I am cellophane with him. I need to find a trench coat to cover my see-through self. “No,” I say with an offhand shrug.
“You’re a terrible liar, TJ,” he says again, amused this time.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are. Want to know how I know?”
“Sure,” I grumble.
Jude points at my face. “Your eyes lit up when I said, cool new bands. That’s what you like, right? And you think if I play something you don’t like, it’ll make you stop thinking of all the presuming we’re not doing.”
I’m naked with him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask softly, feeling wobbly.
“Because I don’t want you to hate me,” he says earnestly. “I want us to be friends. Truly, I do. And the thing is, I’m rubbish with music. Maybe I can learn about your cool new bands, and you can learn about how delightful it is to have a shower curtain that’s not boring.” Jude pauses, then adds the clincher. “And I don’t think disliking me is going to help.”
He’s called me out, leaving me with no choice but to try.
“Fine. Then how about this? I’ll teach you about musical taste, and you can teach me about style?”
“That sounds so very friendly,” he says.
This is my new world order in London.
I am no longer living in a rom-com.
I’m back to reality.
But first, tools.
The selection is downright abysmal in the tool aisle, and “aisle” is a generous term. It’s more like one tiny sliver of a shelf.
“There are hardly any screwdrivers,” I say.
“Do we need more than one?” Jude asks as if screwdrivers are a nuisance.
“Yes, and a couple of wrenches. The faucet on the sink is on the fritz. The pipes probably need adjusting. I definitely need a decent toolkit.”
That seems to spark his interest. “Is that something you’re good at? Fixing things?”
“I was the de facto handyman in my last apartment,” I say. “And I’ve just always been good at it.”
“That’s kind of . . .” His eyes go a bit glossy.
All my instincts say make a dirty joke. Somehow, I refrain from asking: Do you have a handyman kink? “I just need to get a few tools,” I say, keeping it on the level.
“Things I say every day,” he says in a very flirty voice.
I shoot him the side-eye. “You’re not helping.”
Jude gives me a too-innocent look. “Maybe you could get a hammer, for instance. And some nails. In case anything needs to be . . . nailed.”
Filthy images snap before my eyes. Not helpful. “Is this your definition of friendly?”
“Is it working?”
“Absolutely. I feel all sorts of buddy/buddy with you,” I deadpan as I grab a basic tool set and we get the hell out of that aisle.
I don’t trust my common sense anymore. It’s haywire with Jude Graham. Black is white and up is down, and before I know it, tea will taste good.
But at least there are towels to focus on. Jude taps his chin thoughtfully as he checks out every style and color, asking my opinion on each set. It’s both endearing and annoying.
“Are you prepping for a role as a towel inspector? And I mean that literally,” I say.
“No, but that reminds me—I have to do a little prep work tonight. I’m auditioning for a role as a scientist who falls in love with a robot that he makes,” he says brightly, like he’s been looking for the right opening to share this news.
Jude’s genuine enthusiasm makes me turn off my sarcasm. “That sounds cool. What’s it for?”
“Do you really want to hear about it?” He sounds surprised like the default is that I wouldn’t.
“I do,” I say.
The giddy expression on his face is familiar. That’s how I feel when an idea for a story zings just so—that magic moment. I hope it’ll hit me soon, and I can start on my first novel. I’ve got a few concepts to noodle on. Maybe I can do that after work tomorrow.
“There’s a studio here producing a new web series about robots and scientists in love. The head scientist falls for the robot he created. She’s a perfect replica of a woman and even starts to develop sentient feelings and independent thought, and it freaks him out and thrills him at the same time. It actually sounds like a cool project,” he says.
“It does. Do you have a script?”
“They sent over sides. Just a couple of scenes. I need to go over them tonight.”
Jude sounds both nervous and excited. I should invent a reason to get out of the flat tonight, somewhere I’m far, far away from him, but I don’t. “Do you want me to . . .” I clear my throat because this feels like a different sort of closeness. “Run lines with you?”
It’s like I told him I’d clean the flat for a year. “Would you?”
“Sure. I like stories a lot more than shopping for towels. How about you pick a set right now, and when we get home, we’ll run lines.”
“I have to pick right now?” He sounds mildly aghast.
“You can do it,” I encourage.
With a deep breath, he darts out a hand and picks a deep, dark blue towel. They aren’t at all what I’d have thought he’d choose—they aren’t perky. But I don’t ask his reasoning since this selection gets us out of the store.
Which also puts us one step closer to the danger zone.
9
The Time I Swallowed A Frog
TJ
* * *
We stop in a grocery store on the way home, going separate ways, a reminder that we’re not a couple shopping together.
Which is fine. Totally fine.
I wanted to meet a guy . . . to date.
I didn’t come to London to meet a guy I’d want to shop for food with. I’ve got no interest in shopping for food with anyone. I didn’t share anything but beer with my buddies back in New York. It was every man and woman for themselves.
And that’s how it’ll have to be with Jude.
When Jude and I are done, each man buying his own basket’s worth of basics, we stop for sandwiches at a grubby corner shop, paying separately.
The opposite of where we’d have gone on a date.
The opposite of how we behaved last night when he paid for me.
Everything is the opposite. Especially this—when we’re back at the flat, he hangs the bright yellow shower curtain, and I fix the sink.
We are just roomies doing chores.
Once we’ve put away the food and the towels, he emails me the pages, and we sit on opposite ends of the couch. “All right. Let’s do this, Mister Rising Star,” I say.
That earns me another smile. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, then he clicks on his tablet.
His mouth tightens at the corners, his eyes turn down, dark, almost like he’s possessed. He transforms into someone else. It’s breathtaking to watch.
“But you’re not real. None of this is even real,” he says, utterly desperate.
“It’s not?” I say as the robot woman, reading the lines to him. I am not an actor, so I don’t try to play the part.