Stone Cold, page 3
She pushes her gray curls back with her red-rimmed glasses, using them as makeshift headband.
“I need to fly home to Chicago for a few weeks,” she says. “My sister’s husband just passed away and I need to be there to help her sort through everything. She’s a bit of a mess. Anyway, I’ve been calling every kennel in Portland all day and no one has room for Domino for a three-week stay. Damn tourist season.”
She rolls her eyes, and I get it. In the off-season, our city’s population rests at a comfortable sixty to seventy thousand people. In the summertime, it can swell upwards of two million.
“I hate to put you out,” she says, “but is there any way you could watch him? I’d pay you.”
Her soft hazel eyes plead with mine, and Domino sits like the sweet boy he is, tail wagging with hope.
I had a dog when I was a kid, so I’m not a stranger to the basics of this sort of thing. And it probably wouldn’t kill me to have an excuse to go for a walk a couple times a day.
“Um, yeah. I can watch him,” I say.
Ida winces. “And it would need to be at your place. I’m having some remodeling done, and I’m afraid it would be terribly noisy and dusty for you … a little stressful for him.”
“Sure,” I say. “He can stay with me.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” She steps closer, her hand splayed across her chest. “I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no problem at all. I could use the company anyway.”
“Oh, thank heavens, Jovie. You’re a lifesaver. Truly.” She does a happy dance before shortening Domino’s leash. “I’m going to get him packed and then I’ll bring him by in the next couple of hours if that’s okay? My flight leaves this afternoon.”
“Sounds good.”
Ida heads inside with Domino in tow and I return to my desk, hoping to get a couple chapters done before welcoming my furry houseguest.
One chapter later, I take a standing break, cracking my knuckles and massaging the stiffness from my neck. Before I dive back into my story—a historical arranged marriage romance about a headstrong duke and his female cousins’ sassy best friend—I check my Facebook account. The old saying that writers will do anything to avoid writing is unfortunately true, especially as of late.
I clear out the twelve messages from this morning, each and every one of them asking me about the mysterious tag on Jude and Stassi’s photo. When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the one I sent to Stone earlier. It shows as read. No response. I give it a re-read, suddenly wondering if I was too harsh.
I was panicked. Embarrassed. Angry. And the words flowed from my brain to my fingertips before I had a chance to walk away and give them a second thought. Maybe I should have ignored it, maybe I shouldn’t have met his condescension with condescension of my own.
Biting my lip, I debate whether to offer him an apology or an olive branch or something.
Dragging in a deep breath, I begin to type out a message. Only before I can finish it, the dot beside his name flicks from red to green and three dots fill the screen.
He’s writing me.
Sitting back in my chair, I hold my breath as I wait for his message to come through.
* * *
Jovie—
I couldn’t help but pick up on a little sarcasm in your previous message. Also, I took it upon myself to research the side effects of NyQuil, which are as follows: dizziness, drowsiness, upset stomach, blurred vision, nausea, and dry nose/mouth/throat. I was unable to verify that accidental Facebook tags are among common side effects. Might I advise you to contact your doctor? It would be a grave misfortune if this were to happen again.
Best,
Stone
PS—Not sure if you’re aware, but The Wizard of Oz hasn’t been giving out hearts since August 25, 1939, when it was revealed that he was nothing more than a con man pulling levers behind a curtain. I’m sure you can relate given your profession.
* * *
My jaw falls.
The audacity is strong with this one.
And what the hell is he talking about with I’m sure you can relate given your profession?
With my fingers on fire, I sit up straight and hammer out my response.
* * *
Stone—
I’m not sure I’m seeing a correlation between a historical romance author and a fictitious flimflammer. Care to elaborate? Also, I appreciate that you took it upon yourself to research my NyQuil conundrum, but I assure you it wasn’t necessary. I’m switching to non-drowsy Mucinex effective immediately.
Also, please confirm that those research hours were pro-bono and not billable, as I did not request your generous assistance in this matter.
Best,
Jovie
* * *
A moment later, three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. I wait a few minutes for a response that never comes.
Returning to my work, I force any and all thoughts of Stone Atwood from my mind.
I lived with him for a year in college … five years later, I refuse to let him take up residency in my head.
