Chapter 52
Chapter fifty-two
Tom
The crowd thins. A few people walk past me holding their coats.
I watch Sam from the side of the room. She's talking to a couple near one of her prints—nodding, gesturing, smiling. She's been like this for the last hour. Answering questions. Shaking hands. Being gracious.
We haven't spoken. Not really. Not since I showed her the Bronx series.
She's the artist. People want to talk to her.
But every time I catch her eye across the room, she looks away first.
The couple thanks Sam and moves towards another exhibit. She smiles, watches them go, then turns slightly—just enough that I think she might look my way.
She doesn't.
Wren appears at my side, pulling on her jacket. "Warning," she says quietly. "The Babes are planning a celebratory drink."
I don't say anything.
She tilts her head, studying me. "Look at me."
I do, reluctantly.
Her expression softens. "Your exhibit is beautiful, Tommy. I'm really proud of you."
I nod, but my eyes drift back to Sam.
Wren follows my gaze, then looks back at me. "Tommy," she says, her voice low. "Tell her."
That gets my attention. I look at her sharply.
Wren just holds my gaze for a beat, then zips up her jacket. "Tell her."
Liv appears beside us, grinning. "Okay, who's coming for drinks?"
We step back into Sam's exhibition space just as the Boss Babes are gathering their things. Priya spots us and grins. "There you are. We were just about to stage an intervention."
Nadia checks her watch. "There's a wine bar two blocks over. Still open for another hour."
Priya tilts her head toward Sam. "You in? We need to celebrate properly."
Sam hesitates, glancing at me, then back at the Babes. "Can I take a rain check?"
There's a beat of silence. Liv raises an eyebrow. Nadia's expression sharpens slightly, reading the room.
Wren steps forward, pulling her coat tighter. "I'll take you up on that drink."
The Babes turn to her, and the energy shifts—relieved, enthusiastic. "Yes, perfect," Priya says.
Liv moves toward Sam and pulls her into a quick, tight hug. "We're so proud of you." Nadia squeezes her shoulder. Priya kisses her cheek. "Your work is stunning, Sam. Really."
"Thank you," Sam says quietly. "For everything."
The Babes say quick goodbyes to me—cheek kisses, a few teasing remarks about my secret exhibit—and then they're gone, Wren trailing behind them with a small wave.
The gallery feels suddenly quiet.
I turn to Sam. My hands are back in my pockets. My jaw is tight. "You want to walk a bit before we get on the subway?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, sure."
We step out onto the sidewalk, the door closing behind us.
We fall into step north without discussing it. Broadway is still busy, but the night has settled into that steady hum—traffic, voices, light from storefronts washing onto the pavement.
I glance up between buildings. "It's hard to get a clean shot of the Empire State when you're actually in Manhattan."
Sam smiles. "I know. That's why I've always liked walking up Broadway here. You get that straight view."
I look ahead.
The Empire State rises in the distance, framed between buildings.
"And you get to see this icon," she adds.
"The Flatiron," I say.
"I've always wanted an office in the point," Sam says. "The very tip."
I glance at her. "I have never been in there, have you?"
"No."
A couple stands from a bench near the path into the park, gathering their coats.
I nod toward it. "You want to grab that?"
"Sure."
We sit, angled slightly toward the street. The Empire State glows over her shoulder. The Flatiron stands solid at our side.
For a minute, we just watch the traffic move past.
I reach over and gently take her hand.
Sam looks at me.
"You've been quiet," I say. "What are you thinking?"
Sam looks down at our hands. She takes a deep breath in—like she's about to say something.
She doesn't.
"Are you mad at me?"
That gets her attention. Sam sits up a bit straighter, turning her body slightly toward me. "Wait. What?"
"For having an exhibit tonight."
Sam blinks. She opens her mouth, closes it, then laughs—a small, flustered sound. "No. Tom. I mean—well, yes."
I laugh despite myself. "Okay, which is it?"
Sam laughs too, shaking her head. "I mean, no—that work is so stunning it needs to be shown. Yes, that you haven't shown it before. I mean, you saw my reaction. I could barely contain my tears."
My smile fades slightly. "Are you mad I didn't show you first?"
Sam looks at me. Her expression softens. She reaches up and gently touches my cheek with her fingers.
"No.
I'm curious Tom.
But I’m not mad."
"I thought about showing you," I say. "Pulling it up on my laptop, asking what you thought."
I shake my head slightly. "But then I thought—maybe I would've just kept it between us. Let that be enough."
