31
All The World’s A Stage
Jude
I’ve always believed in luck.
Signs, even.
Helen coming to see my play was one of those signs.
Almost like the universe said, “All right, you served your time. Learned your two-year lesson. Here’s your reward. The man from your past.”
But one big question nags at me—will TJ like who I am now? Years ago, we connected because we were both questing. But we aren’t in the same boat anymore. He’s a big-deal bestselling author, and I’ve yet to earn a starring role in a film or be cast as a lead on a TV show. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me.
Maybe for tonight, it’s best if he sees me as the guy he fell for so many years ago. I’ve never forgotten his private words: He’s the swooniest man I’ve ever known . . .
Clearly, I’ll have to be so damn charming, he’ll be blown away by how worthy I am.
The scene will open like this. I’ll wait at the bar. I’ll order us both drinks. I’ll have a witty word at the ready.
As I near the glass doors of the hotel, I practice possible opening lines.
My shower still needs fixing. Know a handyman who can help?
Is there a meeting this weekend of The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well?
Hello, Great Dick.
Trouble is, they all sound like I’m trying too hard.
I’ll go for simple instead. Hey there. Thanks for coming. You look incredible.
There. That’s settled.
But once I head into the lobby bar, his dark eyes lock on me and the power of the past throws me off. All my instincts say to wrap him in a warm embrace and demand he enthrall me with every detail from his life over the last seven years.
As TJ strides over and I get a good, long look at the man I once lived with, my mind pings with hope, and my body lights up with possibility. My grin might be too big, and I kind of don’t care, especially when he wraps one strong arm around me, then pulls me close, his beard whisking against my cheek. “You were great in The Artificial Girlfriend. I’ve been wanting to tell you for almost seven years, Jude.”
That’s his opening line? Talk about knowing the way straight to my heart. I want to say Thank you, I’m so fucking happy you saw it, and I was dying to reach out to you and ask you a million things.
But I keep my cool since I know something too—the path to his writer’s brain. “And you were right about Murder on the Orient Express. I’ve read it twice,” I say, since that feels like a fair trade. Starting where we left off in London with things we shared.
He separates his chest from mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. His lips twitch in a grin. “So you read it again, even though you knew who did it?”
“Exactly. As someone once told me, With every read, there’s something to discover about how to tell a story,” I say, though that’s not why I re-read that mystery. I read it again because I was missing him. The second time around, the story made me feel connected to him across an ocean. Every night, I puzzled over what details delighted him the most.
“I’m really glad you read it, Jude.” He chuckles softly, the gold flecks in his dreamy brown eyes flickering. “Jude Fox is the perfect stage name. I’m just jealous that I didn’t get to help pick it. It’s so good, I almost wish I could steal it for a hero in one of my books.”
“Oh? You haven’t written about the big-cocked Jude yet?” I ask playfully, though I know the answer, and it’s a no.
He shrugs, all inviting and flirty. “Maybe someday,” he says.
I like the sound of that someday. Better me than that twat of an ex who didn’t deserve to be immortalized on a bathroom wall. Fuck Flynn and his chicken.
“Well, let’s start with The Duck’s Nipple then. Did you ever get to use that?” I ask, though I know that answer too. It’s a pub the hero and his friends frequent in his third book. But I don’t want to let on yet that I’ve read most of his books. Don’t want to look too eager to impress.
“I did. It’s in The Size Principle,” he says.
“Then you could write off all those beers we had long ago,” I tease. “Must have made the whole trip to London worthwhile.”
“Yes, that’s what made it worthwhile. The tax benefits,” he deadpans, then gestures to the bar. “Beer, champagne, Negroni?”
I tilt my head to study him since that’s quite specific. “Those are all my favorite drinks, but we only ever drank beer.”
His smile is full of satisfaction. “So, what’ll it be, Just Jude?”
“Well, Troy Jett, I’ll have a champagne.”
“Then I will too,” he says, and that kicks up a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve heard him say that before, but maybe it’s just the déjà vu of him and the nickname game.
After he orders the drinks, the bartender pours quickly, then hands him two glasses.
“I reserved the table in the corner,” TJ says.
I follow as he heads for a small, curved booth in a private spot. “So, how did you pick those three drinks? Did you read my diary?”
“I like research,” he says, drily.
“You always did. You liked to go around London, researching places. Did you research a certain person and his favorite drinks?” I ask, and I’m dying to know if he’s been following me.
“When you DM’d me, I scrolled through your feed, naturally,” he says, and maybe he hasn’t been following my career like I’ve followed his. Perhaps he only checked me out after I messaged him. That shouldn’t bother me. Really, it shouldn’t. “You posted a picture from your brother’s birthday last year. A shot of you toasting the old fucker. Your words. In your hand was a bright red drink. When I saw the orange peel, I deduced it likely wasn’t a vodka raspberry but a Negroni. Was I right?”
