I nod. "Yeah."
We walk out into the cold. I lean against Tom's side, heavy with wine and exhaustion, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
"You did it," he says.
"We did it," I correct.
"No." His voice is firm. "You did this. My photos helped, but this was yours."
I don't argue. I don't have the energy.
We reach my building. The stoop is lit by the streetlight, casting long shadows across the steps. I turn to face him.
"Thank you," I say. "For the kiss this morning. For being there tonight. For—" I pause. "For all of it."
Tom cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly. It's different from this morning—slower, gentler, no urgency behind it.
When he pulls back, he brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. "Text me when you're inside."
"I will."
He waits on the sidewalk while I climb the steps and unlock the door. I turn back once, wave. He waves back.
Inside, I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door, pull on an old t-shirt, and climb under the covers. As I pull the blankets up, I can still feel the faint pressure of Tom's thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
I pick up my phone one last time.
I'm inside. Goodnight.
The response comes three seconds later.
Goodnight, Sam. Sleep well.
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.
***
