“Give me your phone,” Jude says.
“What?”
His palm flattens, inching toward me, and I retrieve my phone from the zipper pouch on the back of my leggings, handing it over. A moment later, he’s programming his number into my contacts.
“There,” he says, eyes smiling. “Now you can text me whenever you want to run again. Or, you know, whenever you want.”
“You’d be so lucky.”
He laughs through his nose. “You’re right. I would.”
Fourteen
Jude
* * *
My phone rests lifeless on my nightstand.
I gave Love my number yesterday after our run—or at least the number to the phone Hunter gave me, but she’s yet to reach out. Every time I pass the window in the living room, I stop for a moment to watch the courtyard outside the main entrance, checking to see if Love happens to be coming or going.
I don’t know what the hell she’s up to today, where she is or who she’s with or what she’s thinking or if she’s even remotely thinking about me … and it’s making me want her.
Really want her.
Not that it’d be hard to want her. She’s fucking gorgeous. Kind. Fun. Great sense of humor. Doesn’t take herself too seriously.
Jesus H. Christ.
I’m cataloging all of her qualities like this isn’t all a giant, fucked-up ruse.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up a browser and do a little research on not-for-profit startups. I want to give her better advice, not that bullshit pull-an-answer-out-of-my-ass crap I gave her the other day.
From what I’ve gathered so far, it looks like she needs to draft bylaws and appoint directors. She’ll need to hold a meeting of the board as well.
I click on another link to dig a little deeper into what kind of bylaws she might need for this place, only my screen turns black and Lo’s name flashes across.
“What’s up?” I answer, lying back against my pillow and tucking my left hand behind my neck. The state-of-the-art polished silver ceiling fan above me whirs, all of the blades blurring into one.
“Just checking in,” she says with the permanent exhaustion of a young, single mother inscribed in her voice.
“Going well. Gave her my number today,” I say. “Kissed her too. Since you’re asking.”
“Do you like her?”
“What kind of question is that?” I chuff.
“So that’s a yes,” Lo states, doesn’t ask.
“Whether or not I like her has nothing to do with how this is going.”
“It has everything to do with it,” Lo says.
“She’s cool. Yeah.” My eyes squeeze shut and I massage my temples. It’s way too fucking late for this kind of conversation.
“You like her.”
“And you know that how? Because I said she’s cool?”
“You’re holding back,” she says. “A lot. You do that when you’ve got your guard up. And you only put your guard up when you’re afraid of feeling something.”
“How the hell are you only twenty-five?”
“You might be falling for her, Jude,” Lo says, ignoring my question, “but she’s falling for someone who doesn’t exist. And once it’s over, once she realizes what you did, there’ll be no convincing her to take you back ever. Unless she’s crazy. And in that case, maybe the two of you deserve each other.”
Exhaling into the phone, I say, “Spare me the lectures for five seconds, please. They’re getting really fucking old.”
“You’re getting defensive. You swear a lot when you’re defensive. And you’re defensive because you know I’m right.”
“Wow, Lo. Sounds like you know me better than I know myself. Congratulations.”
“Shut up,” she says, half laughing but still serious. “Anyway, kind of sucks around here without you. It’s too quiet. And the girls keep asking when Uncle Jude is going to give them their bedtime concert.”
Dragging my hand through my messy hair, I smile, thinking about my nieces. On the nights when bedtime was more of a struggle than it should’ve been or my sister was working late, I’d grab my guitar and play them Swinging on a Star or Baby Beluga or a kid-friendly version of whatever Nirvana song was in my head at the time.
I miss my silly, carefree evenings with them, when I wasn’t thinking about work or bills or how I flipped off the Wall Street-looking asshole in the Mercedes earlier that day for running a red light and damn near flattening a woman pushing a stroller.
Now chatty Moira Gutenberg who lives above us watches them the nights Lo works.
“I’ll record some songs for them here in a sec and text them to you,” I say, dragging myself out of bed and placing my feet on the silky rug that covers most of the floor and tickles my feet when I walk across it. Sure as hell beats the flattened, stained carpet of our apartment in Brooklyn.
Ending the call with Lo, I grab my guitar and take a seat in the living room, setting up the voice memo function on my phone and pressing record.
A minute later, I’m strumming the chords of Buffalo Gals—one of Piper’s favorites. When I’m finished, I forward the memo to Lo and return to the app to record Dream A Little Dream of Me for Ellie, but a text pops across my screen.
The number isn’t in my phone, but it’s a local area code.
Pressing on the preview, a message fills my screen. “It’s Love. Thanks for the concert. Just wanted to let you know that your voice is like a combination of Fergie and Jesus.”
I laugh so hard, I snort. I can’t believe this Fifth Avenue Princess just quoted Stepbrothers.
“Didn’t realize the walls were so thin,” I text back. “Either way, you’re welcome.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were musically inclined?” she texts, followed by, “What other talents are you hiding from me?”
“I speak fluent Russian and I play a mean kazoo,” I reply.
“You lie.”
A second later, I Google, “how to say you caught me in Russian” and then I text her, “ty poymal menya.”
It takes a second—I imagine she’s looking up the phrase—but she responds with an entire string of emojis that suggest I’m a big fucking dork.
I know, Love … I know.
A moment later, the little bubble fills her side of the screen before disappearing, and I realize I’m holding my breath and wearing a stupid grin on my face as I wait for her response.
I’m dying to know what she was going to say and why she deleted it and what she’s going to say next. All of a sudden it matters to me, and I don’t know why.
Shit.
Lo was right.
I think I’m starting to fall for Love.
Fifteen
Love
* * *
“Ever think about making a career out of music?” I begin to text Jude before deleting it. If I was still on speaking terms with Hunter, I’d send him that way in a heartbeat. He’s exactly the kind of thing Hunter would piss himself for the opportunity to sign: a preppy, sexy Adonis with a golden voice, gentle but raspy in all the right places, and he plays guitar.