Page 192 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
TJ: You always have.
He gives me a sad smile. That’s a sign to keeptalking. But this isn’t a digital moment. It’s a real one. I take a chance and set down my phone. The buzz and hum of the plane gives us privacy, after all.
“Sometimes I think I didn’t do enough as his friend,” I say softly. “When I last talked to him, he said something about this new guy he was seeing, and now I worry that he’s trading one panacea for another.”
TJ sets down his phone too. “You tried to help him, Jude. From what you’ve told me, you tried several times. Hell, you were trying back in LA. People only accept help when they’re ready to change.”
“Maybe. But I still wish I could have done more.”
He squeezes my thigh, reassuring me. “Of course you do. But you did all you can. You still do. You never distanced yourself from him. Every time a reporter asked us about him, you said he was a friend. That has to matter.”
I’m glad TJ noticed that. I pray William does too. “I really hope he can change.”
“Me too,” he says. “I care about him too.”
Fond memories of long-ago days in London flicker before me. “The three of us were scrappy young artists back in the day. Funny, how we were all striving then, but none of us had made our mark.”
“Once upon a time we were a reporter, a bookstore clerk, and a barista,” TJ says, like the opening lines of a story.
“Back then we had different names too,” I say, shifting the topic away from William, returning to us as the flight attendant stops at our row.
“Hello, there, Mister Ashford and Mister Graham,” she says cheerily.
We exchange a glance and crack up.
The attendant knits her brow. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s grand. I just haven’t heard those names in ages. How are you?” I ask her.
“Fantastic. Let me know if I can get you anything. Champagne, tea, coffee,” she says, rattling off options.
“I never say no to an English Breakfast,” I say, then I set a hand on TJ’s shoulder as if we lounge in first-class together all the time. “And I bet my boyfriend wants a coffee.”
TJ shoots me a quick smile, then her. “Black with sugar, please.”
“Of course. I’ll have that to you shortly,” she says and heads to the galley.
TJ catches my gaze again, his brown eyes gleaming. Something is brewing in that big brain of his. “Should we have a ship for our legal names? Ashgraham? Hamford? AshHam?”
I cringe at the last one. “AshHam. That sounds like it’s made from cigarettes and pork.”
“That’s how airplane coffee usually tastes,” he says.
“But you’ll drink it because you punish yourself with bad coffee to remind you of the good stuff.”
“Dude. You know me,” he says.
Perhaps I do know him. Better and better each day, it seems. I like knowing the topic of William doesn’thaveto derail things between TJ and me. “Maybe I’ll check in with our barista when we get to Vegas. See how he’s doing,” I say, and once I have, that feels like the right next step.
“That’s a good idea,” TJ says, but a few seconds later, his eyes take on a faraway look.
He stays lost in his thoughts as the attendant brings our drinks, and we finish them as we taxi toward takeoff and then hit our cruising altitude.
Did I read him wrong about William? Or is something else on his mind? Does TJ regret showing me his home?
Worry eats away at me, and I’m about to ask if he’s okay when he turns to me. “Do you mind if I write?”
Even though Ishouldread the rewrites theUnfinished Businessshowrunner sent me, I’d have liked to talk more. But I have a feeling TJ needs to rappel into his writer’s cave, and I need to let him. “Get cracking,” I say.