Chapter Five
Jovie
* * *
Age 19
* * *
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you want to be anywhere but here.” A guy with windswept sandy brown hair corners me, a red Solo cup in his hand. His Kelly green polo strains against his broad chest and shoulders, and he reminds me of someone who races sailboats in the summer.
“What makes you think that?” I ask, taking a sip from my third fuzzy navel wine cooler of the night. It tastes like pure cane sugar and chemicals going down, but relaxation sinks deeper into my bones with each downed ounce. Too much of these, though, and I might never be able to look at a peach so long as I live.
Becca’s older sister gave us a ton of random booze leftover from her 21st birthday party last weekend and given the fact that we’re not old enough to buy it ourselves, beggars can’t be choosers.
His lips tug into a half smile. “Because you haven’t left this spot since you got here.”
“So you’ve been watching me this whole time?” I lift a brow. This is the second house party we’ve been to tonight, and as soon as we arrived, the girls I came with scattered like leaves to the wind. I’ve yet to see a familiar face, so I’ve just been hanging out.
“Watching you? No. Noticing you?” he asks. “Yeah …”
“Hm. I’ve been here at least two hours and this is the first time I’ve seen you—and I’m basically a professional people watcher. I think I’d have noticed you noticing me by now.”
“I’m Stone,” he says, cutting through the bullshit. “And I think I completely botched whatever the hell I was trying to do.”
I crack a smile, appreciating his honesty.
“Hitting on me?” I ask.
He sniffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s what that was?”
“I’m Jovie,” I say. “And I’m willing to look past your awkward first impression if you can find me a drink that isn’t beer and doesn’t taste like overripe fruit.”
“Consider it done.” With that, Stone takes my empty wine cooler bottle and returns a minute later with a hard lemonade.
“I’m not sure if you know this or not, but lemons are technically a fruit.” I take the bottle from him anyway and screw off the cap with my bare hands. It leaves an indentation in my palm, but I’m too distracted by the intensity of his hooded hazel gaze to care.
“It was that or beer,” he says. “And you explicitly stated no beer so I was forced to make an executive decision.”
“Fair enough.” I can appreciate a guy who listens; a guy who isn’t afraid to make a decision under pressure. I tip my drink in his direction. “Thank you.”
“So … Jovie,” he says my name like he’s trying it out on his tongue for the first time. “Is that like … Bon Jovi?”
“One and the same,” I say. “Only spelled with an i-e.”
“Were your parents Bon Jovi fans?”
“They were. Believe it or not, I was actually conceived in the bathroom at a Bon Jovi concert,” I say. “August 1996. It was the These Days tour. Van Halen opened.” I squint, trying to recall all the details my parents have overshared with me over the years. “Saratoga Springs, Florida. It was raining cats and dogs that night. My mom was there with her boyfriend who ditched her for her best friend. My dad was there by himself because—I dunno—he does a lot of random things by himself. Anyway, they met and then I happened then they got married and now they’re boring, middle-aged schoolteachers living happily ever after in Kennebunkport.”
“Pretty sure I was conceived in the back of an El Camino behind a strip club,” he says.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”
He takes a sip of beer. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“That’s a hell of a way to come into the world though,” I say. “Not a lot of people can say they were conceived like that. I bet there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of us Bon Jovi babies.”
I swallow a mouthful of hard lemonade. It’s just as saccharin as the fuzzy navel wine cooler sloshing around in my empty stomach. I should have eaten before we went out tonight, but I came back from a four o’clock class, took an online test that was due at midnight, and grabbed a shower before meeting up with my friends.
I’m about to ask him about his interesting moniker when the room begins to tilt and spin.
I think I’m going to be sick …
The burn of bile rises up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Will you excuse me for a second?”
Abandoning my perch in the corner of the party house’s packed living room, I squeeze through throngs of partygoers in search of the nearest bathroom. Racing down the hallway, my stomach on fire, I try every door until I find one that opens.
I spot the vanity first, then the shower.
I don’t even notice the dark-haired guy zipping his fly until I’m already curled over the sink, expelling orange-tinted liquid Mount Vesuvius style.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The guy sharing the bathroom with me throws his hands in the air and takes a step back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, tasting the bitter, disgusting liquor all over again with each word.
