Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“Exactly,” I say, then thrust the glass toward him.
Neither one of us bothers with a toast. We drink. That is all.
Jude lets out a harsh breath like the tequila burns his throat. Good. I hope it did. Burned me too, like this whole night, which is eating me alive. I can’t believe I let myself think the two of us were getting close again.
Like Helen once said—a man like Jude isn’t single for long. I lost him; William got him. Case closed.
But if so, what was with the pep talk in the theater? He was so sweet. So Jude, my roommate. So Jude, the guy who’s cheeky and real and makes me want to write love stories.
Though Jude, the friend, would be supportive too.
So what the hell are we doing? Are we just friends?
I have to push through. I have to ask. But maybe one more shot first. I grab the bottle, pour another. He shoves his glass at me. I pour one for him too.
He slams his down, hits the glass hard on the counter. “TJ?” His voice is tense with checked restraint.
I serve his name back the same way. “Jude?”
He draws a big breath as if he needs to steady himself to say something hard. “Who’s Christian to you?”
At last, we’re getting somewhere.
I had a feeling he’d ask. I lift my chin because I have nothing to apologize for. “A work friend. That is all. And if you want to play Twenty Questions About Other Men, here’s my first and only one. What really happened with William?”
“Nothing,” he bites out, crunching on that word, a cloud of irritation surrounding him. “I’ve said it a million times.”
“Then why the hell is he thanking you for talking to him?” I ask, this close to shouting. I wanted to stay cool, but it’s so hard with the emotions ripping through me like a cyclone. “Dude, just say you’re involved with him,” I continue, and I’m begging because I need the answer. “I get it. You’ve moved on. It’d be stupid for me to think you hadn’t. But stop fucking with my head and telling me you weren’t involved.”
My voice is so much wobblier than I want it to be. I can’t hide how I feel around him. When I’m with Jude my pulse spikes, my heart hammers. For almost a year, I’ve been empty, out of gas, and stalled on the road. The only way to start my engine again is if I can put Jude and me to rest. “I can handle it,” I continue, gently imploring him this time to put me out of my misery. “I can fucking handle it if you were with him. I’m not delicate.”
That’s not true. He could crush me. But still, I need the answer, and I shut up and wait for him to give it to me.
He’s two feet away, his arms crossed, his jaw set hard. Annoyance flashes in his eyes, then fades as he lets out a long, frustrated breath, shaking his head. “But I already told you I wasn’t. Why don’t you trust me?”
Damn him. Why won’t he let me move on?
“Those pictures,” I mutter, but as soon as I say that, I’m aware of how silly it sounds. We’re putting on a show. We’re taking photos of our fake relationships. Photos can be manipulated. Quickly, I issue a correction. “Actually, it’s not the pictures. It’s that . . .” I pause, taking a second to say the hardest thing I’ve said to him in a long time. “I don’t want to be made a fool. And those pictures make me feel foolish when I look at them.”
I was already a fool for him. A fool in love, ready to ask him to go to Amsterdam with me, to come to see me in New York, to be mine. Only mine.
Jude heaves a sigh. “Why do you look at them, then?”
I shrug lightly, try to play it off. “I like to torture myself, it seems.”
“The pictures aren’t bad coffee. It’s not the same. Stop doing that and start believing me,” he says, stabbing his finger against the counter to make his point. “We’re stuck in this thing. It goes better when we get along. And I told you . . . William is a friend. He’s my friend. He’s your friend. And you saw him in LA. He’s struggling. You should know that as well as anyone. We took him to his house when he was pissed.”
That night is bright and clear in my mind. “Yeah, I remember,” I say, but I’m still chewing on the words we’re stuck in this thing and how they make me feel a little shitty. After a moment, Jude adds, “And I could ask you the same. What’s really the deal with Christian? He’s awfully chummy. You work out together? Is that all?”