Page 81 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“And now it must be incredible. What with the book topping bestseller lists and helping bring those huge new crowds to your café?” Trish prompts.
More silence.
TJ sits up straighter, fear flickering in his brown eyes, awareness registering.
Oh, shit.
Flynn looks down, grabs the mic from his shirt, tugs at it, irritated. “Now, it’s just awful. I’ve been turned into a laughingstock—a circus sideshow. I only want to make the chicken, cook for people, and get great reviews. But that hardly matters anymore. I’m just some novelist’s trophy boyfriend.” He turns to TJ. “It’s all been about you—your coffee shop writing and your punny titles that you ask my advice on. But you can’t do that anymore—because we are over.”
Flynn storms off the set on live TV, but the camera doesn’t leave TJ. His gorgeous eyes are etched with utter shock. He mouthswhat, and I fill in the rest—what the hell just happened to me?I feel his pain in the way my chest clutches, my stomach curls, and I wish I could kiss it away.
Dumped on TV by a wanker who’s trying to get press for a chicken café?
And I thought the shit Arlo did was bad.
This is infinitely worse.
During the performance ofPillow Talkthe next night, I pour those heartbreaking emotions TJ must have felt into my performance. The audience gives me a standing ovation.
I relish every second of their cheers. Especially since I know what it’s like to hear silence. To wander past theaters and wish I were part of the cast. To flip through channels and long for opportunities to leave it all on stage.
A few days later, the director gathers us backstage. “Good news. We had some American producers at our Sunday night show. Later this month, they’re takingPillow Talkto Los Angeles for a limited run with the original London cast.”
I freeze, letting the enormity of the news sink in. That’s almost too good to be true. “Are you serious?” I ask.
“Completely,” the director says, filling me with the hope of breaking out of this plateau where I’ve been the past few years. This is my chance to finally reach the next level.
My castmates and I cheer, then indulge in a long group hug. I’m the last to let go. As the director shares more details, I feel all fizzy inside.
I’ve never been to the States. I haven’t had the chance to court the star-makers in Hollywood yet, having only now and then nabbed small parts in American flicks shot in England.
Something else appeals to me about America. Sure, Los Angeles isn’t close to New York, but it’s a whole lot closer than London is, especially when you’re both single and made a deal on a bridge seven years ago.
29
THE DATING VACCINE
Some weeks later
TJ
I should be better at this breakup shit.
Considering all the imaginary people I’ve tortured. I’ve written ten romance novels, so I’ve eviscerated twenty fictional hearts. Often, in all sorts of terrible ways—from a dead girlfriend, to a six-time cheating boyfriend, to an awful liar of an ex who stole money, drugs, and diamonds. And in the ultimate shitty ex backstory, I gave one of the heroes inTop-Notch Boyfriendan ex who ghosted him by taking off for New Zealand, faking his death along the way.
Incidentally, that bit was pure fiction. To all the critics who claimTop-Notch Boyfriendis ripped from the headlines of my life, I say this: “Go show me my ex who faked his death.”
Wait.
Shit.
Hold on.
Do I have an ex who’s faked his death to get out of seeing me?
Actually, I’d rather not know.
Point is, I should be better at whizzing through all this heartache stuff and getting to the other side, since I had to fix those twenty imaginary hearts and architect all their happy endings.