Chapter 43 Tom
Chapter forty-three
Tom
Icheck the weather app for the third time in twenty minutes. Clear. Low of forty-two. No rain.
My laptop is open to the route I mapped out two days ago. MoMA to St. Patrick's. Rockefeller. Chrysler. Grand Central. Brooklyn Bridge. DUMBO.
The tripod leans against the wall near my camera bag. I stare at it, testing the weight in my hand. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of thing that anchors you to one spot.
I text Sam
Wear comfortable shoes. Meet me at MoMA at 8?
That's all the information I get?
Yep.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
See you at 8.
Tonight, finally, I'm giving her the rainy night tour I chickened out on weeks ago.
***
She's exactly on time.
I spot her crossing the plaza toward the museum entrance. Her hair is down. Usually pulls it back for work, ties it up when she's focused. Tonight it falls past her shoulders.
I don't wait for her to reach me. I close the distance, slide my hand along her jaw, and kiss her.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, her fingers curling into my jacket.
When I pull back, she's smiling.
"Good start," she says.
"I thought so."
Her hand finds mine. "Hi. So what are we doing?"
"Walking tour. Architecture at night."
Her expression shifts. Recognition, then something warmer. "Tom."
I squeeze her hand and start walking.
***
St. Patrick's Cathedral glows from within. Floodlights angle up to catch the gothic arches and rib vaults. Long shadows stretch across stone. A faint trace of incense and old stone hangs in the cool air, softening the edge of the city noise outside.
I stop halfway up and step behind her, arms circling her waist.
"Look up," I say quietly.
She tilts her head back, resting it against my shoulder. The curve of her head fits perfectly into the hollow above my collarbone.
"The arches," she murmurs. "The way the light hits the stone."
I bring my arm up over her shoulder to point, my chest pressed against her back. "They light it from the bottom," I say, my voice dropping near her ear. "It makes the whole building look like it's glowing."
"It's beautiful."
I press a kiss to the side of her neck. She shivers.
"Are you trying to distract me from the architecture?"
Her voice is low, amused.
"Maybe."
She laughs and leans back harder against my chest.
We stand like that for a moment. Just breathing. Looking up.
Together.
***
Rockefeller Plaza is quieter at night, but there is still a steady hum of people working through it.
The Art Deco geometry is razor-clear under the spotlights, every line and angle bright against the night. We pause near the Prometheus statue, gold leaf catching the glow from the rink below.
Sam's hand rests flat against my chest.
"I wonder how many guys proposed to their girlfriends under this statue during the holidays," I say.
She tips her head back to look at me. "For the record, I wouldn't want to be one of them."
"No?"
"No."
She rises up on her toes and kisses me. Brief. Sweet. Her mouth warm against mine.
When she pulls back, I'm still smiling.
"Noted," I say.
Her fingers tap once against my sternum. "Good."
I take her hand and we keep walking, fingers laced together.
***
The Chrysler crown pops into view, lit white against the sky.
We're standing near a tall office tower, its windows almost black at this hour. I slow, scanning the dark glass across the street, then stop.
"Wait," I say.
I step close to her side. "Two steps left."
She shifts. I move with her.
"There." I drop my voice. I set my hand lightly on her hip—just enough to stop her from taking another step. With my other hand, I point toward the dark glass of the office building. "Look at the reflection."
The glass catches it perfectly. The crown floats in the dark facade, doubled and somehow sharper than the real thing. Bright silver arches glowing against the black glass.
Sam inhales. "Oh."
I don't step away. My hand stays at her waist.
"You see it?" I ask.
She nods, her shoulder brushing the front of my jacket. "It looks closer."
"It always does in reflection."
We stand there for a moment, looking at the building suspended in the glass. Then she turns her head to look up at me. I'm watching her, not the reflection.
"You're not even looking at it," she says.
"I'm looking at something better."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.
***
You can't walk through the main concourse of Grand Central without looking up.
The celestial ceiling stretches overhead; constellations painted backward in gold leaf and teal. Sam's head tilts back as we walk through the main concourse, her grip on my hand tightening.
"Come on," I say. "I want to show you something."
I lead her downstairs to the Oyster Bar level, past the restaurant entrance to the tiled arches outside. The air is warmer here, echoing with low voices and footsteps bouncing off the curved ceiling.
"The whispering gallery?" she asks.
"You've done this before?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. But I've always wanted to."
I position her at one corner of the arch. Walk to the opposite corner.
Thirty feet away. Diagonal across the space.