“You’re correct.”
“And of course, we always ordered beers.”
We. My stupid heart likes that he remembers our times. “We did, but I don’t think there’s a photo of me having a champagne on my feed,” I say, like I’ve caught him in something.
He smiles. “Sometimes you have to go out on a limb. I rolled the dice that you liked it. Good guess?”
I lift the glass, bring it to my lips. The man always loved my mouth, so I glide the rim of the glass right along my bottom lip for a second.
He breathes out hard, shuddering lightly.
“A very, very good guess,” I say, then clink the glass to his. “I’ll toast to writers who do their research.”
TJ clinks back, his voice all warm and rumbly as he says, “To actors who act on an impulse to look someone up.”
I have so many more questions for him: Now that you’ve conquered the book world, do you have new dreams? Does music unlock you? Does coffee make you happy? Does wandering the city thrill you? Do you still take your time before you speak like you’re writing the words first in your head? Do you still know how to say just the right thing when a guy needs a supportive word? Most of all, do you still feel the connection too?
But any of those would reveal too much, and once you reveal yourself, people have a way of betraying you.
Instead, I play the catch-up game. We talk about Olivia, and I tell him about her voiceover career, how she’s spending time in New York now. He tells me about his brother, who’s become one of the top closers in the Major League.
“I watched the last game of the World Series,” I say, and this topic feels a little more real, since he was always so proud of his brother. “Saw him strike out the Miami Ace batter in the final at-bat.”
“That’s so cool, the idea that you were watching it, Jude,” he says, his voice rising in excitement. “Did I ever tell you I used to catch for him in the backyard when we were growing up?”
Yes! This is working. We are working. I feel like we’re thrifting again, and it’s the day he told me he’s an identical twin. The day he opened up for real.
“No, you never did.”
“I spent hours upon hours catching fastballs. When he signed a new contract a few years ago, I teased him that he should give me ten percent of his salary. He joked that I should give him some of my royalties since he used to listen when I read him stories.”
I am ravenous. This is what I want from TJ. This side of him, when he shares his true heart. “You read him stories growing up?”
“Sometimes. When I came home from London the first time, I wrote a couple stories after we visited Buckingham Palace. One was about the queen’s late-night antics, plotting heists as she ate Cap’n Crunch. I read him that one. Others I didn’t read to him, like the one where the prince was having an affair with one of the palace guards in the library.”
I laugh. “The prince dallying with the guard. You were writing a forbidden romance back then.”
“And a royal one too.” He smiles. “I haven’t done that yet. Written a royal hero.”
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe I do,” he says, sounding enthused, and I kind of want to talk shop all night, find out what inspires him these days.
“Then you should. But it better be hotter and dirtier than what you wrote when you were thirteen. Incidentally, I love that you had gay affairs in your stories way back when.”
He gives me a curious look. “You knew I was thirteen when I wrote that?”
Did I reveal too much? That I remember so many details? Fuck, this is exhausting, playing a part with him. “You told me that you were thirteen the first time you went to London,” I say plainly, since I can’t dance my way around this with flirt.
He lifts his champagne, takes a drink, but I swear he’s hiding his smile around the drink. Why is he doing that? Is he glad I remembered but won’t let on? But when his smile disappears, I wonder if he’s holding back tonight too?
Maybe we’re both putting on a show. I want to be real with him, but for now, I stay on safer shores—talking about other people. “I watched the World Series with Olivia and William. He was in London then.”
“He’s made it big time, hasn’t he? I love their new album, and I love that Lettuce Pray is all the rage,” TJ says, a note of pride in his voice over the barista who made good.
Does that matter to him? Is he looking for a man who’s his equal in success? “Do you keep in touch with him?” I ask, keeping it light, though I don’t feel light at all.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just levels me with his deep brown gaze. Studies my eyes. The gears are turning in his head as he looks at me, and I have another answer to one of my many TJ questions—he still writes in his head before he speaks.
“We text from time to time. William’s a friend, Jude,” TJ says, emphasizing that last word like he wants to impress this key detail on me. “He’s only a friend.”
And I’ve gathered all the necessary intel. TJ’s still into me. And I’m so fucking into him. So much that I want to get to his room, unlock him with touch, and break down his walls.
“Good,” I say, and it feels like the most honest thing I’ve told TJ all night. “That’s really good.”
He runs his finger along the base of his glass, looking at me the whole time, his gaze darkening. “Jude?”
Hope rises in me, as well as desire. “Yes?”
“I don’t want to talk about William,” he says, and he sounds just like he did that night in London when it rained hard and he kissed me on the street in the storm.
I seize the chance, reach for his hand on the table, cover it with mine, then ask him a leading question. “What do you want to talk about?”