I want to put on my best face for Jude. No way do I want to be the guy in a funk in a coffee shop.
I want to be the guy who’s on the other side. Someone who’s witty, clever, confident. The guy who helps his work wife find the dress of her dreams. The dude who entertains a security agent. The man who chats with a Lyft driver about new tunes.
That’s a start, but is it enough?
Pretty sure there’s no guidebook for how to act when you see the guy who got away.
Except, maybe there is.
Maybe I’ve been writing the guidebook over the last several years, for all intents and purposes.
As I push the stairwell door open and head to the lobby bar, I ask myself who I want to be tonight when I see Jude in a couple minutes.
Easy.
I’m gonna play this reunion like I’m one of the heroes in my books.
31
All The World’s A Stage
Jude
I’ve always believed in luck.
Signs, even.
Helen coming to see my play was one of those signs.
Almost like the universe said, “All right, you served your time. Learned your two-year lesson. Here’s your reward. The man from your past.”
But one big question nags at me—will TJ like who I am now? Years ago, we connected because we were both questing. But we aren’t in the same boat anymore. He’s a big-deal bestselling author, and I’ve yet to earn a starring role in a film or be cast as a lead on a TV show. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me.
Maybe for tonight, it’s best if he sees me as the guy he fell for so many years ago. I’ve never forgotten his private words: He’s the swooniest man I’ve ever known . . .
Clearly, I’ll have to be so damn charming, he’ll be blown away by how worthy I am.
The scene will open like this. I’ll wait at the bar. I’ll order us both drinks. I’ll have a witty word at the ready.
As I near the glass doors of the hotel, I practice possible opening lines.
My shower still needs fixing. Know a handyman who can help?
Is there a meeting this weekend of The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well?
Hello, Great Dick.
Trouble is, they all sound like I’m trying too hard.
I’ll go for simple instead. Hey there. Thanks for coming. You look incredible.
There. That’s settled.
But once I head into the lobby bar, his dark eyes lock on me and the power of the past throws me off. All my instincts say to wrap him in a warm embrace and demand he enthrall me with every detail from his life over the last seven years.
As TJ strides over and I get a good, long look at the man I once lived with, my mind pings with hope, and my body lights up with possibility. My grin might be too big, and I kind of don’t care, especially when he wraps one strong arm around me, then pulls me close, his beard whisking against my cheek. “You were great in The Artificial Girlfriend. I’ve been wanting to tell you for almost seven years, Jude.”
That’s his opening line? Talk about knowing the way straight to my heart. I want to say Thank you, I’m so fucking happy you saw it, and I was dying to reach out to you and ask you a million things.
But I keep my cool since I know something too—the path to his writer’s brain. “And you were right about Murder on the Orient Express. I’ve read it twice,” I say, since that feels like a fair trade. Starting where we left off in London with things we shared.
He separates his chest from mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. His lips twitch in a grin. “So you read it again, even though you knew who did it?”
“Exactly. As someone once told me, With every read, there’s something to discover about how to tell a story,” I say, though that’s not why I re-read that mystery. I read it again because I was missing him. The second time around, the story made me feel connected to him across an ocean. Every night, I puzzled over what details delighted him the most.
“I’m really glad you read it, Jude.” He chuckles softly, the gold flecks in his dreamy brown eyes flickering. “Jude Fox is the perfect stage name. I’m just jealous that I didn’t get to help pick it. It’s so good, I almost wish I could steal it for a hero in one of my books.”
“Oh? You haven’t written about the big-cocked Jude yet?” I ask playfully, though I know the answer, and it’s a no.
He shrugs, all inviting and flirty. “Maybe someday,” he says.
I like the sound of that someday. Better me than that twat of an ex who didn’t deserve to be immortalized on a bathroom wall. Fuck Flynn and his chicken.
“Well, let’s start with The Duck’s Nipple then. Did you ever get to use that?” I ask, though I know that answer too. It’s a pub the hero and his friends frequent in his third book. But I don’t want to let on yet that I’ve read most of his books. Don’t want to look too eager to impress.
“I did. It’s in The Size Principle,” he says.
“Then you could write off all those beers we had long ago,” I tease. “Must have made the whole trip to London worthwhile.”
“Yes, that’s what made it worthwhile. The tax benefits,” he deadpans, then gestures to the bar. “Beer, champagne, Negroni?”
I tilt my head to study him since that’s quite specific. “Those are all my favorite drinks, but we only ever drank beer.”
His smile is full of satisfaction. “So, what’ll it be, Just Jude?”
“Well, Troy Jett, I’ll have a champagne.”
“Then I will too,” he says, and that kicks up a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve heard him say that before, but maybe it’s just the déjà vu of him and the nickname game.
After he orders the drinks, the bartender pours quickly, then hands him two glasses.
“I reserved the table in the corner,” TJ says.
I follow as he heads for a small, curved booth in a private spot. “So, how did you pick those three drinks? Did you read my diary?”
“I like research,” he says, drily.
“You always did. You liked to go around London, researching places. Did you research a certain person and his favorite drinks?” I ask, and I’m dying to know if he’s been following me.
“When you DM’d me, I scrolled through your feed, naturally,” he says, and maybe he hasn’t been following my career like I’ve followed his. Perhaps he only checked me out after I messaged him. That shouldn’t bother me. Really, it shouldn’t. “You posted a picture from your brother’s birthday last year. A shot of you toasting the old fucker. Your words. In your hand was a bright red drink. When I saw the orange peel, I deduced it likely wasn’t a vodka raspberry but a Negroni. Was I right?”
“You’re correct.”
“And of course, we always ordered beers.”
We. My stupid heart likes that he remembers our times. “We did, but I don’t think there’s a photo of me having a champagne on my feed,” I say, like I’ve caught him in something.
He smiles. “Sometimes you have to go out on a limb. I rolled the dice that you liked it. Good guess?”
I lift the glass, bring it to my lips. The man always loved my mouth, so I glide the rim of the glass right along my bottom lip for a second.