I meet her eyes. "I didn't want that. I wanted to do what you did. Take the risk. Put it out there. And I wanted you to see it the way it was supposed to be seen—the way everyone else would. Finished, mounted, real."
Sam shakes her head, a small smile breaking through. "Tom—you can't give me credit for that work. That photography was taken way before we even met—"
"And no one would have seen it if it hadn't been for you."
Sam stops. Her throat tightens. A tear slips out.
I shift closer on the bench. I reach up and catch the tear with my thumb, my hand lingering near her cheek.
She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me.
We sit like that for a moment—close, quiet, the city moving around us.
Then Sam takes a breath. "You told Martha my work was better than yours."
I don't hesitate. "I did."
Sam looks down at our hands again, still joined. "Tom, I saw your exhibit. That work is—" She stops, shakes her head. "I don't know how you can say mine is better."
I shake my head. "You know what the Harbor project site looks like right now? Rusted steel, crumbling brick, broken windows, graffiti covering every surface. It's a wreck. It's been abandoned for years."
I look at her. "And you walked onto that site and saw a neighborhood. You saw daylight pouring into apartments. You saw kids playing in a courtyard. You saw people sitting at cafe tables where right now there's just rubble."
My voice softens. "You didn't solve a problem, Sam. You imagined a world that doesn't exist yet—and then you made other people believe in it. That's what great art does. It changes the way people see."
Sam doesn't say anything for a moment. She just looks at me, her eyes bright. Then she shakes her head, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping. "I don't know how you do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me see myself differently." She swallows. "I've been so focused on getting it right, making sure it worked, that I didn't even think about..." She trails off, then meets my eyes.
"You make me feel like I'm more than I thought I was."
"Good."
My thumb is still resting against her cheek.
I take a breath.
"Because I love you, Samantha Morgan." I don't look away. "And I want to spend every day making sure you see yourself the way I see you."
Sam's hand comes up to cover mine, still resting on her cheek. Her voice is quiet, almost shaky. "I love you Tom. I love you so much."
My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, catching the tear. My eyes don't leave hers. "I like hearing that." I smile. "Say it again."
She smiles through the tears. "I love you."
I lean in slowly, my hand sliding from her cheek to the back of her neck, my fingers threading into her hair.
Her hand falls away and rests against my chest.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Then I kiss her.
The kiss is soft at first—tentative, like we're both still absorbing what just happened. Then my other hand comes up to cup her face, and Sam's free hand finds my chest. The kiss deepens, and for a moment the city disappears—the traffic, the voices, the light from the streetlamps.
When we pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. We're both breathing a little heavier. I don't let go.
"I love you," I say again, quieter this time. Like I'm testing the words, making sure they're real.
Sam smiles, her eyes still closed. "I love you too."
We sit like that for a long moment—foreheads pressed together, hands still tangled, the Empire State glowing behind us and the Flatiron standing solid at our side.
Finally, I pull back just enough to look at her. "Come on," I say, standing and offering my hand. "Let me get you home."
Sam takes it. We walk north, hand-in-hand, toward the subway.
We reach her apartment building. I stop and gently pull her toward me so we're facing each other. My hands rest on her waist. Her arms come up around my neck.
"I know you want to start planning what tomorrow looks like," I say.
She smiles. Laughs a little. "You know me too well."
"Here's my plan," I say. "
No matter where I am—on a shoot halfway around the globe or right here in the city—I plan on loving you. Every day. I plan on loving you no matter how many color-coded sticky notes you leave me. Or how many rules you won't let me bend."
She raises one eyebrow. "And is this where you expect to hear my plan?"
I smile. "Well?"
Sam smiles. "Well, my plan is pretty simple."
Her hands slide up to the back of my neck. Her fingers thread into my hair, and then her mouth is on mine.
She doesn't ease into it. Her grip tightens, pulling me down, and I feel the urgency in the way her lips move against mine. My hands slide from her waist to her lower back, pulling her closer. She presses into me. Her fingers tighten in my hair. I feel the small hitch in her breath.
She finally pulls back.
I laugh softly, my hands still at her lower back. "Yeah. That works." I pull her in closer, wrapping my arms around her, and press a kiss to her temple.
She whispers, "Good."
We stand there for another moment, just holding each other under the glow of the streetlight. Then I kiss her once more, softer this time, and step back.
"Goodnight, Samantha Morgan."
"Goodnight, Tom."
I wait until she's inside, the door closing behind her. Then I turn and walk toward the subway, hands in my pockets, the city glowing around me.