Stone Cold, page 14
He’s silent.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell.
I’ve never raised my voice at him. Ever. Not once in over three years.
“Where did this come from?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”
Jude rakes his hand along his stubbled jaw. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it.”
Every part of me is paralyzed with his words, from my head to my lungs to my heart to my quivering fingertips.
“Jovie,” he turns back to face me. “I met someone in Tulum.”
My stomach drops.
I’m going to be sick.
“You’re ending our three-year relationship because you met some random woman on vacation?” I ask, half laughing but with tears in my eyes. Never in a million years did I think we’d go out like this. Then again, I never thought we’d ‘go out’ at all.
I was happy. I thought he was too.
I think about that day in the mall, strolling hand in hand, sipping matcha lattes and gazing at sparkling diamond rings like we had the rest of our lives ahead of us.
“I’m sorry,” he says in one big, long exhaled breath. I can only interpret this as relief—like he’d been stressing about this conversation for days and now he feels lighter having gotten it off his chest.
Lighter … because he no longer carries the burden of his stale relationship.
“That’s all you have to say? You’re sorry?” I swipe thick tears from my cheeks. “You get to go into your apartment, back to your same old routine, with your best friend, and you get to fall in love all over again with someone new, and me? I get …”
I swallow the words that are too painful to continue while I drown in a sea of confusing emotions I wasn’t expecting to feel tonight. A half hour ago all I could think about was crawling into Jude’s cozy bed, snuggling into his arm, and sleeping hard until the sun came up … like it was any other morning.
Now I’m grappling with the fact that every happy memory from the last three-plus years of my college career will now be tainted with him. Every image, every photograph, every song, every movie from these years … will forever be bittersweet and stained.
“Get out,” I speak through a clenched jaw.
He doesn’t hesitate. Within seconds he’s already wrangling his bag from my back seat and striding toward the walkway to his apartment entrance.
I drive away, hardly able to see through the tears that refuse to stop falling, but before I exit the parking lot, I glance into my rearview mirror to see if he has stopped to look back. Only he’s already to his door, disappearing inside, dragging his suitcase behind him.
And here I thought Stone was the coldhearted one.
Turns out it was Jude all along.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Stone
* * *
“You’re early.” Jovie greets me with a mile-wide smile Friday night. “I don’t remember you being this punctual back in the day.”
I don’t tell her it’s a miracle I’m here at all.
Yesterday I decided we were both adults and it was just a concert, so I told her I’d come.
But ever since then, I’ve done nothing but attempt to talk myself out of going. Three hours ago I was scribbling a list of pros and cons on my yellow legal pad at the office, only to crumple it into a ball and chuck it into the nearest trash can.
The pros were just as stacked as the cons.
It was win-win—or lose-lose, depending on how I looked at it.
Ultimately, I deemed it a draw.
She fishes her keys from her purse as she locks the door behind her. The scent of her soft perfume fills the air in the hallway, enveloping us both in an invisible embrace. It’s unfamiliar to me yet perfectly Jovie. Pleasing, unpretentious, and sexy.
“You ready?” She brushes a blonde wave off her bare shoulder.
I nod. “I’m parked out front.”
We make our way outside, and I offer her my hand as she navigates the narrow front steps in platform sandals.
The curled hair, the strapless sun dress, the heels … I can’t help but wonder if she always gets this dolled-up for concerts?
I scold myself for entertaining those kinds of thoughts.
We’re merely two acquaintances attending a show.
Nothing more, nothing less.
We climb into my car. She fusses with the hem of her dress, straightening it just above her knee.
“Did you listen to those songs I sent you?” she asks, eyes sparkling in the fading evening sun.
For a moment, I get lost in her ocean blues, stuck in this moment, in a rare bout of forgetting where I am and what I’m doing and that life exists beyond the glass and metal that encapsulates us.
“I did,” I say, hoping my pause wasn’t too obvious.
“They’re amazing, right?”
“I won’t disagree with you there.” I listened to the songs she sent, plus all three of their albums. “Their original stuff is impressive.”
I pull into the street and head to the venue, an outdoor amphitheater on the east side of town, overlooking a popular bay.
“Isn’t it?” she asks. “I swear, the first time I heard Beautiful Regrets I listened to it on repeat for hours. It’s one of those songs I can never get sick of no matter how many times I play it.”
“How’d you hear about this band?”
She rolls her eyes. “My ex. They were playing a show at some bar last year, and he knew the manager and got us the hookup. But I refuse to let that keep me from enjoying them.”
“Rightfully so.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve made it through the security checkpoint, gotten our wrist bands, and beelined it toward the drink tent.
An IPA for me
A pineapple margarita for her.
“Did you know, back in Regency days, a pineapple symbolized friendship and hospitality? People would give them as gifts or set them out when they had company. These days it’s code for being a swinger or something …” She takes a sip, her eyes rolling in the back of her head. “This is so good, you want to try?”
