Page 203 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

If we keep doing this.

He doesn’t add those words, but that’s what he means.

It’s a warning. Be careful what you sign up for.

But I already gave up some privacy when my books started selling, and I lost a whole lot more of it when Flynn’s breakup video went viral. True, being with an Oscar-nominated actor is next level, but I’m not sure privacy is the big issue.

The issue is . . .me.

Are our secret dates just another version of my lie of omission?

“I know,” I say, but I won't elaborate since I don’t know the answer to this new quandary. Besides, when we reach the casino, my phone buzzes and his beeps.

We groan in tandem, Pavlovian dogs who know what’s coming.

“Daddy,” I mutter.

I grab my phone and click on Slade’s instructions. As I read, my stomach twists. It turns. I feel like my breakfast might come back up.

Grabbing Jude’s hand, I pull him next to a sleek, silver slot machine. He looks as awful as I feel. “This is a breakup script,” he chokes out.

“It is,” I echo, then scratch my arm. My skin crawls. These banal words are bugs creeping over my flesh.

The letter echoes in my head.

After this final week, you’ll lie low for a bit. TJ will be busy writing. Jude will be busy in rehearsals. Then it’s Oscars, baby, Oscars! That’ll be your last hurrah together and after it you’ll be free. A few weeks later, you’ll each post a breakup letter to your socials. It’ll say—Hi Everyone. We wanted to let you know that we recently decided to part ways. We respect and admire each other and remain friends. Thank you for honoring our privacy. Jude and TJ.”

It’s awful.

In its starkness. In its blandness. In its mere existence.

I shake my head as if I can erase this message—return to sender. “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” I say.

“Me neither.”

I need something to wash the taste of this letter out of my mouth. A poker game. A roller coaster. An arcade. Vegas is the land of distractions. This ought to be easy. I scan the hotel, looking for an escape from reality. But when I see Malcolm Mann saunter past the nearby roulette game, laughing as he talks on his phone and giving us a wave, this hotel is the last place I want to be.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

His eyes sayhell yes.

We fly out the door.

25

SECOND CHANCE SHOPPING

TJ

We map out thrift stores on our phones, and it feels like old times as we shop. Jude’s dead set on unearthing a trendy, button-down shirt with illustrations of foxes. When I told him on the Lyft ride over that I donated one a few weeks ago, he went apoplectic and insisted I get a new one stat.

But we come up empty as we hunt through Vegas thrift shop after thrift shop, though he does snag a pic of me laughing when he calls me a lumberjack as I model a flannel. We’re almost at the end of our list of stores.

Off the beaten path, far from the Strip, I push open the door to One More Time. “Last chance,” I say.

“I’m finding foxes and you’re wearing them,” he says, determined, as he marches to the racks, saying hello to a shopkeeper along the way.

The store is huge and practically deserted on a Friday afternoon. We riffle through the men’s shirts.