Stone Cold
I squint against the sun. “I don’t know … a year or so?”
“And you’re writing books?”
I gather a long, warm breath. I loathe small talk. “Yep.”
“How … how have you been?” he asks next.
“Talk about a loaded question …”
He rakes his hand through his perfect wavy hair—a move that used to send me back in the day. Now it feels cliché and insecure, like he’s grooming himself shamelessly in front of me.
“I just feel like … we should catch up or something?” He laughs through his nose, like he’s trying to be off-the-cuff. “I mean, I get that things were crazy between us for a while, but … I think about you, Jovie … a lot … and—”
“—aren’t you getting married soon?” I interrupt his ramblings.
His brows knit. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still think about you from time to time. I’ve always wondered how you were doing, but I never wanted to reach out and bother you. Bumping into you twice now … after you accidentally tagged yourself in that picture the other week … it’s like the universe is conspiring to bring us together in some way.”
He says accidentally as if he doesn’t believe it was accidental at all.
“And why would the universe want to do that?” I keep a straight face despite the fact that all of this is comical to me. If I weren’t enjoying the hell out of this mocha gelato, I’d be cringing so hard right now.
He laughs a nervous sort of laugh. “I don’t know—closure?”
“Did you not get closure when you made the decision to end our relationship?” I flutter my lashes and take another bite.
His lips press flat, as though he’s searching for the right words to say.
“None of this is coming out the way I want,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
“Do you think maybe we could meet up sometime? Go for coffee or something?”
“Why?” My brows knit.
“To talk …”
“About what?”
His lips curl into a sheepish half-smile—but what was once charming is now nothing short of off-putting. I take a moment to examine his attire … the fitted navy slacks, the crisp linen button down, the Gucci watch on his left wrist accessorized with a leather bracelet, all of it finished off with an expensive pair of leather loafers. There’s no way he dressed himself. The Jude I dated was a ripped jeans and t-shirt kind of guy. Now everything about him screams Instagram boyfriend.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Everything. The way it all went down was pretty wild, and I’ve always felt bad about hurting you like that. You deserved better. What we had meant something. I was young and stupid and only thinking about myself.”
“I don’t disagree with any of that.”
He checks his designer watch, the face of it glinting in the hot sun. “I have a couple of hours right now if you want to go sit down somewhere and talk?”
“I’m going to pass,” I say, my eyes flicking onto his.
“Really?” Genuine shock registers over his tragically handsome face and the very same lips I used to kiss attempt to muster another word, only nothing comes out.
Whether he wants to rehash everything, apologize to make himself feel better, or entertain his cold feet, my ship has long since left the harbor. I have no need to sail those same tired waters.
“Nostalgia is a beautiful liar,” I say before leaving. “Take care, Jude.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Stone
* * *
Age 22
* * *
I spot Jude by the breakfast buffet the morning after he ditched me at the club. He’s still in last night’s clothes and his hair could use a good combing, but he’s wearing the shit-eating grin of a man who spent the night getting his dick wet.
“You look like shit,” I say, coming up from behind.
He startles before turning to face me. “Hey.”
“They said they’re making more eggs in the back,” the blonde from last night slips between us, stealing Jude’s attention. Even without the skimpy dress, she’s easy to recognize in her skintight athleisure, her overfilled lips, and her messy blonde hair pulled into a neat bun on top of her oval-shaped head. “They’ll be out soon.”
I shoot Jude a glare.
“I’ll grab us a table,” she adds, leaning in to kiss his cheek before trotting off.
“What happened to that just being a one-time thing?” I ask. “Now you’re having breakfast with her?”
He rubs his eyes—the bags suggesting that he didn’t sleep a wink last night.
“What, I can’t have breakfast with her?” he asks.
“Breakfast can turn into a lot of other things real quick if you’re not careful.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m never going to see her again after this, so it’s not going to turn into anything.”
There he goes, qualifying his actions again.
“Your dad would be pissed if he knew you were fucking around on Jovie,” I play the guilt card with zero shame. Jude’s father is his Achilles heel. He idolizes the man. He worships the ground he walks on and then some.