Hunched over the sink, I keep my head down.
“You okay?” He scratches at his temple before brushing his dark waves across his forehead.
“Yeah,” I lie. Another wave of nausea rolls through me, but I manage to stave it off. “That’s what I get for drinking on an empty stomach.”
“Rookie mistake.”
“I know, right?”
The handsome stranger hands me a roll of toilet paper.
“Thanks,” I say as I tear off a few sheets. I dab my mouth before washing my hands.
“Hey, you, uh … want to grab something to eat?” He checks his watch. “This party’s kind of lame, and I was thinking about moving on anyway. There’s a 24-hour diner around the corner with the best late-night pancakes …”
“Late-night pancakes are my weakness,” I say. “Do they have chocolate chip?”
“They do. But they don’t hold a candle to the maple pecan,” he says. “What do you say? You in?”
“You had me at late-night pancakes.”
We exit the bathroom together—a move that garners a handful of stares, oohs, and aahs from the people loitering in the hall, but my bathroom stranger friend doesn’t seem to notice and I couldn’t care less.
Passing the living room, I stop to glance to the corner where I was chatting it up with Stone before things took an unfortunate turn—but he’s gone.
It’s a shame.
He seems like a guy who would appreciate a late-night pancake.
“You okay?” my new friend asks.
I take one last scan of the place, searching in vain for the Kelly green polo and the sandy blond sailor.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We’re a block into our journey when he says, “I don’t think you told me your name.”
“Jovie,” I say, though I don’t feel like going into the whole how-I-was-conceived spiel. “What’s your name?”
“Jude,” he says, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets as we stroll under a moonlit sky.
We don’t leave the diner until a quarter past four in the morning. It turns out Jude is an avid bicyclist/hiker/climber, business management major, and collector and curator of all things nineties and early 2000s pop culture. We reminisce about Orbitz, Fruitopia, and Heinz purple ketchup, and he promises to show me his Pog collection one of these days.
When he drops me off at the front entrance of my dorm, he wastes no time asking for my number. I rattle it off without giving it a second thought, and then I make my way upstairs and wash up for bed before he has a chance to kiss me. I’m not sure if he would have tried, but I didn’t want to risk it seeing as how I was puking my guts up mere hours ago.
Crawling under the covers, I replay the past several hours in my head. Despite only spending a handful of hours around Jude, something about him put me at ease. It felt like I was spending time with someone I’d known my whole life. By the end of our time together, I’d almost forgotten about the humbling way our paths crossed.
I close my eyes, nuzzle against my pillow, and take a deep breath.
All things considered, tonight wasn’t half bad.
My thoughts drift away one by one, fading into the early morning hours, but before I’m out completely, I think about Stone.
Maybe I’ll run into him again one of these days.
Chapter Six
Stone
* * *
“Hey, Stone.” Stassi answers Jude’s door in a baby blue satin robe, her hair twisted into a terry cloth towel. She holds the lapels together with her left hand, her giant engagement diamond glinting on the late afternoon sun. “Jude’s just finishing up a Zoom. Come on in.”
She slinks to the kitchen in her feathery house slippers, looking like some heroine from a vintage James Bond film.
“You want a beer while you wait?” she asks, reaching for the fridge. “I think we have some IPAs …”
“Nah, I’m okay.” I take a seat on one of the bar stools, pull out my phone, and tend to a couple of emails. Jude’s a talker and there’s no telling how long it’ll be until he’s done with his car.
“You excited for the wedding?” she asks.
“Probably not as excited as you are.” My voice is monotone, and I don’t look up from my screen.
“It’s going to be weird for you, isn’t it? Your best friend’s going to be married and you’re still …” her voice trails. Ever since she tried introducing me to her college sorority sister a couple years back, she’s been bitter about it not working out. She even went so far as to tell me I’m a waste of a perfectly good bachelor—intelligent, attractive, successful. She then went on to prattle off a list of all the women she knew who would jump at the chance to be with me—as if that was a compelling enough reason for me to throw all of my personal convictions out the window and settle down.
I told her I’m not her pet project and I don’t need to chain myself to another human being to feel fulfilled.
