Mom’s never been to New York, but she hates it anyway. She hates anything with crowds. State fairs. Theme parks. Concerts. Shopping malls on Black Friday.
“Anyway,” my sister says, “we’re finalizing the catering for the reception, and I really need to know who your plus one is and whether they want chicken or fish.”
“Cameo.”
“What?”
“I’m not bringing anyone,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact.
Her jaw falls as if I’ve just blasphemed all over her wedding. “You know how bad that’ll look? Everyone already knows about your divorce and if you show up alone, they’re going to make a thing out of it, and I really want the focus to be on the doctor and me.”
“I don’t think people care about me as much as you think they do.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s how it’s always been, Love. And you know it.”
“I thought we were past that.” My voice tempers to a whisper. I don’t want to get into it here.
“Past what?”
I don’t buy her clueless act, and I’m not going to continue this petty and pointless conversation in the middle of a Chanel boutique.
“Anyway, we’re less than three weeks out from the wedding so if you don’t find a plus one in the next couple of weeks, let me know and I’ll take care of it,” Cameo says, inspecting her manicure.
Take care of it how?
“All right. It’s ready for you,” the saleslady says when she returns.
It’s hilarious to me that she’s hyper-worried about me stealing attention on her wedding day. I’ve seen her dress. It has miles of tulle and taffeta and a million beads. I highly doubt anyone could steal the show if they tried.
Although … no one back home in Sweet Water has ever seen Jude Warner, and I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the thought of showing up with him as my plus one. Talk about stealing the show. But I won’t do that—to him or to her.
I turned him down when he asked me for a date. I’m not going to turn around and ask him to accompany me to my sister’s wedding.
Cameo can protest all she wants, but I’m not bringing a date. Besides, I’ll be too busy doing my maid of honor duties and ensuring she isn’t freaking out at caterers and florists the week leading up to her dream wedding to the doctor.
“Love, come look at this,” Cameo calls for me from the dressing room. “Do you think this blouse is too snug in the back?”
It fits perfectly. She’s crazy. “It’s fine.”
My sister’s matte red lips spread into a smile. “All right. I’ll take it. But don’t go anywhere. I’m going to try on a dress next. And when I get back, I want to tell you about this friend of the doctor’s. You’ll just love him.”
Before she turns to head back into her dressing room, I say, “Oh? Did I not make myself clear earlier?” I feign ignorance. “I’m going solo.”
“Do we have to talk about this right here?” she asks, her matching hazel gaze flicking to the saleswoman standing behind me.
Oh, now she cares.
“Nope,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about this at all because there’s nothing more to say. I’m coming alone, and that’s that.”
Twelve
Jude
* * *
The bar owner licks the callused pads of chubby fingers and counts five bills, all of them hundreds.
“Here you go. Good show tonight,” he says in a thick Jersey accent before giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Welcome back anytime.”
I shove the money in my wallet and latch my guitar case before grabbing my phone and ordering a ride to the train station. It’s a quarter past two in the morning and I’ll probably get back to the city a couple hours before the sun rises, but this was worth it.
Singing with my guitar is the only time I feel like me.
The true me.
It makes me forget anything and everything that’s bothering me. It’s almost meditative because I’m so absorbed and in the moment.
I can’t go the next six months without performing, so I called around to a bunch of bars in Bergen County looking for work. The Green Elephant was the only place that called me back, and it was only because the band they booked had to pull out at the last minute. I had to audition via FaceTime and the guy mulled it over for all of five seconds before saying, “You’re hired. But ya gotta be sober and ya gotta play some covers. My people like covers. Bon Jovi. Guns-n-Roses. Ya know, stuff like that.”
My Lyft pulls up ten minutes later, and I load up in the backseat of a red Chevy sedan. The driver is a young woman, hair sunshine blonde and voice angel soft. She reminds me of Love, whom I haven’t seen since we toured that building in Brooklyn a few days ago.
I keep wondering when I’m going to bump into her next, which means she’s constantly on my mind. Love is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, and I’ve never experienced that with anyone before—not even the girl I dated for three years in my early twenties or the chick I dated for six months last year.
It makes no sense, but the more I try to fight my thoughts, the worse it gets.
I’ve given up trying to make sense of it, and all I can do is tell myself it could always be worse—I could hate her.
“We’re here,” the girl says as she pulls up to a train station. I grab my phone and tip her before climbing out and grabbing my guitar.
A few moments later, I’m buying my ticket and waiting by the platform for the 2:43 PATH train to Hoboken.
By the time I board, I settle into a seat in the back of the second car, hoping I’ll have it all to myself so I can catch a quick nap. Resting my head against the glass, I close my eyes and try to fall asleep despite the dull ringing in my ears from tonight’s performance, only the moment I do, all I can picture is Love.
Love laughing.
Love talking with her hands.
Love looking at me the way that she does, distracted and lost in thought.
This entire thing is fucked up.
Raking my hand across my mouth and exhaling, I push the thoughts from my mind and try to think about anything else but her: the Mets, the Killers, the Ramones, Piper and Ellie, Paw Patrol, Vinnie’s Pizzeria. Anything.
If she knew who I really was, she’d want nothing to do with me—and rightfully so.
I can’t fall for her.
I can’t.
Thirteen
Love
* * *
“Hey, stranger,” I call after Jude from our end of the hallway. He’s just about to step onto the elevator, but he reaches out and holds the doors for me. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” His emerald gaze drinks me up and I realize the last time he saw me dressed like this, I was hidden under an oversized sweatshirt.
“Going for a run?” I ask, pointing to his Dry Fit shorts-and-tee get up before pressing the button for the main floor.
The doors close and it’s just us and the scent of his shower-fresh skin.
“Thought I’d hit the trail in the park before that midday sun kicks in,” he says.