The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(2)
“Hey, Leon, is there any way you can drop me closer to Fifty-Seventh and Fifth? If you leave me here, I’m afraid I’ll never find Adam.”
As if he hadn’t heard me, Leon parked at the sidewalk, hurried to open my door, and offered his hand to help me out of the car.
How on earth am I ever going to—
And suddenly, as I straightened my peacoat and slid on a pair of fluffy earmuffs, turning to look up at the street signs to get my bearings, there was Adam standing in front of the large decorative archway made of crystalline, twinkling, ice-covered branches, highlighted with white lilies and winter sprigs adorned with rustic pine cones. The scene looked like a holiday card, or something from a photo shoot. Oh! They must be filming a movie?! On Christmas Eve?
Adam extended his hand to grab for mine as my eyes and brain competed with one another, racing to take it all in. He looked exceptionally handsome in a hand-tailored Tom Ford suit that was the perfect shade of navy against his olive skin and dirty-blond hair. Oh, how I loved that suit on him. He paired it with a long coat, which he left open despite the plummeting temperature. The air was cold, but thankfully there was no wind, just a chilly stillness, the kind that comes before a soft snow.
I gave Adam’s hand a squeeze and allowed him to guide me through the archway that led to a mostly wide-open street, the crowds held back behind the partitions. The middle of Rockefeller Center was roped off or blocked by decorative fencing, except for two side entrances guarded by large men in black suits.
As we stepped under the trellis, the notes of “Helpless” from the Broadway production of Hamilton floated out through the space, and I couldn’t help but hum along. Emerging from behind one of the burly guards at the side entrance and hooked up to a head mic, an actress who looked a lot like Renée Elise Goldsberry (wait, is that . . .) was singing out to the crowd. She appeared from the right, while a beautiful young woman who resembled Phillipa Soo, bundled in a faux-fur coat, approached from the left.
I opened my mouth to tell Adam that these actresses looked and sounded just like the original cast members of Hamilton, but quickly closed it, certain he wouldn’t remember—even though we’d seen it on opening night. He didn’t know anything about theater and could pretty much take it or leave it but always got us tickets for the hottest shows in town, knowing how much I enjoyed it.
After the women finished their song, they grabbed hands and left the scene as the music changed to another recognizable tune, “Come What May” from Broadway’s hit musical Moulin Rouge, which inspired a whole new round of cheers from the crowd. As a flurry of dancers dressed in tight corsets and colorful fluffy feather boas entered from the side opposite where the others had left, I scanned the space for cameras or some kind of indication that maybe 30 Rock was hosting a Christmas Eve spectacular or something? But an ever-growing crowd armed with their phones and GoPros seemed to be the only “cameramen” in sight. I craned my neck to look at Adam’s chest for a VIP lanyard or pass, wondering if maybe that would explain our special access, but didn’t see him wearing one.
As the actors made it to the center and I could finally get a good eyeful of their faces, my jaw almost hit the asphalt. “Holy crap, is that Aaron Tveit and Karen Olivo?! They were, like, the actual leads in the show.” I gawked, eyes bulging in Adam’s direction to make sure he was understanding the magnitude of this moment, and his eyes met mine with a warm but knowing and mischievous smile.
My brain couldn’t keep up with what I was seeing. The twirling and singing were one thing, but this was a star-studded spectacle in the heart of Rockefeller Center?! Adam pulled me by the hand into the middle of the square set in front of the iconic skating rink and golden statues of trumpeting angels. The cheers from the crowd competed with the miked singers who made their way into their places as the music swelled around me. I felt like I was in a movie—no, a Broadway-style alternate universe—and I couldn’t catch my breath or stop my mind from spinning like the costumed cast before me.
Wait, is this all for me?
Finally, the closing notes of the medley’s section of “Come What May” faded out, and the music shifted to an upbeat throwback I recognized immediately. As a Danny Zuko look-alike gyrated and sang about his chills multiplyin’, the rest of the T-Birds and Pink Ladies flanked the lead duo.
“Oh my God, is that Sutton-freakin’-Foster?! Am I dead?! Is this a dream? Adam!!” I clasped my hands over my mouth and marveled at the cast of dancers singing around the ever-effervescent Foster playing her very best (winter-clad) Sandra Dee.
How does she look so cute in a blonde bob?! Look at her feet go! Ahhh, jazz hands! Oh my God. Oh my God! Adam wrapped his arms around me and mouthed along to “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease, complete with the ooh ooh ooh honeys.
Somewhere between laughing and awe, I realized what this was, and my laughter quickly caught in my throat. My chest tightened and my giggles shifted to tears of joy as Adam got down, in the middle of Rockefeller Center, illuminated by the extravagant eighty-foot tree, in front of Sutton-freakin’-Foster, and asked me the question I’d wanted to hear from him since the moment I’d given him my whole heart six years ago.
The cast and music fell to a hush, and the crowd, astonishingly, followed suit. But Adam was miked and said clearly for what felt like all of New York City to hear, “So, after being rendered ‘Helpless’ from the moment I first looked into your eyes, ‘Come What May,’ I know that ‘You’re the One That I Want,’ today and every day for the rest of my life. Avery Jean Lawrence, will you marry me?” He pulled the famously recognizable Tiffany-blue ring box from his coat pocket and popped it open to reveal a ridiculously gorgeous four-carat Asscher-cut stunner tucked inside.