“If anything, it’ll be weirder for Jude,” I say. “He’ll be married and his best friend’s still living the good life.”
Stassi frowns. Or at least she tries. I’m assuming the fresh Botox makes it challenging.
“They say people grow apart from their friends after they get married,” she says, twisting the ring on her finger. “And it’ll be especially hard after we start our family … Jude’s not going to have as much free time as he has now.”
“Jude has free time?” I ask. “Since when?”
Stassi’s got his schedule so booked out with dinners, double dates, and influencer-style travel excursions, that I have to reserve him months in advance. He’s harder to get into than a Michelin star restaurant in Paris.
She rolls her eyes, but she can’t deny I have a point.
Silence settles between us, and I half-expect her to mosey back to her room to put some clothes on or dry her hair, but she stands there. Planted. Staring at me from the other side of their marble island.
“Jude said you talked to his ex?” Her question sounds rehearsed, as if she’d been holding it in all this time, waiting for a chance to ask.
“I didn’t talk to her,” I say. “I messaged her on Facebook.”
“Do you believe her about the NyQuil?” she asks.
My gaze flicks up from my phone screen. “Does it matter?”
She lifts a lanky shoulder to her ear before letting it drop. “I just think it’s weird, is all.”
“Maybe try not to think about it at all.”
Stassi huffs. “Easy for you to say. She’s not the ex of the person you’re about to spend the rest of your life with.”
“True.”
“I just think it’s really messed up what she did.” Stassi grabs a bottled Fiji water from the fridge before returning to her post. “I mean … who does something like that?”
“Are you really that threatened by it?”
She uncaps her water. “No. I’m not threatened. It’s just weird that she’s trying to insert herself into our life all of a sudden … five years later … two months before our wedding.”
“See … you’re saying you’re not threatened—but you sound threatened.” I delete a few more emails, exhaling, silently urging Jude to hurry the hell up.
“It’s hard to explain,” she says.
“Then don’t.”
“I just …” she continues anyway, and I’m convinced she simply wants to hear herself talk at this point. “I know I was technically the other woman.”
She wasn’t technically the other woman. She was the other woman.
“I need to fly home to Chicago for a few weeks,” she says. “My sister’s husband just passed away and I need to be there to help her sort through everything. She’s a bit of a mess. Anyway, I’ve been calling every kennel in Portland all day and no one has room for Domino for a three-week stay. Damn tourist season.”
She rolls her eyes, and I get it. In the off-season, our city’s population rests at a comfortable sixty to seventy thousand people. In the summertime, it can swell upwards of two million.
“I hate to put you out,” she says, “but is there any way you could watch him? I’d pay you.”
Her soft hazel eyes plead with mine, and Domino sits like the sweet boy he is, tail wagging with hope.
I had a dog when I was a kid, so I’m not a stranger to the basics of this sort of thing. And it probably wouldn’t kill me to have an excuse to go for a walk a couple times a day.
“Um, yeah. I can watch him,” I say.
Ida winces. “And it would need to be at your place. I’m having some remodeling done, and I’m afraid it would be terribly noisy and dusty for you … a little stressful for him.”
“Sure,” I say. “He can stay with me.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” She steps closer, her hand splayed across her chest. “I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no problem at all. I could use the company anyway.”
“Oh, thank heavens, Jovie. You’re a lifesaver. Truly.” She does a happy dance before shortening Domino’s leash. “I’m going to get him packed and then I’ll bring him by in the next couple of hours if that’s okay? My flight leaves this afternoon.”
“Sounds good.”
Ida heads inside with Domino in tow and I return to my desk, hoping to get a couple chapters done before welcoming my furry houseguest.
One chapter later, I take a standing break, cracking my knuckles and massaging the stiffness from my neck. Before I dive back into my story—a historical arranged marriage romance about a headstrong duke and his female cousins’ sassy best friend—I check my Facebook account. The old saying that writers will do anything to avoid writing is unfortunately true, especially as of late.
I clear out the twelve messages from this morning, each and every one of them asking me about the mysterious tag on Jude and Stassi’s photo. When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the one I sent to Stone earlier. It shows as read. No response. I give it a re-read, suddenly wondering if I was too harsh.
