Harry was very nearly headless when I found out. Arlo too. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it was how I handled the two years that followed.
I don’t even like to think about what went down then.
Heath waves the book at me. “Then is this edition the one you used when you performed it in uni?”
“No. Someone gave that to me,” I say quickly, darting up to reach for the copy I’ve kept with me for seven years. TJ gave it to me on his last night, told me to read it now and then, that he’d underlined his favorite passages just for me. That book had lived on my shelves in that Waterloo flat for two years with Sir Boring, then a place in Bankside when I roomed with William and Olivia since she finally moved into the city when she became the queen of voiceover work. And now, the book has its home here with me.
When I flop back onto the sofa, I flip to the page my long-ago American lover read to me in bed years ago. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.
Then, the words he whispered to me next. Always be wicked, Jude.
Running my finger over the line, questions race through my head as they have many times before.
What is he up to now? The occasional glance at his social media reveals only the basics—he still worships at the altar of caffeine and seeks out new music like it’s a religion. But does he still despise rubber ducks on shower curtains and write his romances mostly in coffee shops, like he did when he was here?
Then comes the question that always jostles its way to the front of my mind.
Is he single? Or has he met someone new to whisper Oscar Wilde to? I asked Google about TJ a year ago, and the tight-lipped search engine didn’t say a word about his relationship status.
Heath breaks my trip back in time with an amused glance. “What’s that smirk for? A line you loved saying under the spotlight?”
Good thing I’m trained at feigning emotions. “Just thinking of all things wicked,” I say since that’s true enough. Then I tuck the copy safely back on the shelf and nod to the door. “I need to take off for curtain. And you need to drop my darlings at the library. Give them a good home. I insist.”
He smiles. “I will.”
We leave, and after I say goodbye to my brother out in front of my building, I head to the Garrick Theatre, an intimate West End playhouse. For the next two and a half hours, I perform Pillow Talk to a packed house, bow at the end, then search for a familiar face in the crowd and blow a kiss when I spot her.
After I change out of costume, I meet up with Helen outside the theater.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, then kiss her on the cheek.
“As if I’d miss it,” she says, then swats my shoulder. “I can’t believe you made me cry.”
I give a devilish smile. “Nothing makes me happier than audience tears or cheers.”
“Well, you earned both. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming. It means so much.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve always been so good to my store over the years. Before it was my store,” she says, since Helen bought the shop when Angie retired several months ago. “I mean, you sent that scrummy American to me all those years ago. Did you know he still shops here? He’s one of my best customers.”
I startle, my spine straightening. What in the bloody hell? “He’s in London?” TJ’s in my city, and he didn’t look me up? The rat bastard. “Does he have a boyfriend now?”
Helen chuckles, shaking her head. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. He shops online. I sent him button-ups to New York, including a shirt with dinosaurs he wanted for a recent press appearance. And God no, he doesn’t have a boyfriend. You didn’t hear?”
This I have to know. “Hear what?”
When she tells me, I race home, curiosity fueling my every step.
It’s one thing to delete someone’s number. It’s another thing to resist the impulse to follow his career.
After my initial year-long TJ detox, I gave in to my natural curiosity. Looked him up online from time to time. Smiled at his pen name, then filed away a memory.
But now this nugget from Helen?
And on the very same day I re-read one of his notes to me? I’ve always believed in signs, and this feels like a big one.
My skin prickles with possibility as I head up the steps to my flat, unlock my door, toss the keys on the table.
The second the door closes, I plug the American’s name into Google, and the search engine serves me the Wikipedia details I already know. As a bestselling romance novelist, he’s written ten books published in the last five years, including Yes Man, Mister Benefits, Happy Trail, and The Size Principle.
Ah, but this next detail is news to me—both the book and the reception.
With a falling-for-his-best-friend’s-brother storyline, the author’s newest release, Top-Notch Boyfriend, became an instant bestseller.
I click on the second search result—a YouTube video from Trish’s Morning News Show. It’s a segment from last week titled New York Power Couples.
A pang of jealousy zips through me, but I quash it because the subtitle is Ouch, that’s gotta hurt.
I brace myself as I hit play.
The camera pans in on my one-time roommate-turned lover. TJ’s lounging on a red couch under studio lights, looking incredible in trim burgundy trousers, and a black shirt with a tiny dinosaur design on it.
Too bad he’s seated next to a fellow with a man bun, who looks like he’s swallowed an egg. I hate him on principle.
The camera swings to the host, a woman with a blonde bob, of course, since that’s the required haircut for hosts. “I’m here with one of the city’s newest power couples—the bestselling novelist and the rising star chef. Flynn, your new pop-up rotisserie chicken café boasts lines around the block. And your beau’s breakout book is the toast of the book world, having become a number-one bestseller in the first week of its release. Now, let’s be honest. Did Flynn inspire this new romance, TJ?”
TJ dips his face, a little embarrassed, but smiling too as he reaches for Flynn’s hand. I burn a little seeing that, even though I know what’s coming.
“I never kiss and tell,” TJ says, and my God, that’s such a TJ answer. Then he winks at the host and whispers, “the good parts.”
Cheeky fucker.
Trish turns to the long haired man. “Flynn, how does it feel to know that you’re the muse behind the book that’s been dubbed the it love story of the year? Bet you gained a few thousand new follows from that. Am I right?” she asks with a knowing nod and a smile to the audience.
“Well, I thought it was great,” Flynn says, but he pulls his hand away from TJ to adjust his own shirt, but his shirt didn’t need adjusting.
Oh hell. It’s like watching a car crash in slow-motion.
But Trish doesn’t seem to pick up on the hand cues. She simply waggles the red paperback around. “Personally, my favorite part in the story is when the hero says, ‘After all these years, do you have any idea what it’s like to fall madly in love with the one guy you thought you couldn’t have? It’s awful and wonderful at the same time. But that’s what love is—awful and wonderful.’” She clutches her chest. “Flynn, did you love that part when you first read it?”