Everybody has been counting the days to the first showing of Bombshell. Everybody has been insanely nervous and incredibly busy, and obviously the same goes for Tom. Nervous. Busy. Never entirely present in the moment. The big Broadway hit about Marilyn Monroe was nearing completion, which evidently took a stand over everything else on God’s green earth.

You’re only bitter about it because Tom missed your show.

For several months, you had been working towards performing with a wonderful cast for an off-Broadway musical. You were the star. It was the first time you had ever done something so monumental. It was your dream come true. But of course, an actual Broadway production cast a shadow over that.

Tom had promised he would be there. Said he wouldn’t miss it for the world. He had acted so proud of you. And then he failed to show up. You had bombarded his phone both before and after the show. He never answered. You waited in the rain for almost two hours, calling him over and over and flooding his voicemail. He’d said he would take you home after the show. He was your only way home. So you walked instead.

You are sulking in the apartment when Tom finally makes an appearance. On any other day, you’d be so excited, so worried about him. But tonight you are nothing but pissed off. So pissed off that you won’t even look at him. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night and you haven’t heard from him since this morning.

He stands in the doorway, just staring at your form. He drops his keys in the bowl, hoping maybe you just hadn’t heard him come in. When you still won’t acknowledge his presence, he swallows thickly.

“I am so sorry,” he finally speaks up, voice quiet.