He shrugs helplessly. “Probably not,” he says softly. “So, what do you think we should do? How would you write this in a story?”
I stare at the river, let the scenes unfold, imagine the words on the pages. I turn to Jude, run a hand up the front of his shirt. “I would write a different ending. These guys, they’d go their separate ways. They’d focus on their careers. That’s what they should do, right?”
“They should,” he says, underlining that new rule.
“The one guy should become the actor he longs to be,” I say, hoping he feels as strongly as I do about this.
Jude nods several times, clearly getting it, clearly agreeing. “The other guy should write and write and write.”
But I can’t shake the possibility of a happy ending. And I can’t leave without trying to write one for us. Far into the future, I imagine a wildly unlikely scenario. But one that’s too alluring to ignore. “Let’s make a deal,” I say, buoyed by this outside shot I’m taking.
He arches a brow. “I’m listening,” he says, then he does that thing. He drags his teeth across the corner of his lips.
“You know that drives me crazy,” I whisper.
“That’s why I did it.”
That’s also part of why I can take this chance. Jude and I didn’t hurt each other. We didn’t choose this ending.
I grab his face, run my thumb along his bottom lip. “Down the road, when we’ve made it, if you’re ever single and in the same place . . .” I pause to make sure I’m saying this the right way.
But Jude doesn’t miss a beat. “You want me to look you up?” He sounds enchanted by the idea. The smile that spreads on his face reaches deep into my heart, maybe touching the last part of it, the only part that hadn’t quite fallen all the way yet. That last piece of me tips into his hand.
“I do,” I tell the man who didn’t audition to become my first love. But he got the role anyway. “Someday, I do.”
“I will, TJ. I will definitely look you up.” He cups my jaw, presses a confident kiss to my lips that leaves me woozy. “And you better do the same, TJ Ashford. You really better look me up too. Make it a promise.”
“It’s the look-me-up promise,” I say.
“Now that’s a good title for a book. Look Me Up.”
“It’s not bad,” I say, and I make a mental note of it, then shift gears back to teasing. “But I have to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“No one in New York calls it the Big Apple.”
He rolls his eyes. “If I bring my big eggplant to New York, I bet you’d call it the Big Apple for me.”
I crack up. “I probably would. But we both know I’m a sucker for your big eggplant.” For his charm too, so I give him one more promise. “Someday, when I become a famous novelist, I’ll be sure to write a hero named Jude. And give him a big cock.”
Jude covers his face with his fingers, laughing into his palm. He shakes his head, then pulls his hand back, flashing me a grin that’s going to grace billboards someday. That damn smile melts me. Bet it will melt millions someday soon. “That’s all I want, TJ. To be the inspiration for your big-dicked protagonist,” he says.
That’s fitting. He’s already been the inspiration for so much else. But I keep that to myself.
Some truths don’t need to be spoken. Some secrets you should protect.
Like the fact that I fell in love with Jude Graham in three weeks in London.
When I buckle into my airplane seat a few hours later, the last twenty-one days already feel like they happened to some other guy.
26
Yes Man
A month later
* * *
TJ
* * *
The New York Comets slugger comes to the plate. I have no choice but to boo the hell out of him.
“You’re going down, Brady,” I holler from the third-base line seats.
“Get out of here, Bozo,” the guy behind me shouts. “We don’t want no stinking Cougars fans here.”
I whip my head around. “Do I look like Bozo?”
“You will soon if you keep that up,” the New Yorker taunts.
I shrug, water-off-a-duck’s-back style. “Cool. I have no problem with clowns.” Then I turn my attention back to the action on the diamond. Chance goes into the windup and fires off a beauty of a fastball.
Brady swings and misses.
“Yes! That’s how you do it, Ashford!”
My buddy Nolan shakes his head, laughing lightly. “TJ, you are playing with fire.”
I know, and I don’t care. I’m at the New York Comets Bronx ballpark, and I’m rooting for the enemy, and I’m good with that. I’ve got on a Cougars jersey and a ball cap too. Take that, home team. “It’s just a game,” I tell Nolan.
“And fifty thousand Comets fans are sooo rational,” my friend mutters.
But I’m not rational right now either. How could I be? My brother is pitching at the bottom of the ninth. I cup my hands around my mouth. “Strike ’em out, bro.”
“How ’bout we kick you out?” the New Yorker behind me suggests.
“That won’t be necessary when my brother closes this game,” I say because trash talk doesn’t scare me.
Besides, this game is my brass ring. I’ve been counting down to it since I flew across an ocean thirty days ago.
This is the goalpost I wanted to reach.
It’s the one-month post-London mark.
The first few days back were the hardest. I met up with some of my college friends. They all asked about London. I didn’t mention the guy who captured my heart and mind.
Once I put Jude out there for my friends to analyze, someone will tell me to call him, text him, or worse, FaceTime him.
And I might be tempted.
More than I am already. At some point each day, my fingers hover over his name on my phone.
But I haven’t caved. I won’t cave to the Comets fans either. Rooting for the enemy in the home team’s ballpark is my little act of defiance, and it makes me feel good.
Three batters later, my brother strikes out the side. “The Last Chance Train is pulling out of the station,” I shout, jumping to my feet, punching the air.
“Yo, Bozo. You want to take it outside the ballpark?” This offer comes from Mister New Yorker.
I spin around one more time, give the guy a sympathetic look. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m already seeing someone. I’m not interested.”
With a reined-in laugh, Nolan grabs my shoulder. “Dude, I fucking missed you. It is good to have you back.”
“I’m glad to be of service as your entertainment,” I say.
We meet up with Chance and grab some post-game burgers and fries in Manhattan.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my brother since I returned to New York. That'll be good—another few hours where I don’t have to think of Jude. We can talk about baseball and other shit.
Chance sweeps a fry through his ketchup, then brandishes it. “Tell the truth. Fries are better than chips, aren’t they?”