Stone Cold

There’s a calmness about her, as if these last several years in the real world have given her the kind of education she couldn’t get from a four-year institution.

Jovie waves her package of steaks. “I should probably get home and feed Domino.”

“Right.” I rake my hand along my jaw, taking her in for what very well might be the last time.

“It was nice seeing you though.”

Most of the time, when people say that, they never mean it.

“You too,” I say.

She walks away, turning back once more. “You should really think about answering my question …”

“Not a chance.”

She laughs before spinning on her heel and heading to the front of the store to check out.

A moment later, I realize I’m standing there wearing a dopey grin. I’m sure I look like a damn lunatic.

I wipe the expression off my face, get back in line, and order my filet mignon.

Years ago, I used to wonder what would be worse: Jude and Jovie getting married and me having to spend the rest of my life watching my best friend live happily ever after with her? Or Jude sending Jovie packing and me never having to see her again.

It never occurred to me that there could ever be anything in between.

Now I know.

Only I don’t know how I feel about it.

None of these scenarios end with me getting the girl.

Chapter Twelve

Stone

* * *

Age 20

* * *

“Can I ask you something?” Jovie asks before flopping onto Jude’s dorm bed. He should be back from class in the next hour, but she claimed she was already on this side of campus and it was easier just to wait here.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I don’t look away from his computer.

“Do you honestly not remember meeting me the first time?”

My fingers stop clacking away at the keyboard, and I turn in my chair to face her.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What kind of question is that?”

“The night I met Jude … I met you right before I got sick in the bathroom. You got me a hard lemonade and we talked about my name. You really don’t remember?” She rolls to her side, resting her cheek against her hand.

“You’re talking about something that happened last year,” I say. “I can’t even tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning.”

She picks at a loose thread in his comforter. “Maybe you were drunk.”

“Maybe.”

Her scrutinizing gaze flicks onto mine. “You didn’t seem drunk though.”

I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

I’m not proud of my dishonesty, but that ship sailed last year when Jude introduced us for the first time and I immediately decided to pretend like that was our first time meeting. It’s too late to go back on that, and in the end, it wouldn’t serve a purpose. No one would benefit from it. It’d only make things awkward. Besides, my intentions were honorable. I didn’t want Jude to know the girl I’d been crushing on was the girl he’d been talking to that entire time. He deserved to be happy, especially after Brittany.

“I finally listened to that Wilco album you told me about,” Jovie changes the subject.

“What’d you think?”

“I liked it,” she says. “I listened to track 2 on repeat for, like, two straight hours yesterday.”

“Love track 2.”

“See.” She cracks a smile. “We have more in common than you think.”

I’m well aware.

The two of us—aside from our night and day personalities—share more of the same interests than she does with Jude. For starters, we both love indie and classic rock but we opt for classical during study sessions. Jude prefers silence or nineties music—nothing in between.

Jovie and I share many of the same favorite restaurants—Cerro’s on Hudson, The Screaming Burrito on Halleck, and the campus-town Nathan’s hot dog stand at 2 AM on a Saturday night after the bars close.

When it comes to politics, we lean the same direction while Jude leans staunchly toward its opposition.

Any time the three of us attempt to pick a movie together, inevitably Jude and Jovie disagree. She, like me, prefers the artsy independent flicks, while Jude has never met a Marvel Cinematic Universe blockbuster he didn’t love.

“Hey, babe.” Jovie climbs off the bed when Jude strolls in.

He drops his backpack on the floor and wraps his arms around her.

I look away, returning my attention to my research paper after jamming ear pods in and dialing the volume up enough to drown out the sound of his lips on hers.

Chapter Thirteen

Jovie

* * *

“What do you think of this one?” Monica pulls a vintage Pucci scarf from a rack at the downtown Portland Flea and Fashion market Saturday morning.

“Let me see.” I place my iced coffee on a nearby table and take the colorful silk fabric from her, inspecting the edges for fraying and the rest of it for moth holes. Lifting it to my (currently functioning) nose, I inhale its scent to ensure it doesn’t smell like it’s been sitting in someone’s dank basement for the last forty years. “Green light.”