Tom's New York mansion sat just outside the bustle of the Upper East Side's ritzy neighborhood; close enough to feel connected, far enough to feel alone.
These days, Tom had zero interest in the see-and-be-seen crowd. The little free time he had, he wanted total peace. No interruptions.
So when he bought a place, the checklist was simple: luxurious, insanely comfortable, and above all, quiet. Dead quiet.
Beverly Hills could never give him that. No matter how many tall hedges you planted, the paparazzi still camped on your lawn 24/7.
This house wasn't quite on the level of his L.A. palace, but it was still ridiculous: spacious, airy, with at least ten bedrooms. Joey joked to herself that if two people lived here they'd probably have to text each other from opposite wings.
The second she stepped inside, Tom insisted they eat. The chef clearly saw "Asian-looking guest" and rolled out a full Peking duck spread, complete with pancakes and everything. Poor guy had no clue Joey was a born-and-raised Angeleno who'd never even been to China.
Joey's stomach growled so loud it was basically a dinner guest. She'd been starving and dove right in.
Tom looked hungry too, but he played perfect host: watching what she went for, quietly telling the chef to make more of whatever she liked.
He even cracked open a bottle of 1927 white wine. Joey passed; she didn't drink. Tom didn't either, actually. Once he decided to quit something, that was it: iron willpower. The bottle went back in the cellar untouched.
Then the chef brought out a plate of cronuts. Tom slid them toward her with a grin. "These are the hottest dessert in New York right now. Figured a girl your age would love 'em, so I had him whip some up."
Joey eyed them suspiciously. "Are they actually good?"
Tom smirked while slicing his steak. "I'm a New Yorker; we like our donuts stupid-sweet. Word is Southerners like theirs a little salty. No clue where L.A. falls on that scale."
Joey snorted. "Y'all New Yorkers are so extra you can taste the superiority in the glaze."
She pointed at the bacon-wrapped hot dogs and curry dogs on the table. "Us Angelenos? We do hot dogs. We smash ninety-five million of them a year."
Tom casually picked up a curry dog. "Guess New York and L.A. tastes really don't overlap."
Joey just laughed and went back to demolishing her plate.
After dinner, Tom, ever the gentleman, offered the full house tour.
Joey had to admit: the man had taste. The whole place was bright, clean, and minimalist, even if the sheer number of living rooms was comical.
Passing the master bedroom, Joey stopped and stared. "Damn, that bed's huge. California king?"
Tom paused. "It's the master, so yeah, I had it custom-made a little bigger."
Joey gave a knowing nod. Tom suddenly felt the need to clarify. "It's big, but it's just me in it."
She looked at him like why are you explaining this to me, dude? Then she grinned. "So you've just been waiting for the lady of the house to show up."
"Exactly," he said without hesitation. "I've always wanted a real, steady family."
His views on relationships were old-school, straight out of the Paul Newman characters he used to play: husband protects, wife respects, they raise kids together, the whole deal.
Joey wasn't surprised. She'd been a fan long enough to know Tom was a traditional guy when it came to marriage.
She smiled. "Yeah, well, that's pretty rare in Hollywood these days. Most actors out there are on that Scandinavian 'we'll have kids but never get married' vibe."
Tom led her into another sitting room with a little bar, poured her a lemon seltzer, and leaned against the counter. "I'm different. I think the smallest real unit a man has in society is a family: him, his wife, their kids. Doesn't mean I judge people who stay single; just not for me."
His eyes landed on her face. "What about you? You one of the solo-for-life types?"
Joey shook her head. "I've never really thought about it. But I think people who swear off marriage forever are usually scared of promising their whole life to someone. Once you say 'I do,' you're splitting your money, your heart, your time, everything, fifty-fifty. Not everybody can handle that."
Her answer threw him a little. Younger women these days usually thought so differently from his generation. He wasn't even sure why he'd asked; he liked her, sure, but his moral compass slammed the brakes on anything beyond that. Still, he couldn't help being drawn in.
He nodded slowly. "Marriage is a heavy promise."
He got why people ran from it. He didn't want to run. He wanted to give someone everything he had and build something that lasted. He'd been waiting a long time for the right person.
Joey heard the weight in his voice and changed the subject. "So you must really like kids, huh?"
Tom smiled. "Love 'em. My mom's always on my case to hurry up and give her grandbabies."
Joey tilted her head. "You and your ex; you guys adopted two kids, right?"
He paused; he hadn't expected her to bring up that marriage. Eleven years was a lifetime ago and the memories had faded. "Yeah. I love them to death. Wanting my own kids someday doesn't change that. I'm not getting any younger. I just want something real and lasting."
He figured Joey was too young to understand that no matter how high you climb, loneliness tags along like a shadow. Back in 2005 when he won the Broadcast Film Critics award, he'd gone home to an empty house, called his mom, heated up leftovers, and eaten alone. That night it hit him: all the trophies in the world don't keep you warm.
That's why the stable-family thing mattered so much to him.
He assumed Joey couldn't relate.
But she could.
She'd lived alone for decades in her last life. She knew loneliness better than he ever would.
Right then, she understood him perfectly. He wasn't chasing some fairy-tale romance; he was just tired of the constant hollow feeling.
She said quietly, "I get it. No amount of success makes the loneliness disappear. That kind of empty eats at you. Makes you doubt everything about yourself."
Tom turned and looked at her, really looked, surprised. "I didn't think you'd understand that."
Joey gave a little half-shrug, like someone twice her age. "Trust me, the only thing that kills that feeling is finding someone you can actually share your life with. Until then? It's not going anywhere."
He laughed softly. "You're, what, twenty-something going on seventy?"
Joey grinned. "Because I really do get you."
She kept going, softer now. "Sometimes all you need is one person who'll just listen, and that soul-crushing loneliness backs off a little. But when you don't even have that? You're stuck figuring out how to cheer yourself up, because at the end of the day, the only person who truly has your back is you."
Tom leaned back against the bar, staring at the ceiling. "That took me years to figure out. You're awfully young to have it all mapped out."
Joey's smile was bright, but her eyes carried weight. "Some lessons don't care how old you are. They just find you."
After that they both went quiet, just looking at each other, neither quite sure what to say next.
A little while later Joey glanced at the time and said she should head out. Tom offered to drive her; she shut that down real quick. Didn't want to put anybody out. She called a cab and waited on the sidewalk.
Tom stood in the doorway watching the taxi's taillights disappear.
He knew he'd remember this night for a long time: the girl who always seemed so sunny, who for the first time let him glimpse the heavy, grown-up heart she kept hidden behind that dazzling smile.