrap the towel around my waist. Then I do what I've been planning since I saw the schedule.
I move her moisturizer from her side of the counter to mine. Set her toothbrush right next to my shaving cream. Her lip gloss goes on my side too.
I'm grinning the entire time.
When I walk out, towel slung over my shoulder, Sam's sitting on her bed scrolling through her phone. She glances up.
"Shower's all yours," I say. "I left it nice and organized for you."
Her eyes narrow. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. I'm a gentleman."
She stands, suspicious, and pushes past me into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her.
***
Twenty minutes later she comes out in the hotel robe, hair damp and loose around her shoulders. I'm already in bed, half-watching some documentary about urban planning that I don't actually care about.
Sam climbs into her bed, pulls the covers up to her waist, and picks up her phone.
I wait a few minutes, then slide out of bed and head back into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
The counter is exactly how I left it.
Her moisturizer is still on my side. Her toothbrush is still next to my shaving cream. The lig gloss hasn't moved.
I stare at the toothbrush for a long moment. Then I brush my teeth and leave everything exactly where it is.
***
When I come back out, Sam's standing near the clothing rack we used for the photoshoot earlier. She's staring at the three-foot gap between our beds like she's measuring it.
Then she grabs the metal frame and wheels the rack forward. The wheels squeak against the carpet.
She parks it directly between the two beds. Not blocking the gap completely, but close. A wall of linen and brass.
"Just getting it out of the way," she says, not looking at me.
I stop at the foot of my bed. "Uh-huh."
"The room feels crowded with it against the wall."
"Sure."
She climbs back into her bed, pulls the covers up, and reaches for the lamp on her nightstand. The room goes dark except for the glow of the alarm clock.
I close my laptop and set it on the nightstand. Lie down. Stare at the ceiling.
We're both lying there in the dark, facing each other across the gap. The clothing rack is a silhouette between us, fabric swaying slightly from the air conditioning vent.
"Why do you really hate flying?" Sam's voice is quiet, almost careful.
I shift onto my side, arm tucked under my pillow. "Control. I don't have it up there."
"That's not really an answer."
I exhale. "If the plane goes down, I can't fix it. Can't get out. Can't do anything. I just... sit there and wait for the outcome."
Silence.
I hear the slow rustle of sheets as she shifts in the dark.
"That's why I hate most things," she says.
I almost laugh. "Yeah. Funny how we're both terrified for opposite reasons."
"What do you mean?"
"You're scared things will fall apart if you let go. I'm scared of wanting something—" I stop. "And losing it anyway."
Her breathing is the only sound for a long moment.
"Tomorrow night," she says. "At the gala."
"What about it?"
"If we walk in together. Dance together. Act like a couple." She pauses. "That's the first time we'll have done that in front of anyone. It's sort of a declaration."
I stare at the shadow of the rack. "And?"
"And I don't know if we're actually doing it—being a couple—or if we're just playing the part for one night. And then Monday we go back to being whatever this is."
My chest tightens. "You think I'm playing a part?"
"I think you're good at being present for a moment. A weekend. A shoot. A trip." Her voice is steady, but there's an edge underneath. "But I don't know what happens after."
I press my palm flat against the mattress. "What are you asking me?"
"I'm asking if tomorrow is real. Or if it's just optics."
I push up onto my elbow so I can see her shape in the dark.
"I'm not pretending," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I planned. "When we walk in there tomorrow, it's real. Nothing I do will be for optics."
"But what about Monday?"
I lie back down. Stare at the ceiling again.
"I don't know," I say finally.
She doesn't respond.
"I've spent my whole life being good at leaving," I continue. "Packing light. Not putting down roots. I don't know how to be good at staying yet."
"Yet?"
"I want to try."
The air conditioning hums. The fabric on the rack shifts.
"And I have to get better at not knowing what Monday looks like," Sam says. Her voice is softer now, but it wavers at the end. "That's hard for me."
"I know."
"So let's start with Saturday." She takes a breath. "And see where Sunday goes."
I turn my head toward her bed. I can barely see her outline in the dark, but I know she's facing me.
"Yeah," I say. "Okay."
Neither of us says anything else.
I lie there for a long time, staring at the silhouette of the clothing rack, at the bed three feet away where she's lying in the dark.
We're closer than we were this morning.
With the rack still between us.
And part of me is relieved it’s there.