10
New York City
What the hell am I doing? I leave Manhattan for two days and my life is turned upside down by a honey-haired blond named Chelsea.
"Hey, Ed." I greet the theatre security guard as I swing in the Crossing Lines stage door for the Wednesday matinee. After a red-eye flight from L.A. spent thinking about the amber-eyed spitfire I just met, I only caught four hours of sleep.
"Afternoon, Tom. Great performance Monday night," he says.
"Thanks. I never pegged you for a Celebrity Dance Off fan." I scribble my initials on the Call Board.
"What can I say? My wife makes me watch, and with that show, once you start, how do you stop?"
"Good point." I take the stairs up two flights to my dressing room. Tossing my backpack on the sofa, I whip off my shirt and pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt. The days off gave my body a well-needed break, but now my brain is overloaded replaying every minute I spent with Chelsea. I head for the Mezzanine lobby to do my physical warm up. It's one of the few places in the theatre with enough space to spread out. I find Paige already stretching.
"You're back. Thank God. Jordan is a good understudy, but he's not you."
"You missed me," I tease.
"Sort of. He ate spicy garlic chicken before last night's show and then didn't bother to brush his teeth."
"You know he does that on purpose." I laugh, unable to imagine making Paige kiss me after a meal like that.
She wrinkles up her face. "He's a real shit."
More cast members join us as we warm up and rehash Celebrity Dance Off, how cool it was that I actually performed on hit show, and how it might open more doors for me professionally. I drift off into my own thoughts when I hear Paige.
"Hello! Earth to Tom." She waves her hand in front of my face. I catch myself staring into space.
"Oh! Sorry. I guess I was somewhere else."
"Ya think?" She laughs. "So, what happened in LA that has you so distracted?"
Thoughts of Chelsea, with her gorgeous smile and vulnerable eyes, flash in my mind. I can't help myself. A guilty smile covers my face.
Paige raises an eyebrow in surprise. "Or should I say, who happened in L.A.?"
And now I'm grinning like a teenage boy with his first hard on.
Paige laughs. "Really? Tell me more."
"Tom, it's time to run the fight scene." Wes, our stage manager, appears to save the day.
I hop up and give Paige a parting smile. "Gotta go."
Max, Dave and I run the fight scene. We mark through it every night to make sure it stays tight and no one gets sloppy. One wrong move and somebody gets hurt. Next we run my fall. I climb ten feet up the side of the set and am pushed off into the angry arms of my cast members. Having been gone, I work privately with Wes on my backflip and a couple other stunts until we're both satisfied I'm back in the groove.
After that I check in with the music director and the sound director to make sure who's working tonight and that we're on the same page. As I return to my dressing room I run into Tanya, a member of the ensemble and Paige's understudy. She purrs in my ear as I try to pass. It's her thing, and even though she's not my type, and a pain in the ass, I usually play along, but today I'm not in the mood.
"Come on, baby, don't you want to play?" she teases.
I force a smile. "Lots on my mind. Gotta run."
As I head upstairs, I start my vocal warm up. My dressing room is far from the stage, but since I'm in nearly every scene, I only have to make the trip a couple times a night. Inside, I grab a bottle of coconut water and check my phone. No messages. No tweets. What was I expecting? Why would there be? It's not like I'm likely to see her again. I toss my phone away and drink.
I focus on my vocals, running my routine scales for a good half hour. I'm never comfortable going on stage unless I work through the entire range of warm ups. It's what's kept my voice healthy all these years.
"Thirty minutes till places," Wes's voice sounds over the loud speaker.
My mind drifts back to Chelsea as I change into my costume, dark rugged pants, black boots, a simple T-shirt and light jacket. I can't seem to let her go. I did tell her to look me up when she gets to New York, but for what? She'll be here a day or two at best, and then go back to that small town of hers with some idiot ex-boyfriend.
I sit at my makeup table, and stare in the mirror at my ugly mug. Chelsea is surrounded by a bunch of buff male dancers. How do I compete with that? Dominic alone is enough to kill my chances.
I flip on my steamer and lean forward inhaling the cool steam to hydrate my vocal cords for the long show ahead, my mind still stuck on her. Despite Chelsea and Dominic's on-screen chemistry, when I asked him about her, he assured me they were strictly friends. Phone in hand, I scroll through my contacts. Why the hell didn't I ask for her number? That's another douche bag move, but I do have Dominic's. I glance at the time. What would that make it in L.A., late morning? Odds are they're rehearsing right now. Having watched the show all season, I can picture them in the rehearsal studio. Chelsea with her hair in a messy ponytail, wearing yoga pants that hug her bum so nicely, or those cute little dance shorts she was wearing on Sunday when I convinced her to use my piano bench as a stepping stool.
Aw, hell. Before I can over think it, I text Dominic, asking for Chelsea's number. There. I toss the phone aside, and wait.
While the minutes tick by in slow motion, I finish my steaming, apply my stage makeup, and do a final set of scales. My cell lays rudely silent.
"Five minutes to places," Wes announces over the loudspeaker.
I add a touch of hair wax to my hair and ruffle it to the style of my spontaneous young character. Just as I'm at the door, my phone pings. I snatch it and see Dominic's response. Not only has he sent me Chelsea's number, but a picture of her sitting on the rehearsal floor warming up. I can tell he didn't warn her as her face is screwed up in surprised protest and she's sporting a nasty shiner.
That's the girl I remember. I laugh and click my phone off, heading to stage right for places.