#yoja

To his mind the room is but half dressed. They’ve gotten started with the draping and décor but are nowhere near the end result. It’ll steal away breath when they’re done, and when properly lit. At the moment the entirety of the room is fully illuminated, and most of those within it bustling about, racing to beat the deadline. In a few days’ time it’ll be drastically different, though the pacing oddly similar.

Attire, certainly, will be a noticeable difference. No jeans and jumpers. Tuxes and evening gowns as far as the eye can see. Many of those currently scurrying around will be entirely hidden from view, back to their behind the scenes work. The stage will be set, the lighting and sound perfected to be just so – and the production team alternatively blurting out orders or praying that their drills, their efforts in the days prior to the big night weren’t in vain. No mishaps. No wardrobe malfunctions or sound blackouts bringing the program to a temporary halt, everyone ultimately keeping to their allotted time, though all involved knowing that the show will inevitably run long.

His own role is easy enough. Wait here. Step onto the stage there. Walk to the mark just there, and though there’ll be a teleprompter he won’t really need to read the words. He’ll know them, by then. He just needs to deliver his short speech and keep his attention forward, on the designated camera. Anywhere, anything but allowing his focus to drift to the table that seems to be centered at his designated podium.

He hadn’t spotted it right out. It was only after being asked to stand at the podium for a moment so they could make adjustments that he let his gaze drop from the teleprompter to study the assigned seating at the tables closest to him. But there she sits – or, at least – there she will sit, a few nights hence.

Tom tries to lift his eyes away from her chair, away from her table again, tries to settle his focus on the teleprompter until he is asked to continue, but with little success. If he similarly fails on the night of the show he’ll undoubtedly hone in on her. When faced with the real thing? Now he’s only caught staring at her likeness upon a page.

Her chair is off to the right of the table. His eyes flit quickly around it's circumference, counting the chairs, trying to make a game of it. Maybe if he distracts himself with other things. Maths. If he can just keep his brain occupied elsewhere. But no. He can’t make a pleasant blur of the room. He swallows, a little miserable that his heart seems to stutter through its practiced rhythm from simple proximity to a photograph of her.

It’s because of what that means. Another sleep, or two, and she’ll be seated there, looking up at him. And he – he’ll be –

Reading from the teleprompter like a good boy. And trying not to throw the evening into chaos because he can’t get his personal life under control.

It’s not like he hasn’t heard the mutterings. Like he didn’t have it ‘kindly’ brought to his attention that she’d declined presenting this year – something that had raised eyebrows for going against tradition. Particularly, they’d said, because she was still planning on attending. Usually, they’d said, when one sited a previous obligation as a reason to decline their role in the pomp and circumstance it meant they were then also absent from the night itself.

As though he could possibly control what she had decided to do, or not do.

Tom pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, waiting – no, pleading for direction to break him from his train of thought. Except they’re still busy tinkering and talking amongst themselves.

He snuffs out a short breath through his nose, studying the curve of the back of her chair. He hardly counts himself as surprised that she’s still attending. They’d planned on coming to this event together. And her stubbornness once she sets her mind to a thing…

Pot. Kettle.

There she is again. Her voice in his head. His lips almost tip into a sad smile as his eyes drop from the tip of her chair to study the facsimile of her face. He catches the action, twitching his mouth and altering his face back to the calm expression he’d previously held.

Can’t be caught mooning or casting some sort of face at the photo of his ex.

Can’t.

Won’t.

There are other mutterings. Other things stage whispered at his back. The claim that she had declined the opportunity to present simply because he was, and she didn’t want to be trapped backstage, or potentially paired with him on stage. That she didn’t want to be spotlighted and squirming for ratings, with all those watching witnessing the ex-couple’s discomfort for sport. No stopping the rumor mill. And no denying the potential for such a thing to occur, though he’d love to believe otherwise.

Again his eyes flit around her assigned table, his focus moving purposefully from chair to chair as he takes note of who she’ll be seated with. His own table is – he sweeps his gaze across the room to pinpoint his table, his jacket and a few odd belongings stowed in his chair while these finer details are ironed out. Then it’s on to the next thing, the next stop, the next job that will keep him occupied until his return to this very room.

It’s curious that neither Matt nor Andrew are seated at her table. He can’t now recall, for the life of him, if they’d been listed as confirmed attendees? But does it really matter? Does it? It… well, since he’d been made aware that she had come and gone – set foot in London and then disappeared almost as quickly, back to the set of the Touring Sundays sequel as production moved forward in Spain…

Yes.

Simply put, yes.

He’d been waiting, in the days that followed her brief stay in London, for anything to happen. If he was kidding himself he’d site the moment she ran into his family at the park – or maybe her quiet meeting with his mother – but definitely since that panicked phone call from Ben. Yes, he’d been waiting for something to surface in the media, or - and he readily admits how unlikely it is - for some sort of contact from her.