I was panicked. Embarrassed. Angry. And the words flowed from my brain to my fingertips before I had a chance to walk away and give them a second thought. Maybe I should have ignored it, maybe I shouldn’t have met his condescension with condescension of my own.
Biting my lip, I debate whether to offer him an apology or an olive branch or something.
Dragging in a deep breath, I begin to type out a message. Only before I can finish it, the dot beside his name flicks from red to green and three dots fill the screen.
He’s writing me.
Sitting back in my chair, I hold my breath as I wait for his message to come through.
* * *
Jovie—
I couldn’t help but pick up on a little sarcasm in your previous message. Also, I took it upon myself to research the side effects of NyQuil, which are as follows: dizziness, drowsiness, upset stomach, blurred vision, nausea, and dry nose/mouth/throat. I was unable to verify that accidental Facebook tags are among common side effects. Might I advise you to contact your doctor? It would be a grave misfortune if this were to happen again.
Best,
Stone
PS—Not sure if you’re aware, but The Wizard of Oz hasn’t been giving out hearts since August 25, 1939, when it was revealed that he was nothing more than a con man pulling levers behind a curtain. I’m sure you can relate given your profession.
* * *
My jaw falls.
The audacity is strong with this one.
And what the hell is he talking about with I’m sure you can relate given your profession?
With my fingers on fire, I sit up straight and hammer out my response.
* * *
Stone—
I’m not sure I’m seeing a correlation between a historical romance author and a fictitious flimflammer. Care to elaborate? Also, I appreciate that you took it upon yourself to research my NyQuil conundrum, but I assure you it wasn’t necessary. I’m switching to non-drowsy Mucinex effective immediately.
Also, please confirm that those research hours were pro-bono and not billable, as I did not request your generous assistance in this matter.
Best,
Jovie
* * *
A moment later, three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. I wait a few minutes for a response that never comes.
Returning to my work, I force any and all thoughts of Stone Atwood from my mind.
I lived with him for a year in college … five years later, I refuse to let him take up residency in my head.
Chapter Five
Jovie
* * *
Age 19
* * *
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you want to be anywhere but here.” A guy with windswept sandy brown hair corners me, a red Solo cup in his hand. His Kelly green polo strains against his broad chest and shoulders, and he reminds me of someone who races sailboats in the summer.
“What makes you think that?” I ask, taking a sip from my third fuzzy navel wine cooler of the night. It tastes like pure cane sugar and chemicals going down, but relaxation sinks deeper into my bones with each downed ounce. Too much of these, though, and I might never be able to look at a peach so long as I live.
Becca’s older sister gave us a ton of random booze leftover from her 21st birthday party last weekend and given the fact that we’re not old enough to buy it ourselves, beggars can’t be choosers.
His lips tug into a half smile. “Because you haven’t left this spot since you got here.”
“So you’ve been watching me this whole time?” I lift a brow. This is the second house party we’ve been to tonight, and as soon as we arrived, the girls I came with scattered like leaves to the wind. I’ve yet to see a familiar face, so I’ve just been hanging out.
“Watching you? No. Noticing you?” he asks. “Yeah …”
“Hm. I’ve been here at least two hours and this is the first time I’ve seen you—and I’m basically a professional people watcher. I think I’d have noticed you noticing me by now.”
“I’m Stone,” he says, cutting through the bullshit. “And I think I completely botched whatever the hell I was trying to do.”
I crack a smile, appreciating his honesty.
“Hitting on me?” I ask.
He sniffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s what that was?”
“I’m Jovie,” I say. “And I’m willing to look past your awkward first impression if you can find me a drink that isn’t beer and doesn’t taste like overripe fruit.”
“Consider it done.” With that, Stone takes my empty wine cooler bottle and returns a minute later with a hard lemonade.
“I’m not sure if you know this or not, but lemons are technically a fruit.” I take the bottle from him anyway and screw off the cap with my bare hands. It leaves an indentation in my palm, but I’m too distracted by the intensity of his hooded hazel gaze to care.
“It was that or beer,” he says. “And you explicitly stated no beer so I was forced to make an executive decision.”