She lifts it in my direction. My gaze immediately lands on the straw and my mind immediately muses on her lips.
“No thanks,” I say. “Not a fan of sweet alcohol.”
“You only like the bitter stuff. The stuff that puts hair on your chest.”
“We all have our preferences.”
“I could eat pineapples for days,” she says. “Chunks, tidbits, juice, adult beverages … I’m not picky.”
“I remember.”
The year we lived together, she would stock our fridge full of those skinny cans of Dole pineapple juice, the ones with the metal pull tabs. And she’d drink one every single morning at breakfast.
“People have a way of taking perfectly lovely things and ruining them,” she says. “Like the pineapple and its symbolism. Stripped the poor thing of all its dignity and made it sexual.”
“Is it that deep?”
She takes a drink, peering up at me over the rim of her plastic cup.
“Do you know why I write historical romance?” she asks.
“No, not at all …”
“Courting and passion and desire was basically an art form once upon a time. People took it seriously. There were protocols and rules and respect. People weren’t afraid of a little sacrifice back then, whether it was their land or their title or their ego. They’d give it all up for the right person.”
“You don’t think you’re romanticizing it a bit?” I ask. “Surely it wasn’t always rainbows and butterflies. I’m sure there were fathers marrying their daughters off for political and monetary gain.”
“Shh.” She clamps her hand over my mouth, an unexpected move that sends a tingle through me if only because she’s standing that much closer now, her face mere inches from mine. “Don’t ruin the good stuff with the bad.”
Jovie releases her hold over my mouth and takes a step back.
“My apologies,” I say.
“Some people actually find that romantic,” she adds. “It’s a trope … arranged marriage. But in those books, they always fall in love in the end.”
An image flashes in my mind’s eye—a series of them actually. Jovie brushing her teeth, hunched over the bathroom sink, a thick paperback spread eagle on the counter. Jovie stirring boiling pasta, a book in her left hand. Jovie splayed out on the living room sofa, a pile of drugstore paperbacks on the coffee table. During lazy, rainy weekends and snowed-in mornings, she would devour them by the stack. She was always reading. And it was always romance. I guess I never paid much attention to the content beyond that. I just knew she loved love in all its forms—real, imagined, idealized.
“You’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending,” I say.
“Should we find our seats?” She checks her watch. “Show’s about to start.”
We make our way through the throngs of concert attendees. I place my hand on the small of her back so as not to lose her. A minute later, we’re in the third row, center. The crowd packs in. The sun sets behind us as the moon rises over the bay behind the amphitheater.
The opening act takes the stage—a guy with a lumberjack beard, an electric acoustic guitar, and the apparent voice of an angel.
But all the harmonic melodies, bright lights, starry skies, and crashing waves don’t hold a candle to the gorgeous woman to my right. She’s got her gaze trained ahead on the show, but all I see is her.
Everything around us fades to black. For the two hours that follows, it’s as if we’re the only ones here.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jovie
* * *
“You sure you want to read this?” I dig a paperback of my latest book from the box of advanced copies my publisher sent a few days ago.
Stone and I were chatting on the drive home from the concert when he mentioned he’d never read a romance book. I told him it was the sort of thing everyone should experience at least once in their life.
“Only if you’ll sign it first,” he says with a straight face and a wink.
I don’t expect him to read it. In fact, I’m certain he’s only humoring me. But truth be told, we were having a good time tonight and I wasn’t quite ready for the evening to end.
I dig a Sharpie from my kitchen junk drawer and flip the cover open.
To Stone—
Enter at your own risk (and thank me later).
Jovie Vincent
I close the book and hand it over.
“You want a drink?” I ask, nodding toward the microwave clock. “The night is young.”
He eyes the time—eleven seventeen—and twitches his full lips to the side.
“One won’t hurt,” he says.
“I have vodka and pineapple juice,” I say. “Or some Coors Light Monica’s husband left here over New Year’s. I can’t promise they’re not expired, so … pick your poison.”
“Wine,” he says without hesitation.
Stone pages through my book while I uncork the bottle of blueberry wine I dug out from the back of my fridge. It was a gift a couple of months ago, and it seemed too special to waste on a night of Netflix binging, so I held onto it.
“What’s so great about these anyway?” he asks as he studies one of the pages. “Romance books.”
I pull the cork. “In real life, love is unpredictable. If you read a romance novel, you know that no matter what trials and tribulations the hero and heroine go through, it’s all going to work out in the end. Happily ever afters are guaranteed.”
“But if you know how it’s going to end, doesn’t that take the fun out of reading?”
“Nope.” I grab two wineglasses and pour them each halfway full. “That’s the whole point. You can sit back and relax and enjoy the ride, knowing the story’s going to take you exactly where you want it to.”
I push a glass toward him.
“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,” I say. “They’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“I want to,” he says. “Nothing wrong with broadening my horizons …”
“That’s the spirit.” I take a sip. “Oh, full disclosure: the Duke of Stonington may or may not be based loosely on someone I knew once upon a time …”
His hooded gaze narrows.
