Page 22 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
I move to new topics. “I’m getting the sense you’re saying I have no style?”
Jude swivels around and adopts a too-sweet expression. “Let’s just say, the way I feel about your style”—he waves a hand dismissively at my T-shirt then at the shelves of curtains—“is on par with how you feel about my love of Led Zeppelin.”
Yes! Another thing we don’t have in common. Shower curtains, clothing style, and musical taste will work in combination to turn me off. “Fine, go ahead and play Zeppelin tonight. It’s cool,” I say with a shrug.
He snort-laughs. “Oh, please. You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
Jude stares at me with a smile that says he’s caught me red-handed. “You only want me to play Zeppelin so you don’t think about me naked.”
Jesus.
He’s electric. He’s unstoppable.
“Feel free to add in Jethro Tull, then too,” I say. I’ve got to try to keep up with him.
“Wait. I figured you out. You hate all the English rock bands that had their heyday in the seventies?”
“Yup. But not just English bands. American ones too. Case in point: The Allman Brothers Band.” I cringe for effect. “Queen aside, the seventies were a musical wasteland worldwide.”
“But what about ABBA?” He sounds like hating the Swedish pop group is blasphemy.
“Especially ABBA. So yeah, feel free to love on them all you want,” I challenge.
With curious eyes, Jude seems to size me up. “Because...” He wags a finger. “Because that would help our necessary friendship? If I love the bands you hate?”
“Yes, exactly.” Though, so far, that doesn’t appear to be true whatsoever.
He stares at me like a cat, taking his sweet time. “No. I don’t think I will play them.”
“Why not?” I ask like I don’t care, but I really want to hate him. I swear I do.
“Because I think you’d rather I play some alt-rock. Some cool new bands. Something I find in the clubs. I bet that’s your scene, right?”
I am cellophane with him. I need to find a trench coat to cover my see-through self. “No,” I say with an offhand shrug.
“You’re a terrible liar, TJ,” he says again, amused this time.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are. Want to know how I know?”
“Sure,” I grumble.
Jude points at my face. “Your eyes lit up when I said,cool new bands. That’s what you like, right? And you think if I play something you don’t like, it’ll make you stop thinking of all the presuming we’re not doing.”
I’m naked with him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask softly, feeling wobbly.
“Because I don’t want you to hate me,” he says earnestly. “I want us to be friends. Truly, I do. And the thing is, I’m rubbishwith music. Maybe I can learn about your cool new bands, and you can learn about how delightful it is to have a shower curtain that’s not boring.” Jude pauses, then adds the clincher. “And I don’t think disliking me is going to help.”
He’s called me out, leaving me with no choice but to try.
“Fine. Then how about this? I’ll teach you about musical taste, and you can teach me about style?”
“That sounds so very friendly,” he says.
This is my new world order in London.