“Fuck off, you sick bastard,” I say out loud. And then I power down my phone and flip it over.
I need to decide how I’m going to handle this … because I will handle this.
Twenty-Eight
Jude
* * *
It’s been twenty-four hours since I texted Love Tuesday morning, and now I’m beginning to worry because she’s never gone more than a few hours before responding. Half of me wants to call the super to check on her, to make sure she didn’t slip in the shower or choke on something, but I was in the hall earlier, and I swore I could hear the TV going in her place.
I was ready to stop this insanity yesterday.
Most of Tuesday was spent pacing my apartment, mentally running over all the things I was going to say to her over and over again—which wasn’t some big long monologue by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d managed to work in some words of comfort.
Maybe the week together was too much? Maybe things were going too well and that scared her off?
Regardless, I grab my phone and call her.
“Hi, it’s Love. Leave a message,” her sweet, gentle character is inherent even in those six little words.
“Love, call me,” I say after the tone. “Please.”
All this time we’ve spent together and not once did she ever seem like the kind of person to hold a grudge or cut someone out of her life for no reason. And the last time I saw her, she kissed me.
She kissed me.
Thumbing through my contacts, I find Lo and give her a call. I need a reality check. A kick in the ass. Something.
“You were right,” I say after she answers.
“Duh,” she laughs. “But right about what, exactly?”
“Everything.” I hook my left hand around the back of my neck as I stand next to my living room window and gaze out at Central Park.
“You fell for her.”
Sighing, I say, “Yeah.”
“Then I think you know what to do,” she says. “Tell her the truth, back out of this, and come home. You made a shit decision, and now you have to man up and deal with the consequences of that.”
“I was going to tell her everything yesterday,” I say. “But she won’t take my calls or return my texts.”
“Seriously?” Lo asks. Ellie babbles in the background mixed with the sound of Paw Patrol blaring on the TV. “Do you think … do you think she found out?”
“God, I hope not.” I wanted to be the one to tell her. Figured I at least owed her that.
“Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she’s sick or something? Who knows. Just … I guess keep trying her?”
It’s not like I have any other option.
“And Jude,” Lo says, “I know you did this for the girls and me. And I know you’re just a good guy who did a bad thing. But I wish you’d stop feeling so responsible for us. You’d be just fine if you didn’t have us three weighing you down. I’m tired of being a burden on you, and I can’t help but feel like this whole thing was partly my fault.”
“Lo …”
My entire life, I’ve looked after her without a second thought, and not once have I ever thought of her as a burden. Even as kids, I was always protecting her, making sure she was fed and had clean clothes, walking her to school and chasing off anyone who so much as thought about screwing with her.
All we’ve ever had is each other, and when she had the girls and wound up completely on her own—homeless, essentially—taking them in wasn’t even a question.
“You’re not a burden, you’re family,” I say. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to take the first job I get. I’m going to book extra gigs on the weekends. And you’re going to start nursing school.”
In this moment, I can’t help thinking about Love’s charity and her mission to help women become financially independent.
Love … this multi-millionaire who could easily spend her time jet setting around the world and lavishing herself with designer bags and real estate … wants to make it her life mission to help people exactly like my sister.
If that doesn’t tell me what kind of person she is, I don’t know what does.
She’s got a heart of gold.
And I’m about to shatter it into a million fucking pieces.
Twenty-Nine
Love
* * *
“Three words,” Tierney says over the phone the next day. “Fake. Pregnancy. Test.”
“T …”
“I’m serious. I can pee on a stick for you, get you a positive, and you can scare the bejeesus out of him,” she says. I can just imagine her pacing her apartment, auburn brows twisted and hand waving wildly as she talks. Everything sets her off lately. I call it her pregnancy rage, but I don’t dare call it that to her face. I’m hopeful that after the baby’s born, she’ll be back to her calm, yoga-and-green tea-loving self. “I hate him, Love. I hate him. What a fucking … ugh.”
I don’t disagree with her.
“What are you going to do? Just keep avoiding him? Ignoring him?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I hid in my apartment all day yesterday, worried I might run into him before I had a chance to decide how I was going to handle this, but I can’t hole up forever. I thought maybe a good night’s rest would help clear my mind by the morning, but all I did was toss and turn because my mind refused to shut off. All I did was replay every little moment, every hand hold and gentle touch and lingering glance.
I still can’t believe none of it was real.
“You need to beat him at his own game,” she says. “Take karma into your own hands.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I have it in me to be that cold and calculating.”
“You don’t have a choice, Love. What he did was the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard of. He makes Hunter look like a saint, and that’s no easy feat.”
“Nah. They’re in the same boat as far as I’m concerned. Hunter put him up to this.”
“Still,” she says. “You need to feel vindicated so you can move on from this asshole, and I’d really like to keep the whole fake pregnancy test option on the table.”
I chuckle, almost snorting tea through my nose. “No. That’s psycho girlfriend territory, and that’s a line I refuse to cross.”
Tierney sighs. “Oh, Love. Always keeping it classy.”
Taking a seat in an oversized living room chair, I turn sideways, draping my legs over the arm as I cup my hands around a mug of steaming Earl Grey. Outside, the city is just beginning to come to life. Horns are honking. Birds are soaring. Joggers are jogging.
“You know …” Tierney says, “What if you give him exactly what he wants? Come on strong, pretend to be crazy in love with him, make him think his little scheme is working? And then when he proposes to you, say yes … and then leave him at the altar?”
“You don’t think that’s a bit extreme?” I ask before immediately deciding I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.