Page 60 of In This Together

‘That without being all those things, you don’t actually know who you really are?’

She shifted her attention from the can to Tommy, wondering whether he’d spoken those words or if she had. She watched his pupils slowly dilate and her gaze dropped to his lips, the lips that kissed her so well.

‘So, you really don’t drink in daylight hours,’ she said, distracting herself from the urge to cross the island between them and fall into his arms, get lost in him, lose herself and her mind, the way he could make her do.

‘No. Not any more.’ He stood up and busied himself opening cupboards and the refrigerator. Suddenly, Andrea wondered what on earth she’d been thinking coming here. Why had she called him from the train station after three weeks of avoiding his calls?

She stood. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy, I shouldn’t have come here like this. You don’t want to listen to me whine about my life. I’m not even one to moan, usually. I don’t know why I?—’

‘Would you just sit your ass down and stop fretting about everything?’ He stared at her until she took her seat back on the stool. ‘I think I’ve got everything to make a club sandwich. Are you in?’

‘Yeah, I’m in,’ she said, her mouth shaping into amusement as he turned his back to her and started pressing random buttons on the oven. ‘Need any help there, sparky?’

‘It’s an oven. How hard can it be?’ He continued to press buttons, turning lights on and off.

Andrea moved to his side and turned on the grill. ‘I assume it’s for chicken?’

His eyes narrowed and he rolled his chiselled jaw. ‘Smart ass.’

They made two impeccable club sandwiches, side-by-side, then ate them at the kitchen worktop, talking about where in the world had the craziest fans – Japan – and which was Tommy’s best-ever gig – the Super Bowl. They talked about NFL and Tom Brady versus Patrick Mahomes. About the Yankees and the last ball game they’d been to. They talked about everything and nothing of consequence and it was the best time Andrea had had in a while. No burdens. No arguments. No pressures.

After lunch, they went to Tommy’s music room – a spare bedroom he had sound-proofed – that played host to no less than seven guitars on stands and a baby grand piano.

She noticed sheets of paper strewn across a side table, scribbled with words and a pen sitting on top of them. ‘Are you in the middle of something?’ she asked.

‘I was when you booty-called me earlier.’ He picked up a six-string acoustic and sat on a music stool. ‘It’s called, The Only Woman Who Ever Walks Out On Me. Repeatedly.’

Andrea covered her mouth to stifle her chuckle but when he winked, she couldn’t hide her laugh. ‘I did not booty-call you.’

‘But you do leave me after you use my body for sex. Every time.’

She straddled the piano seat, facing him. ‘A girl’s gotta keep a guy on his toes.’

‘You certainly do that when I’m running after you.’

‘Why are you doing that?’

He started to strum. Andrea watched his fingers move over a D7 chord, a G, then A minor. A classic combination.

‘Why am I running after you?’ He shrugged and chuckled then sobered quickly. ‘Because having women fall at your feet, waiting for you to invite them to speak and when they do speak, having nothing to say except nonsense about how they can’t believe they’re screwing Tommy Dawson, gets old.’ He started to finger-pick a tune. ‘I say that knowing how arrogant it sounds.’

‘At least you know. That makes it semi-redeemable. I think referring to yourself in the third person was a real low point.’

‘Well…’ He slipped back to a four-beat strum. ‘I also, backhandedly, called you interesting and smart.’

He started to sing…

‘Let ’em talk ’bout what they think they see

Let ’em talk ’bout how they see us be

’Cause baby, we got nothin’ to prove

The world is yours and mine, you and me

We earned our scars and put in our time

Let ’em show, for everyone to see

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