Page 163 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
He draws a big breath as if he needs to steady himself to say something hard. “Who’s Christian to you?”
At last, we’re getting somewhere.
I had a feeling he’d ask. I lift my chin because I have nothing to apologize for. “A work friend. That is all. And if you want to play Twenty Questions About Other Men, here’s my first and only one. What really happened with William?”
“Nothing,” he bites out, crunching on that word, a cloud of irritation surrounding him. “I’ve said it a million times.”
“Then why the hell is he thanking you for talking to him?” I ask, this close to shouting. I wanted to stay cool, but it’s so hard with the emotions ripping through me like a cyclone. “Dude, just say you’re involved with him,” I continue, and I’m begging because I need the answer. “I get it. You’ve moved on. It’d be stupid for me to think you hadn’t. But stop fucking with my head and telling me you weren’t involved.”
My voice is so much wobblier than I want it to be. I can’t hide how I feel around him. When I’m with Jude my pulse spikes, my heart hammers. For almost a year, I’ve been empty, out of gas, and stalled on the road. The only way to start my engine again is if I can put Jude and me to rest. “I can handle it,” I continue, gently imploring him this time to put me out of my misery. “I can fucking handle it if you were with him. I’m not delicate.”
That’s not true. He could crush me. But still, I need the answer, and I shut up and wait for him to give it to me.
He’s two feet away, his arms crossed, his jaw set hard. Annoyance flashes in his eyes, then fades as he lets out a long, frustrated breath, shaking his head. “But I already told you I wasn’t. Why don’t you trust me?”
Damn him. Why won’t he let me move on?
“Those pictures,” I mutter, but as soon as I say that, I’m aware of how silly it sounds.We’reputting on a show.We’retaking photos of our fake relationships. Photos can be manipulated. Quickly, I issue a correction. “Actually, it’s not the pictures. It’s that...” I pause, taking a second to say the hardest thing I’ve said to him in a long time. “I don’t want to be made a fool. And those pictures make me feel foolish when I look at them.”
I was already a fool for him. A fool in love, ready to ask him to go to Amsterdam with me, to come to see me in New York, to be mine.Only mine.
Jude heaves a sigh. “Why do you look at them, then?”
I shrug lightly, try to play it off. “I like to torture myself, it seems.”
“The pictures aren’t bad coffee. It’s not the same. Stop doing that and start believing me,” he says, stabbing his finger against the counter to make his point. “We’re stuck in thisthing. It goes better when we get along. And I told you... William is a friend. He’s my friend. He’s your friend. And you saw him in LA. He’s struggling. You should know that as well as anyone. We took him to his house when he was pissed.”
That night is bright and clear in my mind. “Yeah, I remember,” I say, but I’m still chewing on the wordswe’re stuck in this thingand how they make me feel a little shitty. After a moment, Jude adds, “And I could ask you the same. What’s really the deal with Christian? He’s awfully chummy. You work out together? Is that all?”
I laugh without humor. “You seriously think there’s something between Christian Laird and me?”
He doesn’t look amused. “Is there? You seemed a little awkward when you saw him,” Jude says, careful with each word, like he’s trying hard not to lash out like he did in the beach house.
That’s a welcome change, and it gives me some peace of mind to answer with the full truth.
“He’s just a friend. If you picked up on anything awkward, it’s that it bothers me to have to lie to the people in my life. I had to lie to my barber earlier in the week and that bugged me too. Christian is a work friend, and we’ve hit the gym a couple times, and I hate putting on this show for everyone when you and I aren’t really dating. We’re not really boyfriends,” I say.
He nods resolutely. “We’re not.”
On that pathetic note, I need another drink. I reach for the bottle, pour a third shot, but as I stare at the liquid, what’s the point? I don’t lift the glass. Turns out I don’t need any more liquid courage to say what’s on my mind. I’ve already served up my guts to Jude tonight. Might as well give him the rest of the truth. From my spot in the kitchen, I meet his gaze. “Besides, it’d be impossible for me to be with someone.”
“Why?” Jude asks, desperate.
“How do you not fucking know, Jude?” I snap. “How do you really not know?”
He spreads out his arms. “What should I know?”
“You said it in the car yesterday. My breath hitches when I’m near you. When you touch me, I shudder. You get close to me, and I’m fucking gone. You did a number on me, Jude Fox. I haven’t been with Christian or anyone.”
There. I’ve spelled it out with indelible ink—I’m not over you.
His eyes flicker with a sort of surreal delight. Then he grabs his phone, clicks on a text exchange, and thrusts it at me, showing me something he wrote to William.
I’ll help find a center. Just say the word.
My jaw drops. “What is this?”
He sets down his phone, circles the counter, stalks into the kitchen. “This is why I was talking to William tonight. He called, and I care about him as a friend. When I was in LA recently, hewas spiraling. I tried to help him by paying his minibar bill and getting him out of the hotel safely after he’d been asked to leave. I took him home, and I’ve been trying, fucking trying, to get him help. He kissed me on the cheek, and the press got the photo, and here I am, in the middle of this terrible press thing with this guy we both know who’s spiraling into addiction, and still I want to help him. He’sourfriend, and I never was involved with him at all.”