The trouble with sharing a dressing room is that someone is in the way. It’s never just Chris and Tom. Maybe all their handlers know that it’s not the greatest of ideas (rumors, rumors, must be careful about spreading rumors). Not that Tom (or Chris for that matter) would utter one complaint about having to share with Mark. He’s great—they all get along really well. And, truthfully, it’s been fun with the three of them. A new element, a new friend.
But sometimes, like right now, he’s sort of the fly in the ointment.
Except, because he’s such a good guy, it’s almost as if he can read the atmosphere. When Tom’s leg jangles a little too much from where he sits perched on the edge of the couch, when Chris’ tap, tap, tapping of his fingers on the wooden end table becomes a little too much, he politely excuses himself with the claim of making a phonecall.
Once the door had clicked in place—Tom could see the lock had been turned and that meant the world—silence descends over the room. That leg had stopped shaking, the blunt nails stopped scratching against the wood every few taps. Had a pin dropped in the building nextdoor, they could’ve heard it as if it’d been right in front of them.