“There’s a sprinkle of everyone in all of my books,” I say. “I’m like an alchemist but with words. A little of this, a little of that …”
“You based the hero on me?” His eyes drop to the cover, where a tall, dark, and handsome model with an unbuttoned shirt holds a fainting beauty in his arms.
“Bits and pieces,” I say. “He’s kind of hard to read. And very serious most of the time. And he’s loyal to his homeland. He likes his routine and he’s a bit of an introvert. A little difficult to get to know—until he lets you in.” Waving my hands, I add, “I don’t want to spoil it for you, so I’m going to stop talking.”
He sniffs a chuckle, and I hope he’s amused by all of this and not horrified. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all …
“All right,” he says. “You know, my mom used to read these kinds of books. She’d buy them at the Goodwill. Ten cents each. Sometimes a quarter. They always had guys with long hair on the front, that’s what I remember the most.”
“Pretty sure I would’ve instantly loved your mom.”
His lips press flat, and he stares off to the side for a moment. “Yeah. I think you would have too. Everyone who met her loved her.”
“What was her name?” I ask because in all the years we’ve known each other, I never got the nerve to bring her up. Jude always said it was a sore subject and with Stone being as closed off as he was, I didn’t dare go anywhere near that.
But now that he brought her up, maybe he’s okay talking about her?
“Elise,” he speaks her name slowly, gently.
“Elise,” I echo. “That’s beautiful.”
“I was ten when she passed,” he says. “It’s weird when I think about the fact that I’ve lived over half of my life without her now.”
“I bet she’d be so proud of you now.”
He nods once. “I’d like to think so. We didn’t have much time for any kind of life guidance or words of advice from the time she was diagnosed to the time she passed. After a while, she wasn’t really all there. She was in a lot of pain, so they had her on morphine and everything else.”
I want to move closer to him, to put my hand on his or wrap my arms around him, but he’s never been the touchy-feely type, and I don’t know that there’s anything I can say or do to take the sting out of this conversation.
“How old were you when you went to live with Jude?” I ask.
“Ten,” he says with a wistful smile. “Paul was the father I never had … the one I never knew I needed. I owe a lot to that guy.”
“I love Paul,” I say. “I think of him from time to time, all of his sage advice and witticisms. It’s so weird that Jude came from him. Paul would give anyone the shirt off his back. Jude would but then he’d complain about the cold until you gave it back. Sorry, I know he’s your best friend.”
Stone laughs. “Yeah, no, you’re right. And it is weird.”
“Your friendship was always so fascinating to me … the two of you were night and day yet you were glued together.”
“Trauma bond, probably.” He takes a mouthful of wine. “Jude lost his mom when he was five, I lost mine at ten. No one else could relate to what we’d gone through.”
“Be honest, did he ever get on your nerves?” I lean over my kitchen peninsula, resting my chin on top of my hand. “Like I adore my younger sister, but sometimes we’d get into the nastiest fights after being around each other too much.”
“Of course,” he says. “I love him like a brother—and he annoys me like a brother. But there were always more good times than bad.”
“Nostalgia is a beautiful liar,” I say. “It lets us paint the past anyway we want to.”
“Poetic,” he says, tossing back the remains of his wine. “On that note, I’ve got a tee time in the morning. Meeting Jude and his future in laws for a round at some country club north of here.”
“Jude golfs?”
“He does now.”
“Well, good for him,” I say. He was always more of a pick-up basketball or flag football rec-league kind of guy. Every once in a while, he’d go on a spurt where he’d take up jogging, but it never lasted more than a month or two. He never could stick to one thing long enough to get good at it.
“Thanks for the book.” He lifts it in the air as I walk him to the door, and before he goes, he turns back to give me one parting glance. Only this glance lingers longer than most.
My stomach trills, but I chalk it up to the margaritas and wine.
If this was a date, this would be the part where we kiss goodnight.
“Thanks for coming with,” I say. “I had a good time.”
“Me too.”
I clear my throat, silently reminding myself this isn’t a date. Not even close. But damn if I didn’t wish that it were.
“I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun,” I tell Monica Saturday morning. “Maybe it took the pressure off because it wasn’t a date, you know? We weren’t trying to impress each other. It was just … two people hanging out.”
“I always thought you belonged with Stone instead of Jude back in college. And to this day, I still swear you had the wrong guy.” Monica drops her bag on my kitchen table and takes a seat. “That night at that party, I told you you were going to meet someone. I had a gut feeling, remember?”
“I do.” I sit across from her, tired but wired from the events of last night.
After Stone left, I washed up for bed, only sleep never came. It eluded me as I chased it for hours. My mind wanted nothing more than to replay the night in real time, re-living and relishing every detail.
“You chose wrong. I’m telling you. And this is your second chance. This is the universe giving you a do-over.”
