Page 72 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
But that’s as close as I’ll come to telling him how I feel. “I can’t believe I’ll be in New York tomorrow at this time,” I say, shifting.
“Tell me all your big plans for your first weekend back. Will you gallivant around the Big Apple? Go to Central Park? Catch a musical?” he asks, rubbing his palms together, putting on a very excited air. Even though Jude is a good actor, I can see through his facade. This is a distraction tactic, so we don’t talk about what happens when I get on that plane.
I don’t want to talk about it either. Mostly because I don’t want to deal with it. But I also don’t want to go home with any expectations. We’ll have to bite the bullet of the goodbye rules, and we’ll have to do it soon.
“Yes, I have front-row seats toWicked,” I deadpan.
He curls a hand around my shoulder. “I knew you were a secret musical lover. Soon, you’ll be sending me links to Amelia Stone tunes you found on Spotify.”
That’s as good an entrée as any. With a queasiness in my gut that won’t abate, I bite off the uncomfortable question. “But is that what you want?”
Jude’s expression transforms from a cheery bloke to a serious man. “Spotify links from you, you mean?”
I swallow roughly. “Yeah. That.”
He stares at the river, sighing deeply, then looks back at me. “I mean, we could. We could stay in touch. I could see how you’re doing with your book...”
“And I could watchMachine Lovewhen it premieres,” I offer, even though I don’t know if that would help me live without him or make it harder.
“And I could send you links to fantastic styles of shirts, and you could hunt them down in New York,” he says. “And you’d let me know how things were going with your career.”
“And you’d do the same. Because I’d want to know,” I say, and I do want to know, but this sounds like an unsatisfying outcome. This sounds like the tale of two young guys staying in touch on only the most superficial level.
Because there’s no other way for us since the inevitable will happen when I leave, and he stays. Our lives will go on. My world will spin into new stories, new opportunities, and new romances.
His will do the same.
He’ll meet someone. He’ll date someone. He’ll fall in love.
And the mature, caring, thoughtful part of me does want that for him. I want all the good things for Jude.
If we cling to three weeks in London, neither one of us will ever truly live.
We’d check in every few months, we’d wonder what might have been, and we’d never let go.
Never move on.
We’d be stuck in the past because soon, very soon, that’s what this present moment that feels likeeverythingwill become.
“We could do that,” he says, but his tone is resigned.
“Yeah, we could,” I say, my voice matching his. “It’s an option. It’s an idea.”
Someone is going to have to say the hard thing. Someone is going to have to lay down the rules for goodbye. “But is it a good idea?”
He shrugs helplessly. “Probably not,” he says softly. “So, what do you think we should do? How would you write this in a story?”
I stare at the river, let the scenes unfold, imagine the words on the pages. I turn to Jude, run a hand up the front of his shirt. “I would write a different ending. These guys, they’d go their separate ways. They’d focus on their careers. That’s what they should do, right?”
“They should,” he says, underlining that new rule.
“The one guy should become the actor he longs to be,” I say, hoping he feels as strongly as I do about this.
Jude nods several times, clearly getting it, clearly agreeing. “The other guy should write and write and write.”
But I can’t shake the possibility of a happy ending. And I can’t leave without trying to write one for us. Far into the future, I imagine a wildly unlikely scenario. But one that’s too alluring to ignore. “Let’s make a deal,” I say, buoyed by this outside shot I’m taking.
He arches a brow. “I’m listening,” he says, then he does that thing. He drags his teeth across the corner of his lips.