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 in Top-Notch Boyfriend an 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 claim Top-Notch Boyfriend is 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.
Instead, I’m still in a funk. Partly because someone is staring at me at this coffee shop in Chelsea, and it’s not my friend Hazel across the table. The gawker stands next to the counter, a college-age guy with electric-blue hair, a nose ring, and an OMG expression. Lifting his phone, he whispers to a girl next to him in goth gear, whose jaw then drops to the floor.
Turns out, I’m actually the circus sideshow.
I wave. “Yup. It’s me. I’m the one you’re thinking of. Trish’s Morning News Show,” I say, and if I could hunker down and write at home, I would. But I’m a coffee shop writer, as Flynn so thoughtfully pointed out, so I’m here.
The guy’s smile ripens, like he can’t believe his luck. Stepping closer, he clears his throat. “We’re on Team TJ. Flynn is such a fame monger,” he says, raising a fist in solidarity. “We boycotted his chicken café.”
“And we left one-star reviews for it on Yelp,” the girl adds.
“Work it,” Hazel chimes in.
Then, the strangers snap a pic of me. I manage a small smile.
When they walk back to the counter, I slump in my seat, plant my face on the wood table. Portrait of Modern Dating Carnage—that’s what they’ll call this photo if anyone else snaps the shot of me while walking past Big Cup Coffee on Thirteenth Street.
A soft hand pats my hair. “The number of sightings is way down,” Hazel says.
Right after the breakup video went viral, people recognized me every day—as I got on the subway, went to the gym, grabbed a coffee. Now, more than a month later, it’s down to a couple times a week. The Internet moved on to fresh clickbait—a former child star turned out to be a secret cult leader, a woman found a turtle in a hamburger shop and adopted it. Named it Lunch.
“Yay, me,” I tell Hazel. I’m nearly yesterday’s news. I only need to ride this spotted-in-the-wild phase a little longer.
My friend strokes my hair. “You okay?”
“Fantastic. Never been better.”
“Ah, let me get out my decoder ring and translate that.”
That piques my interest, and I lift my face an inch. “I want to see this ring.”
The redhead across from me taps her temple. “I store it up here.” She shifts into a coolly robotic voice. “Target acquired is one TJ Hardman. Defeated, beleaguered wordsmith who hasn’t written a single word all day.”
Hazel shuts her laptop then clicks the screen closed on mine, a satisfied glint in her eyes.
“I didn’t save what I was working on,” I protest as I sit up.
“TJ,” she says pointedly. “You weren’t working.”
Fine, fine. Why does she have to be so right? “I wrote a Twitter post.”
“I know. I saw. It said Coffee is life. We need to jump-start you, stat.”
I stare through the window at the New Yorkers streaming by after work while the sun dips low on the horizon. “Why am I such a mess? I don’t get it. I don’t even miss Flynn.”
Turns out it’s super-easy to get over someone when he jerks the rug out from under you in front of, oh, say, everyone in the world.
Everyone as in . . . Jude?
My stomach plummets as I ask myself that question yet again. Trish’s show is the most popular in morning news, and the video has been viewed online more than five million times.
Is one of those viewers a guy in London with a smile that flipped my heart? With eyes that saw through me. A guy who’s visited my thoughts more than I’d care to admit to anyone but a barista, cab driver, or airline rep I’ve never met before?
Fine, Hazel knows.
But she worked out for herself that I was not pining—but not not pining—for a man abroad. When I confessed the details, it was cathartic. Especially when I confided how I was tempted to reach out to Jude a few years ago.
I’d been watching Our Secret Courtship—had seen every episode featuring his recurring character. But when he stopped appearing and another guy took over the role, I figured that wasn’t the time to DM him with a: Hey, what’s up, guy who got away? Want a visitor?
A deal’s a deal, and our terms were very specific—when we’d made it. Something happened in Jude’s career. I don’t know what. He went quiet, so I didn’t reach out, knowing that wasn’t what he’d have wanted.
One day, more than a year ago, Hazel mentioned him. Said he was back at it, snagging parts in plays off West End, in more commercials, and then in a popular British TV show. He was making things happen again, but I was seeing someone, so I saved the Jude update for a rainy day.
Now? Sure, I want to look him up once more, as per our deal. I am very, very single after all. But what if I put his name into Google and find pictures of him traipsing all over London with some other man?
A guy like Jude won’t be single for long, as Helen once told me.
I focus my attention on my work wife. Hazel and I write together most days, working on our respective books but helping each other plot when we get stuck and stalking hot models on Insta for cover pics. My job doesn’t suck. “If you were writing this story of a private guy who got dumped in the most public way, what would you do to jump-start him?”
