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)
A minute later, she steps out, modeling a Pepto-Bismol pink dress with lime-green polka dots.
Is she for real? I look to Jo for a clue. Her blue eyes say what the hell, but aloud she says, “Your butt looks good.” Jo always was the nice one.
Fuck diplomacy. “Hazel, your ass looks great. But that dress needs to go unless you’re planning to peddle hand jobs on the street corners of Candyland,” I say.
Hazel marches over to me, slams her hands on my pecs. “I was right!”
“About the dress?” I ask, confused.
“About your need to thrift. Your sarcasm is, like, ten times stronger than it was yesterday.”
“Maybe TJ’s starting to get his groove back,” Jo says suggestively.
“See? Doing your favorite things is like giving you an injection,” Hazel says. “Maybe you need other injections too?”
Ugh. Not again. Shaking my head in amusement, I point to the racks. “Focus, ladies. Hazel has a date. Pigs are flying.”
My friend swats me. “You dick.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment,” I say, reining in a private smile. I spot a dress that’s perfect for her—a swath of blue that shimmers like a jewel. “Try this.”
As she movie-montages through more clothes, I feel a sliver of something like drive again—maybe a touch of inspiration—topped off by the satisfaction in being right because she tries on half the store and then picks the sapphire-blue dress.
I go next, combing through short-sleeve shirts until Jo grabs my arm and thrusts a shirt at me. It’s light blue with pinprick illustrations of yellow rubber ducks.
The design shoots me back in time to the night I shopped for shower curtains with Jude.
This shower curtain is the opposite of what you’d think two young blokes would have in their flat.
His voice feels as close as yesterday. What would it be like to hear him again next to me? To cash in on that promise we made on the bridge?
If I’m being analytical, I’d say I’ve met all the conditions of that promise. Seven years later is definitely “down the road.” I’ve made it as a writer. I’m absolutely single. Hell, I could go to London tomorrow. Get on a plane like that. Stay in a sweet hotel. I’m not twenty-three and broke. I’m thirty and successful, a self-made man.
Who just got dumped on TV.
I groan to myself.
Maybe now isn’t the best moment to reach out to my London romance to see if he’s single too.
I snap back to the present, where I’m staring at the ducks.
“It’s very you,” Jo whispers.
I’m not sure I’m ready to wear it, but I buy it anyway. When I hang it in my closet that night, I make a new promise to myself.
In a few more months, once the breakup stink wears off completely, I’ll put on this shirt and reach out to Jude.
If you want to have killer arms, you keep lifting weights.
So I lather, rinse, repeat for the next several days.
I play pinball with my friend Easton and help him prep for one of his epic matchmaking parties.
I scope out new restaurants with Nolan for his food show.
And I work out with Jason before he returns to California for the football pre-season.
At the gym, we finish a set on the bench press, and Jason takes a swig from his water bottle then says, “You doing okay, man? I know it’s not easy when you have to deal with romance shit in public.”
“It’s not. But I’ll be fine. Especially since my agent emailed this morning to say my publisher’s putting out feelers, trying to land a celebrity narrator to do my next title and rerecord this one in audio. They want Christian Laird.” I shrug. The chances of landing an A-lister are slim to nil, but a guy can hope.
“Sweet. I loved his last flick. That dude is funny and hot.”
“And gay,” I add.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Jason deadpans.
“Anyway, it’s all because my book’s selling even better since the video. Like, double the sales, and it was selling great before. So, there’s that,” I say and offer a fist for knocking.
He knocks back. “That’s a helluva silver lining.”
Later that day, I go to a coffee shop to meet Hazel, and I write, and I write, and I write. It’s the first day since the breakup that I’ve made progress, and it feels damn good.
On the table, my phone pings with a notification. I check to see if it’s Mason with another yummy update on my book’s sales.
But it’s a DM from Instagram, and the handle is JustJude.
30
THE REUNION GUIDEBOOK
TJ
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
My Jude wasn’t JustJude when I last checked him out on socials. Ergo, JustJude is probably some random guy. Maybe the newest pity fuck. Still, I click that profile so fast. Just in case.
And . . . holy fucking dream guy.