“Fair enough.” I can appreciate a guy who listens; a guy who isn’t afraid to make a decision under pressure. I tip my drink in his direction. “Thank you.”
“So … Jovie,” he says my name like he’s trying it out on his tongue for the first time. “Is that like … Bon Jovi?”
“One and the same,” I say. “Only spelled with an i-e.”
“Were your parents Bon Jovi fans?”
“They were. Believe it or not, I was actually conceived in the bathroom at a Bon Jovi concert,” I say. “August 1996. It was the These Days tour. Van Halen opened.” I squint, trying to recall all the details my parents have overshared with me over the years. “Saratoga Springs, Florida. It was raining cats and dogs that night. My mom was there with her boyfriend who ditched her for her best friend. My dad was there by himself because—I dunno—he does a lot of random things by himself. Anyway, they met and then I happened then they got married and now they’re boring, middle-aged schoolteachers living happily ever after in Kennebunkport.”
“Pretty sure I was conceived in the back of an El Camino behind a strip club,” he says.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”
He takes a sip of beer. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“That’s a hell of a way to come into the world though,” I say. “Not a lot of people can say they were conceived like that. I bet there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of us Bon Jovi babies.”
I swallow a mouthful of hard lemonade. It’s just as saccharin as the fuzzy navel wine cooler sloshing around in my empty stomach. I should have eaten before we went out tonight, but I came back from a four o’clock class, took an online test that was due at midnight, and grabbed a shower before meeting up with my friends.
I’m about to ask him about his interesting moniker when the room begins to tilt and spin.
I think I’m going to be sick …
The burn of bile rises up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Will you excuse me for a second?”
Abandoning my perch in the corner of the party house’s packed living room, I squeeze through throngs of partygoers in search of the nearest bathroom. Racing down the hallway, my stomach on fire, I try every door until I find one that opens.
I spot the vanity first, then the shower.
I don’t even notice the dark-haired guy zipping his fly until I’m already curled over the sink, expelling orange-tinted liquid Mount Vesuvius style.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The guy sharing the bathroom with me throws his hands in the air and takes a step back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, tasting the bitter, disgusting liquor all over again with each word.
Hunched over the sink, I keep my head down.
“You okay?” He scratches at his temple before brushing his dark waves across his forehead.
“Yeah,” I lie. Another wave of nausea rolls through me, but I manage to stave it off. “That’s what I get for drinking on an empty stomach.”
“Rookie mistake.”
“I know, right?”
The handsome stranger hands me a roll of toilet paper.
“Thanks,” I say as I tear off a few sheets. I dab my mouth before washing my hands.
“Hey, you, uh … want to grab something to eat?” He checks his watch. “This party’s kind of lame, and I was thinking about moving on anyway. There’s a 24-hour diner around the corner with the best late-night pancakes …”
“Late-night pancakes are my weakness,” I say. “Do they have chocolate chip?”
“They do. But they don’t hold a candle to the maple pecan,” he says. “What do you say? You in?”
“You had me at late-night pancakes.”
We exit the bathroom together—a move that garners a handful of stares, oohs, and aahs from the people loitering in the hall, but my bathroom stranger friend doesn’t seem to notice and I couldn’t care less.
Passing the living room, I stop to glance to the corner where I was chatting it up with Stone before things took an unfortunate turn—but he’s gone.
It’s a shame.
He seems like a guy who would appreciate a late-night pancake.
“You okay?” my new friend asks.
I take one last scan of the place, searching in vain for the Kelly green polo and the sandy blond sailor.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We’re a block into our journey when he says, “I don’t think you told me your name.”
“Jovie,” I say, though I don’t feel like going into the whole how-I-was-conceived spiel. “What’s your name?”
“Jude,” he says, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets as we stroll under a moonlit sky.
We don’t leave the diner until a quarter past four in the morning. It turns out Jude is an avid bicyclist/hiker/climber, business management major, and collector and curator of all things nineties and early 2000s pop culture. We reminisce about Orbitz, Fruitopia, and Heinz purple ketchup, and he promises to show me his Pog collection one of these days.