She hums thoughtfully, taps her chin. “His favorite things. I’d take him to play pinball, to see a cool new band, and to go thrifting—especially since I have a date this weekend and I need a new dress.”
“So, my funk works for you too,” I tease.
“And so does the cure. But first, I’d arrange a happy-hour intervention. Gimme ten minutes,” she says, then whips out her phone.
How sad is it that an intervention is the first thing that’s sounded fun in many days?
If I’ve learned anything from writing both gay and straight romance, it’s that no matter the orientation, a night out with friends is like a necessary booster shot. It helps the vaccine work. I’ve taken my I-won’t-date-assholes-ever-again medicine in the form of that viral video.
This intervention will protect me for the long haul.
When Hazel scurries me into Gin Joint in Chelsea an hour later, she points to a table. Nolan and his brother, Jason, are in town, waiting with beers and an old-fashioned. Hazel says she’s going to freshen up in the ladies’ room.
I join the guys, and Nolan slides the cocktail to me. “Figured you’d need this.”
“Real friends know your drink order,” I say, lifting the glass and knocking some back.
“And they also know what you need,” Nolan adds, wasting no time. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about your problem.”
Wow. Okay. Someone’s direct. “Which one?”
“The big one,” Jason puts in, an intense stare in his eyes like he probably gives when he’s about to take the snap on any given Sunday during football season.
“That doesn’t narrow it down,” I say. “Do you mean the fact that all of New York knows I’m radioactive? That my publisher wants me to start my next book and has a hundred-thousand-print run already slated for it? That I love my privacy almost as much as I love sex and pizza, but I only have one of those three things now? Or that I wake up each day feeling like a complete and utter fool for dating the World’s Meanest Man who makes the most average chicken in the city?”
Nolan smiles sympathetically. “All of the above.”
Jason leans closer. “But I have the solution. There’s a time-honored tradition when it comes to getting dumped. You need to get back on the saddle, my man.”
I shudder. “I’d rather drink turpentine. No way am I dating again,” I say, setting down the glass with a loud clack.
“Ever?” Nolan asks, arching a brow above his eyeglasses.
I consider that question. Then consider the number of views on the video. “Sounds about right.”
“Dude,” Jason says, calmly, “no one suggested a date. You’re constantly one step ahead of everyone else, telling us how things would play out in a story. What’s next in your story?”
“A Kevlar vest? I think I might pick one up at the armory on my way home. Protection from any post-breakup shrapnel.”
Nolan cuts in. “Listen, I’ve been friends with you since college—more than ten years. I’ve always been direct with you. So, let me spell this out in no uncertain terms.” He cups his hands around his mouth, making a megaphone. “You need to get your dick wet.”
But dicks are usually attached to dudes who kick you in the balls on TV.
“Pass,” I say.
Jason’s eyes pop out. Like, they might hit the floor. “Do you like sex?”
“Obviously. It’s only the greatest thing ever invented. But pizza’s close, so I’ll keep sublimating with that, thanks.”
“Don’t you have a craving for something other than a cheese and mushroom pie?” Jason asks.
With a sigh, I sink back into the chair. “Yeah, but sex is a social activity and I’m on hiatus from socializing.”
“Grindr.” Jason waggles his phone, showing me the app on his home screen. “You don’t have to say a word to anyone.”
I give him a dead-eyed stare. “I know how Grindr works, thank you.”
“Or you and me could hit The Lazy Hammock—the new gay bar that opened a few blocks away,” Jason offers.
“I want to go too,” Nolan says, like a puppy dog. Then tilts his head. “Do you think anyone would hit on me?”
I roll my eyes. “You give off straight vibes. No offense.”
“None taken. I am straight. But I still want to go and cheer you on,” Nolan says.
I love my friends, truly. But this is not gonna happen. “Guys, I appreciate this. But I can’t handle a pity fuck right now, and that’s all it would be. I will get recognized at The Lazy Hammock as that romance writer who was dumped on TV. People at coffee shops recognize me. Dudes on the subway check me out. But not for me—because they hate what Flynn did to me. Let me show you.” I whip out my phone and click on my Instagram DMs. “I don’t kiss and tell either. So, if you let me kiss your dick, I’ll keep it a secret.”
Jason laughs, but I think he’s embarrassed for the sender.
“Or how about the guy at the gym who, while I was on the treadmill, said, ‘Fuck Flynn. Fuck me instead’?”
Nolan reaches across the table to pat my shoulder sympathetically. “You win. That does suck.”
“I’m going to stay off the radar for a little while longer,” I say as Hazel returns and flops into the seat next to me.
“Any luck?” she asks our friends.
