Page 87 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
Maybe I’m crazy for reaching out to you after all this time, but I’m positive we’re both single, and that seems as good a reason as any to extend you an invitation to the other side of the country. Are you free at the end of the month?
As Jack Worthing said, when asked what brings him to the country: “Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere?”
Pleasure indeed.
Jude
For once, I don’t analyze. I don’t break it down in my head. I don’t do a single thing except buy a ticket to Los Angeles for next weekend.
There’s a difference between a pity fuck from a stranger and an offer from the guy you had it bad for once upon a time.
The difference iseverything.
I count down the hours till I leave. I keep busy in every possible way. I pop into my favorite bookstore, buy a book for Jude, pack it, then unpack it. I’ll wait and see what the vibe is before I give him a gift. After a week has passed since the infamous DM, I head to JFK on a Saturday afternoon and send my suitcase through security.
On the other side of the turnstile, the security agent pulls my bag aside. A sturdy woman with a long braid unzips the toiletry kit as she tosses me a stern look, one that says she takes her job seriously. I cross my fingers she doesn’t give a fuck where, when, or how my laundry was hung up to dry for the masses to see. Nope, all she seems to care about are the rules of size and liquid, since she’s fondling my ACURE shampoo and reading the bottle. “Ooh, I like this brand,” she says.
“It’s cruelty-free,” I say.
“Cool. I’m vegan,” she says, then picks up a travel-size container of lube, gives it a curious once-over.
“And that’s cruelty-free too,” I add.
She blinks, her lips parting in question.
“In fact, it’s cruelty-free in all the ways, if you know what I mean,” I add.
She’s quiet, and I watch as her brown eyes process the full meaning. I just smile when she gets it.
“Umm. Have fun,” she says awkwardly.
“Oh, I will. I definitely will,” I say.
This guy is getting his groove back.
But the plane is not.
Seven hours later, I am still not in Los Angeles. We’re flying over Who the Fuck Knows Where. Someplace not close to California, and I am not anywhere near on time.
At this rate, I won’t be at my hotel till after midnight.
Eventually, the plane touches down around ten, when it was supposed to land at eight.
When the wheels touch the tarmac, the frustration that’s buzzed through my body dissipates. This is real. I’ll see Jude in mere hours.
But since we’re not sharing a hotel, will he still be in the mood to meet up tonight after his performance? He might be done for the day. When I text him as we taxi, I keep it thoroughly casual since I don’t want to presume.
Plane just landed two hours late. Gonna catch a Lyft to the hotel. See you in the morning, I presume...?
When I walk off the plane a few minutes later, there’s a message.
You’ll do nothing of the sort. I am a night owl, and if I get my sexy ass to your hotel, I presume you’ll be one too.
That answers one question—Jude texts just the same way he did seven years ago. With so much flirty charm.
Luck is on my side when I score a Lyft in five minutes, sliding into the backseat. The driver is chatty, asking me what I’m doing in LA as he turns down Check Your Ego, streaming through his speakers.
“Seeing someone for the weekend. He’s performing in a play. Closing night is tomorrow,” I say, and I don’t try to be casual. I’m legit thrilled to see Jude on stage. “I have front-row seats.”