Page 42 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“We are.” I smile and drink to that.
Jude pats his flat stomach. “I’m starving. Shopping makes me ravenous.”
We order and eat, shifting to other topics, like his brother, who works in the London art world, and who loves books and theater too. Then, we make plans to run lines tomorrow, and Jude suggests we do it in Hyde Park. Works for me, since I want to see as much of London as I can. When we’re done, I don’t give Jude a chance to put down his credit card. “I got this.”
“We can split it,” he says.
“No, I want to.”
He relents easily, tucking his card away.
And maybe, just maybe, that makes the whole damn day seem like we’re both standing on safe ground and wobbling on terribly rocky terrain.
Date terrain.
16
HOLY BEARD-ABILITY
Jude
TJ’s gone when I wake up on Sunday morning.
That’s par for the course. But he’s replied to the invitation I left for him on the fridge, the international location of roomie notes.
His reply is written on blue paper—the same blue paper on which he left his first roomie letter. The letter I tucked away in a book I was reading.
I read it as I walk to the stove.
Someone wiser than I am supposedly once said: “Practice precedes perfection.” I’ve found Wilde right about nearly everything so far. See you this afternoon to practice your lines, so tomorrow you’ll be fucking perfect at your callback.
I’m outta here now to do touristy things with another reporter. By the way, since you took me shopping yesterday, today it’s my turn. Check out the band Lettuce Pray. Holy fuck.They’re like Roxy Music meets New Order. Incidentally, both of those bands are on my Top Five Best British Bands Ever list.
Lettuce Pray is playing next weekend in Leicester Square. But so is Too Big For Their Britches. I might have to see both.
See you later . . .
I read it again as I put the kettle on, then once more as I drink my tea. When I’m done, I tuck the letter away in a book, then turn on my mobile, where I find a text from TJ. It includes a link to a playlist, and a note,Your homework.
Because I’m a good student, I do the entire assignment, listening to all the tunes while working out at a local gym I just joined. I text Olivia about her date last night with a guy named George, who “might very well be royalty and also has a royally great prick.”
After a stop home for a shower and a change of clothes, I meet my brother Heath for a cuppa at a café we like.
I give Heath a special-order book about art in the post-modern era—he has a collection from that period that he’s selling through his auction house. He gives me what he always does—sound advice and sarcasm as I tell him about the auditions I’ve had.
“If I go on enough auditions,” I say, “the odds will be in my favor. It’s a numbers game.”
His eyes say bullshit. “Right. I’m sure it’s a matter of your lucky number turning up.”
“What else could it be?” I ask, trying to stay cheeky and cool.
“Talent. Persistence. Luck. But first, talent. And you have that in buckets.”
“Thanks.” I needed to hear that. But I don’t want today to be all aboutme, me, me. “Tell me more about that play you saw the other week.”
And for a few short minutes, as he tells me about the theater, I don’t think of my sexy American roommate.
Once I board the tube for Hyde Park, I reply to TJ’s text about the music.I finished my assignment. I did it five times. Someday, when I win an Academy Award, I will thank you for teaching me about taste when it comes to bands. No more Zeppelin for this guy!