The biggest, latest, Hollywood scandal had held everyone’s attention through the New Year, it seemed. There had been no blurb of speculation about the pair of Touring Sundays stars and how they spent their holidays. No detailed articles, or any painting a picture with broad strokes, stirring the pot regarding her time spent in London. No accompanying photos or selective shots of her trip - or anything that gave him any inkling as to what had happened New Years Eve to drive her from the company of friends without giving anyone notice.

No random fan encounters.

Nothing.

Tom shifts on his feet, pulling a hand from his pocket to force his glasses back up his nose with a quick tip of his finger before trying, and failing, to focus elsewhere in the room again. The EXIT sign? The many of them that dot the perimeter of the room and bring him full circle back to her table. His belongings, still safely stowed. Aaand the span of tables between his, and hers - his gaze met by her smiling face, again.

Had it been foolish to scan the faces of the other New Years Eve revelers that night? On the street outside the club? Yes. And foolish, too, to study the gait of his fellow commuters as he walked down the streets towards home after that phone call, looking for one that struck him as familiar? Yes, again. Clearly, yes. So then it follows that it was also foolish to have habitually checked his phone for follow up messages, or new alerts, and to peek out the window in the time that followed. Right up until Ben had called back in the wee hours of the morning with the news that she was ok. That …

And damn it if Ben hadn’t sounded surprised that he’d want to get an update? After the texts and then that frantic call asking if he’d seen her? That they'd lost her, and .... What kind of man did Ben think him to be? Except – maybe, maybe it wasn’t that he’d sounded surprised. Now that he's thought a bit about it. Maybe after delivering the news that she was safe and sound with Matt and Laura again, maybe it was that Ben had been pleased, happy for the confirmation that his friend still cared enough to request a follow-up upon learning that his ex was out wandering the streets of London alone.

“Tom?”

Tom blinks, giving a start at the summons yanking him from his thoughts.

“Care to run through for us?”

Ah. Tom swivels his eyes up to note that the teleprompter has started to cycle from the start of his short speech. He gives a small shrug, along with a nod and an apologetic smile, “Yes. Right. Sorry. Drifted a bit.”

Drifted? A more appropriate admission would be that he’d steamrolled himself straight into his own private minefield and had been stomping through the area with reckless intent.

Up until that call from Ben, he’d all but sorted himself. Resigned himself, at any rate, to the fact that things had gotten so twisted and turned that there’d be no hope of finding a fix. His anger, his stubborn, stupid anger and ill born indignation that she’d kept so important a detail about her life from him was to blame. He’d all but decided that finding a way to live with the implosion of his world would just be the way of things.

Somehow his friends saw a different ending. His friends. And hers. And his family, too. In fact, most that knew them somehow seemed to all hold firmly to the belief that they’d survive this, that they’d find a way back to each other. He’d fumed at first. Felt with every fiber of his being that they simply didn't understand what had actually happened between them, and certainly didn't know either of them well enough to know the truth of things. But then - the more he dwelled on it.

That Ben thought to call him when he couldn’t find her.

The first of the few lines of his speech have already disappeared from the prompter, and Tom draws his eyebrows together into a light frown as he pushes to remember the correct phrasing and catch it back up. His mind wants a different path. It’ll be a path he’ll allow himself to explore later, after he’s been released and is once again wandering the streets of L.A. Until tonight, when his hotel room is mostly quiet, but his brain won’t stop buzzing. Until the night, a few days from now.

And then? Then it’ll be up to her.

So I know I talked about potentially starting to just post these chapters elsewhere and then providing a link with the taglist to be able to track updates. But I can’t give up the established format. At least not for this story, not yet. Clearly breaking out of a routine isn’t my strong suit... unless you consider going months without updating a story. Erm, I can only apologize and tell you that I have the best intentions!  ❤ ❤  Here’s hoping everyone is still waiting to see what happens with this couple, even if I’ve dragged things out horribly. 

Yes - it’s in black and white. Yes, I’ve just fed my own weakness/ made it worse. Sorry. Not sorry.

As you get older it really does get harder and harder to stay up partying to ring in the new year. Drinking helps in the moment but then if you’re not careful you end up regretting it in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever your body deems it decent to return to consciousness.

Doesn’t mean anybody stops dancing, or drinking. There’s usually confetti or glitter, too… something that gets stuck to the sweat that is worked up out on the dance floor and then you’re doomed to find evidence of the night for days afterward.

There’s the buzz from the jacket pocket again. Nuh-uh. All family and friends have been squared away. All well wishes have been issued. The well is used up, bone dry. Whomever it is can wait.

Yep. They can wait. For all of a minute.

