“Don’t look now,” she says. “But, um, Jude and Stassi are at the table behind you.”
My stomach drops and my blood runs cold. I ran into Stone yesterday at the grocery store and he mentioned Jude lived in the area. I figured I was bound to run into him eventually—I just wasn’t expecting that to be here and now.
I’m not sure how I missed them on the way in …
“Did they see us?” I keep my voice low, but loud enough for her to hear over the tinkle of cutlery on plates and the chatter of customers.
Monica leans to her left a couple of inches, stealing a quick peek past my shoulders.
“Um, yeah,” she says before giving a quick wave.
“Oh my god.” I keep my head down. “Did you just wave?”
“Jude waved first,” she says. “I was waving back.”
Jude waved? He could have easily pretended like he didn’t notice but instead he went in the complete opposite direction of that.
Our server trots up to our table, crouching down with his pen and pad of paper in hand.
“Hi, I’m Chet,” he says. “Sorry about your wait. What can I get you ladies to drink this morning?”
We both order orange juice, but I have a feeling I’m going to be too distracted to enjoy it. The energy in this quaint diner is suddenly different now, and the carefree morning we’d been having is officially … off.
I’ve spent the last five years trying not to think about Jude (or the heartless way in which he left me). After the initial shock wore off, the rest of it was relatively easy. He was out of sight and out of mind. Every once in a while, if I heard an Oasis song or happened to be flipping channels and TBS was airing Dumb and Dumber, I’d be transported back to my college days with him. But other than that, life was moving on just fine.
“You should say hi,” Monica says.
“Why?” I scrunch my nose because I’d much rather prefer to be two passing ships in the night—or in this case, two passing sailboats in a seaside café.
“Because he’s already spotted us,” she says. “And now he’s coming this way.”
Before the shock of her statement has time to register, Jude is already standing beside us.
“Jovie,” he says. “Monica. Wow. Haven’t seen you guys in ages.”
Monica and I exchange looks. His casualness is a little off-putting given the magnitude of our last interaction combined with the accidental tag the other week, but if he can pretend like nothing happened, then so can I.
“Jude,” I say. “Hi. It’s been a minute.”
His lips—the same ones I used to kiss—arch into a warm smile. “It’s so crazy running into you here. You in town visiting or what?”
“No … I live here,” I say.
“She moved here with her husband last year,” Monica volunteers.
“My ex-husband,” I clarify, not that it matters.
Jude’s dark gaze drinks me in a moment longer, as if he’s studying me in a new light, imagining me as someone else’s wife.
“Love, I’m going to use the ladies’ room. Meet you outside in the car?” A sinewy blonde brushes her hand along his arm, leaning in and depositing a peck on his cheek with her pillowy lips the color of cherry blossoms.
I’ve only ever seen Stassi in photos—images I was certain were photoshopped or filtered. Now that I’m seeing her in person, I can confirm that she’s just as flawless as she appears online. There isn’t a blemish or wrinkle across her entire face, and her glossy golden hair drips down her shoulders in slow-motion, like a shampoo commercial. A subtle whiff of expensive, exotic perfume fills the air, competing with the scent of coffee and maple syrup.
“Sounds good,” Jude tells her. He doesn’t introduce us and for that I’m glad: no need to make this ten times more unpleasant than it already is.
He watches her walk away.
But so do I.
With her pink and green Lilly Pulitzer dress and the cashmere sweater draped over her shoulders, she looks like she belongs at a tennis match—not a hole-in-the-wall diner. Not only that, but she’s got the long-legged strut of an international fashion model, and I count no less than five turned heads by the time she disappears into the restroom.
“How long have you been living in Portland?” he asks.
“About a year. You?”
“I came here right after senior year,” he says. “Stassi’s dad offered me a job.”
“So what is it you do for work?” Monica asks, batting her lashes like she’s innocent when we both know she’s digging for dirt.
“I’m the chief logistics coordinator for Guinness Oil,” he says.
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds important.” Monica shoots me a wink.
“I heard you write books,” Jude says.
I nod. “I’ve written a few …”
Monica swats her hand at me. “Jovie’s being modest. She’s written a bunch of bestsellers and one of them was just optioned for a TV series.”