The real party doesn't start until after the Oscars are over. Forget the ceremony; the Governor's Ball is where the night actually begins. The media goes just as feral for photos of the food as they do for the gowns.
And trust me, those gorgeous, size-zero stars stuffing their faces at 1 a.m.? They're starving. They've been living on lettuce and willpower for weeks to fit into those dresses. The second the bar opens, it's every A-lister for themselves.
This year, the Academy brought back the legend Wolfgang Puck for the 22nd time. Six months of planning, 50+ dishes, 350 chefs, 1,500 guests. It's basically the Met Gala of buffets.
You've got Woody Allen clinking glasses with producers like it's New Year's Eve. Leo's in the corner texting somebody (probably about the yacht situation later). Halle Berry is already tipsy and tearing up the dance floor.
Joey had grabbed a few bites, but she was too wired to really eat. She'd been staring at her phone for a solid fifteen minutes, thumb hovering, trying to figure out who to text first. She felt like a kid on Christmas morning with nobody to show her presents to. Renee finally sent a congratulatory text (sweet, but not quite enough).
Then her eyes landed on one name in her contacts: Tom Cruise.
She was honestly shocked that he was the first person who popped into her head.
But… nah. Too much pressure.
Right on cue, her phone buzzed.
She slipped away from the chaos to a quieter hallway and answered.
"You okay? You've been staring at that screen like it owes you money for the last fifteen minutes."
Tom's voice. She whipped around, scanning the crowd. "Have you been watching me?"
"Look up. Second-floor balcony."
There he was, leaning over the railing, giving her that megawatt smile that still melted movie screens.
She waved like an idiot. "Get down here!"
He jogged down the stairs still on the phone. "I've been watching you the whole night. Figured on the biggest night of your life you might actually want to celebrate with me."
She ducked her head, cheeks warm. "Okay, fine. You were literally the first person I wanted to call."
He stepped close (close enough that she could smell his cologne) and gave her the softest, most dangerous smile. "Tonight you're the queen of this whole damn town. How do you want to celebrate?"
She just grinned, turned, and started walking toward the back exit. He followed without a word.
They ended up in a quiet backstage corridor, far from the music and the flashing cameras.
"Tom, I don't think I've been this happy in decades. Literal decades."
He laughed. "You're not even thirty yet."
"You don't get it. I've been waiting my whole lives for this moment."
He looked at her like she was the only person in the building. "Then I'm happy for you."
He reached for her hand. "Come back to my place after this? I'll throw a little party (just a few of your friends, champagne, the works)."
She shook her head. "That's really sweet, but you don't have to do all that for me."
His eyes didn't leave her face. "I think you know exactly how much I want to do things for you."
She sighed. "And that's why this feels so heavy. You're 47. You want the wife, the kids, the whole thing. I don't want to be the person holding you back from that."
He smiled like she'd said something cute. "Joey, I'm 47, not 27. I know what I'm doing. I said I'd wait. If that's ten years, fine. If I ever change my mind, I'll tell you. But right now? This is my choice."
She bit her lip. Part of her (a big part) wanted to say yes, right there. The way he was looking at her like she hung the moon, and it was terrifyingly tempting.
But the scars from her last life were still raw. Hughes had loved the shiny, successful version of her too… until the shine wore off. The second she wasn't the golden girl anymore, he was gone. What if Tom did the same thing one day?
She wasn't ready to risk that kind of heartbreak again.
So she just gave him a sad little smile. "If you're set on waiting, I can't stop you. But I don't want to waste your time, and I'm not in a place where I can say yes. So… I can't give you that chance."
He didn't look mad or disappointed (just warm, steady, annoyingly patient). "That's my call, not yours."
Then, smooth as ever, he switched gears. "Dance with me? You still remember that waltz I taught you?"
She glanced down at her six-inch heels. "I can barely walk in these things."
He shrugged, totally unfazed.
That's when another couple stumbled into the same backstage hallway, giggling, clearly tipsy, and disappeared behind a door. Joey squinted. Yep. Brad Pitt dragging Angelina Jolie into a storage closet like a couple of horny teenagers.
Angelina's playful scolding floated through the door: "Brad, nooo, not here—"
Then, silence. Except for the occasional muffled gasp.
Joey's face went deadpan. "Okay, new plan. Let's maybe find somewhere else to stand."
Tom raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You look shocked. Got a crush on Pitt or something?"
"On Brad? Please. Everyone knows you're the hottest guy in Hollywood. The line of women who'd kill to sleep with you is longer than the 405 at rush hour. Brad's messy cheating ass can't compete."
Tom's grin turned downright smug. "So… does that line include you?"
She gave him a flirty little blink and a dry laugh. "Look, when I was a kid watching Top Gun? 100%. Current me? …Let's call it a maybe."
He leaned in, voice low. "The second that maybe turns into a yes, you let me know."
She licked her suddenly dry lips. "You'll be the first to know."