Page 71 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

TJ:I’m a dick

Jude:OMG, I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU KNEW HOW TO FIND AN EMOTICON!

We text like that till the sound of footfalls hits my ear, then his key rattles in the lock, and he walks in with two cups in his hands and happiness glittering in his brown eyes.

TJ hands me a tea, sits next to me, then says, “Well?”

I tell him all the things I love about his story. Especially the longing the hero feels in chapter three.

“You’re very good at writing longing,” I say, then take a drink of the tea and put it down on the table.

“Thanks.” He just shrugs, then says softly, “Write what you know and all.”

I melt a little more. He takes another drink of his coffee, then I reach for the cup, set it down too, and take his hand.

I tug him up from the couch and bring him to my room, and we undress each other, probably for the last time.

Soon, we’re in our element, naked and breathless, our skin hot, our mouths searching and finding. We come together, and it’s sexy and dirty like it’s always been.

But it’s also a little bit sad.

Especially when he kisses me with so much longing that I’m pretty sure I feel the same as the guy in The Case of The Disappearing Pages.

So far gone.

The next morning, he packs his bags, and we walk along the river for the first time and the last time.

25

SOME OTHER GUY

TJ

Maybe someday I’ll write a guidebook about how to spend three weeks in London. But it won’t be after this trip.

I can only imagine the conversation I’ll have with my friends when I return to New York this weekend. I’ll grab beers with the crew from college, and they’ll fire off the usual litany of questions to a returning young traveler.

How was Big Ben? Did you see the Crown Jewels? Ride the London Eye?

My answers will be something like this.

Big Ben was very large. Extra, you might say.

Not only did I see the Crown Jewels, I felt them too.

As for the London Eye, why yes, I did, only it’s not the London eye you’re thinking of.

But it has an eye, for sure.

Right now, I’m savoring the last few hours in this city, looking over the Thames with the guy I’mthis closeto falling in love with.

There’s no way I’ll tell Jude that. There’s no point. But some part of me wants to acknowledge what happened here in this city. I give it my best shot, though it’s terrifying to say.

“I’ll miss London,” I say to the river, managing to get the words past the tangle of emotions in my throat.

I wait, dreading that he doesn’t feel the same, hoping that he does, and wishing for him to understand what I mean.

His hand glides up my back into my hair, plays with the ends. “I’ll miss it too,” he says, and I shiver.