When he drops me off at the front entrance of my dorm, he wastes no time asking for my number. I rattle it off without giving it a second thought, and then I make my way upstairs and wash up for bed before he has a chance to kiss me. I’m not sure if he would have tried, but I didn’t want to risk it seeing as how I was puking my guts up mere hours ago.
Crawling under the covers, I replay the past several hours in my head. Despite only spending a handful of hours around Jude, something about him put me at ease. It felt like I was spending time with someone I’d known my whole life. By the end of our time together, I’d almost forgotten about the humbling way our paths crossed.
I close my eyes, nuzzle against my pillow, and take a deep breath.
All things considered, tonight wasn’t half bad.
My thoughts drift away one by one, fading into the early morning hours, but before I’m out completely, I think about Stone.
Maybe I’ll run into him again one of these days.
Chapter Six
Stone
* * *
“Hey, Stone.” Stassi answers Jude’s door in a baby blue satin robe, her hair twisted into a terry cloth towel. She holds the lapels together with her left hand, her giant engagement diamond glinting on the late afternoon sun. “Jude’s just finishing up a Zoom. Come on in.”
She slinks to the kitchen in her feathery house slippers, looking like some heroine from a vintage James Bond film.
“You want a beer while you wait?” she asks, reaching for the fridge. “I think we have some IPAs …”
“Nah, I’m okay.” I take a seat on one of the bar stools, pull out my phone, and tend to a couple of emails. Jude’s a talker and there’s no telling how long it’ll be until he’s done with his car.
“You excited for the wedding?” she asks.
“Probably not as excited as you are.” My voice is monotone, and I don’t look up from my screen.
“It’s going to be weird for you, isn’t it? Your best friend’s going to be married and you’re still …” her voice trails. Ever since she tried introducing me to her college sorority sister a couple years back, she’s been bitter about it not working out. She even went so far as to tell me I’m a waste of a perfectly good bachelor—intelligent, attractive, successful. She then went on to prattle off a list of all the women she knew who would jump at the chance to be with me—as if that was a compelling enough reason for me to throw all of my personal convictions out the window and settle down.
I told her I’m not her pet project and I don’t need to chain myself to another human being to feel fulfilled.
“If anything, it’ll be weirder for Jude,” I say. “He’ll be married and his best friend’s still living the good life.”
Stassi frowns. Or at least she tries. I’m assuming the fresh Botox makes it challenging.
“They say people grow apart from their friends after they get married,” she says, twisting the ring on her finger. “And it’ll be especially hard after we start our family … Jude’s not going to have as much free time as he has now.”
“Jude has free time?” I ask. “Since when?”
Stassi’s got his schedule so booked out with dinners, double dates, and influencer-style travel excursions, that I have to reserve him months in advance. He’s harder to get into than a Michelin star restaurant in Paris.
She rolls her eyes, but she can’t deny I have a point.
Silence settles between us, and I half-expect her to mosey back to her room to put some clothes on or dry her hair, but she stands there. Planted. Staring at me from the other side of their marble island.
“Jude said you talked to his ex?” Her question sounds rehearsed, as if she’d been holding it in all this time, waiting for a chance to ask.
“I didn’t talk to her,” I say. “I messaged her on Facebook.”
“Do you believe her about the NyQuil?” she asks.
My gaze flicks up from my phone screen. “Does it matter?”
She lifts a lanky shoulder to her ear before letting it drop. “I just think it’s weird, is all.”
“Maybe try not to think about it at all.”
Stassi huffs. “Easy for you to say. She’s not the ex of the person you’re about to spend the rest of your life with.”
“True.”
“I just think it’s really messed up what she did.” Stassi grabs a bottled Fiji water from the fridge before returning to her post. “I mean … who does something like that?”
“Are you really that threatened by it?”
She uncaps her water. “No. I’m not threatened. It’s just weird that she’s trying to insert herself into our life all of a sudden … five years later … two months before our wedding.”
“See … you’re saying you’re not threatened—but you sound threatened.” I delete a few more emails, exhaling, silently urging Jude to hurry the hell up.
“It’s hard to explain,” she says.
“Then don’t.”
“I just …” she continues anyway, and I’m convinced she simply wants to hear herself talk at this point. “I know I was technically the other woman.”
She wasn’t technically the other woman. She was the other woman.
