Stone Cold

“She won’t take my calls,” he says. “And she changed the locks on the house.”

“She shut you out,” Paul says, squinting.

“Yep,” Jude picks at a straw wrapper, plucking it to bits.

“Can you blame her?” Paul asks, tossing his hands in the air.

“I think she’s overreacting a bit,” Jude says. “Locking me—”

Paul sticks his hand up to silence him. “Nope. Wrong. That’s where you’re going wrong here, son. You’re not the victim. She is. You’re crashing at your friend’s place but she’s sitting at home looking at all the reminders of the life you two were building together while you were going behind her back looking up an ex-girlfriend.”

Jude reminds me of a scolded child, the way he refuses to meet his father’s pointed gaze.

“Have you apologized?” Paul asks.

“Many times,” Jude says. “Over text and voicemails. Email too. She wants nothing to do with me.”

“You talk to her parents? Are they aware of what’s going on?” he asks. “I’d think they’d want to know since they’re the ones forking over the cash for this big fancy wedding.”

Jude buries his face in his hands. “If they are, they haven’t said anything. I’ve been working remote all week just to avoid going into the office in case her dad knows.”

Paul whacks him on the back of the head. “The hell’s the matter with you? I thought I raised you to be a man, not some damn spineless pansy.” He leans across the table, his finger pointed in his son’s face. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get in your car, you’re going to drive over to your house that you own, you’re going to bring a bouquet of pretty flowers, and you’re going to sit outside that door until she lets you in. I don’t care if you’re sleeping on concrete tonight, you’re not leaving until she sees that you’re still in this. That you still give a shit.” His gaze flicks across the table to me. “Stone, back me up here.”

“Agree. That’s exactly what you should do,” I chip in.

Jude is quiet for a beat. “But what if I don’t want to? What if I’m having doubts too?”

“What are you saying?” Paul’s eyes grow wild and animated.

“I don’t know if I want to go through with the wedding,” Jude says, almost mumbling.

“Christ.” Paul throws his napkin over his dinner plate and flags the server to check on our round.

I steal a glance at my phone. Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.

While Paul gives Jude another lecture, my mind wanders somewhere else completely, and I can’t help but wonder what Jovie’s doing tonight … and how much I’d rather be wherever she is than here.

Chapter Forty-Three

Jovie

* * *

I close the blinds and make my living room dark Sunday afternoon, my best attempt at emulating a movie theater environment.

Stone will be here any minute, and I haven’t stopped peeking out the window for the past half hour on the off-chance he shows up early. Not that he’d show up that early, but you never know.

I check my reflection in the bathroom, making sure my top knot is messy enough for a casual Sunday afternoon hang while also ensuring I didn’t overdo it on the makeup. A little something to shape my brows, a couple swipes of curling mascara, and a pinch of strawberry lip balm is all I’m wearing. There’s a fine line between looking decent and looking like I’m trying too hard.

It's funny—all the times I hung out with Jude and Stone together in the past, after a while I stopped worrying so much about how I looked. Living with roommates has a tendency to do that. Stone’s seen me at my best, but more than that, he’s seen me hungover on a Saturday morning, makeup streaked beneath my eyes and hair in a tangled mess, looking like I’m knocking at death’s door.

How times have changed …

I’m heading back to the living room when there’s a knock at my door. My heart lurches into my throat and an anticipatory flash of heat singes my cheeks. I wasn’t like this the night of the concert.

“Get yourself together,” I whisper out loud while straightening the hem of my white v neck top before tucking half of it into the waist band of my black leggings. Clearing my throat, I get the door and greet him with an overly zealous smile. “Hey!”

He lifts a six-pack of beer in one hand and an orange bag of peanut butter M&Ms in the other.

“You still like these, right?” He lifts the candy.

“They’re my favorite …”

Jude could never remember which M&Ms I liked, so he’d always show up with a random flavor. Sometimes it was peanut. Other times it was some limited edition version like brownie or pretzel. Rarely did he get it right, but I always gave him props for trying.