Tom reaches up to swipe a damp palm through his now tangled curls, and then drag his hand down over his face. The stubble that can no longer be considered a day or two past needing a shave grates against his skin. The last thing he wants to do is push through the crowds to find somewhere he won’t be jostled and see who it is trying to get into contact.

There goes his mobile again.

“What.” His voice rattles around in his throat but hardly reaches his ears. A call would be pointless. Besides, he really has gone through the entire list of friends and family…. “What, what what?”

The few close friends that had finally talked him into a night out are visible, a dozen or so odd paces away so who… who?

He wobbles with the movements of the crowd as he tries to pry the bit of tech from his pocket.

BEN

Ignore

The screen lights up again before he has a chance to pocket it again.

BEN

“Wh…”

Four missed calls and now another? He never felt the others. Or maybe, no, maybe he had.

Benedict had issued an invite for the night, but he’d declined. The invitation had come with a warning: she was invited, too. They still haven’t spoken, not since that day at her mother’s house. What more was there to say? He’d asked a simple thing. Choose.

And she had.

He waits, counting the seconds before the designated number of rings will pass and Benedict will be forced to leave a voicemail. Five missed calls now and no messages left until this point. Curious.

No. Not curious. Is this Ben calling to check up on him? Make sure he’s not home alone? Maybe he should pick up and let good-old-Benedict hear the thrum of the music. He’s out. He’s out and having a grand time, thank you very much. Everything’s fine here.

Fine.

Her word.

Tom swallows, pressing the button to again ignore the call and then quickly shoving the mobile back into his pocket. Fine. Fine, fine. It’s all fucking fine. After at least ten minutes of sporadic buzzing against his hipbone he gives in, waving his mobile at his friends before finding an exit.

Fourteen. Fourteen missed calls. And a few assorted texts that begin benign and proceed towards threatening. What was so important about answering his phone?

He jabs the call button and waits, the sounds of the club at his back mirroring his pulse. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn his jacket all night. This isn’t heatstroke – not even close – but damn it actually feels good to step out into the cold. Benedict answers within two seconds of Tom initiating the call, and only gives Tom enough time to inhale before speaking.

“About fucking time.”

“What?”

“What, what? You’ve been ignoring my calls!”

Damn right. Ben had his own party, his own guests to attend to. Tom huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at the pavement beneath his feet before speaking, “I’m out, mate. No need to check up on---”

Benedict cuts him off, “Is she there?”

Tom blinks, pulls his phone away to look at the screen for a moment and then hold it back to his ear again. Which of the pair of them has had more to drink tonight? “Is who where?”

“You know who. Is she there. With you?”

“What?” The cold is starting to annoy him, or he’s actually starting to feel it. He tucks his free hand up under the arm that holds the phone aloft to attempt to keep the digits warm. “No. Why?”

There’s a slight pause and then Benedict emits a curse, his words becoming muffled with movement on his end. “Shit. She’s not there.” There’s a background conversation going on. Questions regarding location, accusations that are too distant or muddied by further background noise to make out. More movement and words that are clear once more, “Have you heard from her?”

“No. You know I haven’t. Not since…” Tom takes a breath, so many different reactions to the conversation fighting for dominance. His feet have frozen into place beneath him. “What’s going on?”

Benedict is already halfway into explaining by the time Tom finishes voicing the question. “She left. She was here. But she stepped out to take a call. And after a while, when she didn’t come back in. Well, we’d hoped…”

Tom removes his hand from under his arm to pinch the bridge of his nose. It takes him a second to breathe out a single word: “No.” He drops his hand to his side, shaking his head for a moment before rolling his eyes at himself and stopping the motion. “No. I – I haven’t heard from her.”

“Alright. Alright. It was a long shot.” Benedict clears his throat. “Sorry. Ah. Happy New Year, man.”

“Yea.” He waits, almost too long, to speak again. “Hey, Ben?”

“Yea?”

“When you find her?” He bobs his head slightly, acknowledging the possibility she’s just doing exactly what he had been trying to do before answering the call – trying to pretend that the new year held something other than heartache in store for them. “When she answers her damn phone… call me.”

After Benedict responds in the affirmative and rings off Tom remains outside, even after the cold has permeated each layer of clothing. For awhile he watches everyone else out there with him, those still out partying, those already making their way home.

It’s ludicrous, but he can’t help but hope that he’ll recognize the next person to wander towards him. That it’ll be her. She’d never show up here. They’d never talked about it, so how could she know he might be there? That knowledge doesn’t stop him looking for a few minutes longer.

He lets out a long breath, not quite ready to give up even though his nose has started to run. His eyes continue to flit from partygoer to partygoer as he mutters, “Stubborn.”

In his head, she responds with a lighthearted laugh:

Pot. Kettle.