“We tried valiantly,” Jason says. “But no dice.”
“Your efforts to get me laid are noted. And they do not go unappreciated,” I say. “But listen, why don’t we all play pinball and get pizza and enjoy the hell out of the McKay brothers being in town? How about that? Let’s just have a Friends in New York weekend.”
Hazel twirls a strand of red hair. “Can we still please go shopping for my date tomorrow?”
“Yes, take me thrifting, Hazel,” I tell my friend, and I vow that will be the start of me moving the fuck on from the chicken guy.
Then, I order a cheese and mushroom pizza for dinner.
The next afternoon, I meet Hazel at a consignment shop in the Village. Our good friend Jo is there too, and the ladies grab dresses so fast I can’t see what they picked.
“I need to know if this makes my butt look good, great, or super-hot,” Hazel says, rushing into the dressing room.
A minute later, she steps out, modeling a Pepto-Bismol pink dress with lime-green polka dots.
Is she for real? I look to Jo for a clue. Her blue eyes say what the hell, but aloud she says, “Your butt looks good.” Jo always was the nice one.
Fuck diplomacy. “Hazel, your ass looks great. But that dress needs to go unless you’re planning to peddle hand jobs on the street corners of Candyland,” I say.
Hazel marches over to me, slams her hands on my pecs. “I was right!”
“About the dress?” I ask, confused.
“About your need to thrift. Your sarcasm is, like, ten times stronger than it was yesterday.”
“Maybe TJ’s starting to get his groove back,” Jo says suggestively.
“See? Doing your favorite things is like giving you an injection,” Hazel says. “Maybe you need other injections too?”
Ugh. Not again.Shaking my head in amusement, I point to the racks. “Focus, ladies. Hazel has a date. Pigs are flying.”
My friend swats me. “You dick.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment,” I say, reining in a private smile. I spot a dress that’s perfect for her—a swath of blue that shimmers like a jewel. “Try this.”
As she movie-montages through more clothes, I feel a sliver of something like drive again—maybe a touch of inspiration—topped off by the satisfaction in being right because she tries on half the store and then picks the sapphire-blue dress.
I go next, combing through short-sleeve shirts until Jo grabs my arm and thrusts a shirt at me. It’s light blue with pinprick illustrations of yellow rubber ducks.
The design shoots me back in time to the night I shopped for shower curtains with Jude.
This shower curtain is the opposite of what you’d think two young blokes would have in their flat.
His voice feels as close as yesterday. What would it be like to hear him again next to me? To cash in on that promise we made on the bridge?
If I’m being analytical, I’d say I’ve met all the conditions of that promise. Seven years later is definitely “down the road.” I’ve made it as a writer. I’m absolutely single. Hell, I could go to London tomorrow. Get on a plane like that. Stay in a sweet hotel. I’m not twenty-three and broke. I’m thirty and successful, a self-made man.
Who just got dumped on TV.
I groan to myself.
Maybe now isn’t the best moment to reach out to my London romance to see if he’s single too.
I snap back to the present, where I’m staring at the ducks.
“It’s very you,” Jo whispers.
I’m not sure I’m ready to wear it, but I buy it anyway. When I hang it in my closet that night, I make a new promise to myself.
In a few more months, once the breakup stink wears off completely, I’ll put on this shirt and reach out to Jude.
If you want to have killer arms, you keep lifting weights.
So I lather, rinse, repeat for the next several days.
I play pinball with my friend Easton and help him prep for one of his epic matchmaking parties.
I scope out new restaurants with Nolan for his food show.
And I work out with Jason before he returns to California for the football pre-season.
At the gym, we finish a set on the bench press, and Jason takes a swig from his water bottle then says, “You doing okay, man? I know it’s not easy when you have to deal with romance shit in public.”
“It’s not. But I’ll be fine. Especially since my agent emailed this morning to say my publisher’s putting out feelers, trying to land a celebrity narrator to do my next title and rerecord this one in audio. They want Christian Laird.” I shrug. The chances of landing an A-lister are slim to nil, but a guy can hope.
“Sweet. I loved his last flick. That dude is funny and hot.”
“And gay,” I add.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Jason deadpans.
“Anyway, it’s all because my book’s selling even better since the video. Like, double the sales, and it was selling great before. So, there’s that,” I say and offer a fist for knocking.
He knocks back. “That’s a helluva silver lining.”
Later that day, I go to a coffee shop to meet Hazel, and I write, and I write, and I write. It’s the first day since the breakup that I’ve made progress, and it feels damn good.
On the table, my phone pings with a notification. I check to see if it’s Mason with another yummy update on my book’s sales.
But it’s a DM from Instagram, and the handle is JustJude.