The bubbles fill her side of the screen for a few seconds before her message comes through, “Sitting in the dark, letting my face mask dry and doing some research for Agenda W on my phone.”
“I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer about to melt,” I text without giving it a second thought. “I’d hate to let it go to waste.”
The sky flickers and a moment later, thunder rumbles the glass. I’ve always found storms to be sexy, provocative almost, with that hint of danger and satisfaction of being safely shielded. And if I’m going to sit in the dark, I’d rather sit in the dark with her.
“Keep the door closed. It should be okay,” she writes.
I reply with, “I could. But I don’t want to. So … your place or mine? And mint chocolate chip or strawberry?”
Love sends me “Whatever” followed by “Yours. And strawberry. Just give me ten.”
Sitting my phone aside, it finally hits me.
Sound Underground. That’s where I’m taking her for our date. I think she’d like it, and it’s different. It’s this hidden bar you can only enter through the back of a Korean BBQ joint, and you need that night’s password. Lenny, the owner, has an ear for finding the best budding talent, and he’s discovered some of the biggest musical acts long before anyone else took notice.
Grabbing my phone and dialing the bar, I speak with Maureen, Lenny’s wife of thirty-six years and dedicated personal assistant. A minute later, she puts me on the list and gives me the password for tomorrow’s show: karma.
Nineteen
Love
* * *
I wouldn’t have said yes, but I really, really hate storms.
Okay, I’m lying.
Maybe I would have said yes, but it’s a lot easier for my psyche to blame this all on storms and not the fact that I secretly enjoy spending one-on-one time with my neighbor.
Hoisting myself up onto Jude’s marble island, I watch as he retrieves a pint of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. A moment later, he props the softening carton open.
Flickering candles line the coffee table as well as the kitchen island, and I can’t help but wonder if he lit them long before he started blowing up my phone about that stupid date he won or after he invited me over for ice cream? I honestly thought maybe he’d forget about the date, and I’d convinced myself I’d be okay with that, but I couldn’t deny the small flip in my middle when his text came through earlier.
Swiping a spoon across the top, he hands it over, and I wait for him.
“Should we toast?” I ask, teasing.
“Do people toast with ice cream?”
Lifting a shoulder to one ear, I say, “Pretty sure you can toast with just about anything.”
“If you say so.” He digs his spoon into the melting pink cream.
“Should we toast to something specific or should we just toast?” I ask.
“I think most people toast to something specific, but you’re the kind of girl who throws coins into fountains for no reason, so you could probably get away with toasting to nothing.” Jude flashes a pearly smile that lights the dark and I clink my spoon against his his.
“There,” I say before gliding the chilled metal between my lips.
When I showed up tonight, Jude answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair free from product and his skin barely scented with remnants of his morning shower. I think I almost prefer him this way—unbuttoned, undone, unpretentious. He isn’t trying hard. Or maybe he isn’t trying at all? Either way, it’s working like some kind of reverse psychology trick on me because my heart is racing a million miles per hour and all I can think about is what his mouth tastes like.
“I have a question,” I say, poising myself in his direction.
“Ask me anything.”
“How can you act so laidback but look so hoity-toity?” I ask.
He almost chokes on his ice cream. “You think I look hoity-toity?”
“You’re always dressed to the nines,” I say. “And you work from home most of the time, so I don’t get that.”
“I have video conference calls sometimes,” he says. “It’s not exactly good for business if I look like a slob living in his mom’s basement.”
“Okay, but you don’t have those all the time,” I say, eyeing the way his jeans straddle the line between straight leg and skinny and fit him like they were personally sewn for his perfect physique. “I guess what I’m trying to say is …”
What am I trying to say?
“I’m sorry. You remind me of someone else,” I say. “Your style anyway. Not your personality. I even think you might wear the same cologne as him. I must associate those things or something.”
Jude says nothing, listening as if this actually interests him.
“But you’re so much nicer than he ever was. And you’re authentic. That’s something he never really knew how to be. Didn’t realize it until much later, but everything about him was fake.” I sigh, glancing to the side and remembering one night where he asked if I’d ever thought about getting breast implants “just to even things out a bit.” And the fact that we’d just made love and his semen was literally dripping from between my legs only made the moment that much more cringe-worthy. “The world has enough fake people with their Instagram-perfect lives and their self-centered, ego-centric decisions. You’re not like that, and I can’t tell you how refreshing that is.”
His lips press together as he nods, a small acknowledgement of my compliment, perhaps? And then his attention points toward the rain-beaded window in his living room for half a second. Jude’s so humble, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had a hard time accepting praise.
“So tell me about your family?” he asks. “Since I’m going to be meeting them and all.”
“Sure you don’t just want to be surprised?” I tease.
“Not really into surprises.”
“Good to know.” I lift my naked spoon and point it at him. “Neither am I.”
“So you grew up in West Virginia,” he says.
“Sweet Water,” I say. “Little town no one’s ever heard of …”
I tell him about my mechanic father who passed unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm when Cameo and I were still in high school, I tell him about our little white house with blue door, about the mutt we rescued from the pound after Dad died. I tell him about my mother and her fear of crowds and how she’s probably going to be high on Xanax for Cameo’s wedding. And then I tell him about Cameo and her fiancé who’s old enough to be her father and how she refers to him as the doctor instead of his name (Bob) because I suppose she thinks it makes her life sound better.
“What about you?” I ask when I’m done. “You said you grew up all over. What about your family? I know you have a sister. Do you have any others?”
Jude looks down for a second, placing his spoon on the counter with an easy clink. Drawing in a long breath, he says, “Nope. Just Lo and I. Dad’s in prison. Mom’s doing her own thing … haven’t spoken to her in years.” His lips tighten and he offers a melancholy chuckle. “Our childhoods were night and day, Love. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of stories to share with you, at least none that wouldn’t break your heart.”