The curved ceiling rises between us. She's small at this distance, framed by terracotta tile and shadow.
I turn to face the wall and speak quietly.
"Sam Morgan is distracting me from the architecture."
Her laugh echoes through the arch.
She turns to her corner. Whispers back.
"That was the plan."
Her voice carries clear as if she were standing right next to me.
When we meet in the middle, I pull her close and press a kiss to her temple.
"Best distraction I've ever had," I say.
She laughs against my chest. "Good."
I hug her tighter.
She tips her head back to look at me. "You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Dating."
I smile against her temple. "We're not done."
***
The Brooklyn Bridge cables form illuminated geometric patterns against the night sky.
We're halfway across, the skyline glittering behind us. It’s cold, but clear. Distant car horns drift up from the FDR, a low, constant hum beneath the thrum of footsteps on the wooden planks. Sam's hand is warm in mine.
We stop. Turn back toward Manhattan.
"You know why I love photographing derelict buildings?" I ask.
She looks at me. "Why?"
"Because... light changes what you notice." I pause, searching for the right words. "You stop looking at what's falling apart. You... you see what's actually still standing. What refuses to disappear."
She's quiet for a moment.
"You're not talking about buildings," she says.
I meet her eyes. "No."
Silence.
She takes my hand and squeezes.
I pull her close and kiss her forehead, her hair soft against my lips.
We stand like that for a long moment, the bridge humming under our feet, the city spread out behind us.
Then we keep walking.
***
Our boots scrape against the uneven DUMBO cobblestones as we cross into Brooklyn.
The neighborhood is quieter over here. The streetlights cast warm pools across the pavement, and when we turn down Washington Street, the Manhattan Bridge frames perfectly between the buildings, its cables sharp against the dark.
Sam stops. Looks around. "This is perfect. All of it."
"I'm glad."
She turns to me, a small smile pulling at her mouth. "I don't think it's done yet."
"No?"
"No." She steps closer, sliding her hands up my chest. "There's one more thing."
"What's that?"
She pulls me down by the front of my jacket.
My brain shorts out. She kisses me hard enough that I lose my footing, stumbling a half-step forward until I'm flush against her.
My heart slams against my ribs, breath catching as every thought I had about pacing this date perfectly goes out the window.
Her hands are locked in the fabric at my chest, completely in control, pulling me down to her level.
I slide my hands around to the small of her back and pull her flush against me, kissing her back just as desperately, letting the cold air and the streetlights fade out entirely.
When we finally break apart, I have to take a breath just to steady myself.
"That's a good way to end a tour." I grin.
"I thought so."
I steady myself, hands settling at her waist. "Let me take your picture?"
She nods.
"Here?"
"Here."
I step back, framing her with my hands first. She's standing on cobblestones, the Manhattan Bridge behind her, warm streetlight catching her face.
I raise the camera.
Click.
"Can I see?" she asks.
"Later. I want to edit it first."
The city lights blurred past as we made our way back to Manhattan.
***
When we reach her building, I walk her to the door.
"Thank you," she says. "I liked seeing the city through your eyes."
I don't answer right away, just letting myself look at her for a second. I step closer, sliding my hand up her neck and tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. She tilts her head up, her eyes holding mine until the very last second.
I kiss her slowly, letting the cold night air disappear between us. When I finally pull back, my thumb lingers on her bottom lip.
"Text me when you're inside your apartment?" I say.
“Always."
***
My laptop is already open when I sit down at my desk.
Eleven PM. The apartment is quiet.
I pull up the photo I took of Sam in DUMBO.
The framing is perfect. The light. Her expression.
I convert it to black-and-white.
The image transforms. High contrast. Dramatic shadows. Her face luminous against the dark background.
I stare at it.
Black-and-white.
I sit there for a long moment, looking at the image on my screen.
Then I open my Bronx Series folder.
The first image loads: a grandmother and two kids on a fire escape in Mott Haven, laundry lines crossing the frame like rigging.
The youngest is laughing, reaching for the camera.
The light is late afternoon, warm. The building behind them is tagged and crumbling, but the way she's holding that kid—solid, anchored—turns the whole frame into home.
I open a new browser tab. The submission portal loads slowly.
I drag the fire escape file from the Bronx folder toward the upload area.
The cursor hovers over the button.
My finger tenses on the trackpad. I don't let go. I don't click submit.
The file just sits there, waiting—one half-inch of pressure away from the life I keep telling myself I’ll start “someday.”