Stone Cold, page 4
Cupping her hand over her heart, she leans forward. “And I live with the guilt of that every single day.”
No, she doesn’t …
“But I wouldn’t blame her for hating me,” she says, making it even more about her than it already was. “I just figured we were past that whole thing, you know? Like, let it go. Let us live our life in peace.”
I’ve learned over the years that sometimes it’s better to keep my trap shut around this woman or she’ll make Jude’s life a living hell for the next few days. What he sees in her, I’ve yet to understand. He’s mentioned how loaded her family is—some off-shoot of the Kennedy family with oil money. And he’s shared on far too many occasions how “dynamite” she is in bed, bragging about how there’s nothing she won’t do. I imagine those are a couple of the factors at play here. The rest, quite frankly, is none of my damn business.
I’m not his keeper.
I’m simply his best friend.
“What’s up?” Jude shuffles into the kitchen, tucking his phone in his shirt pocket. He makes his way to his fiancée first, who leans in for a kiss. She lifts her hand to his cheek, giving it a soft pat before peering up at him through a fringe of dark lashes too thick to be real. “You ready, counselor?”
“Yup.” I respond to another work email, pretending not to notice when he gives her yet another kiss.
“You sure you don’t want to go, babe?” Jude asks her.
“No, no. This is your thing,” she coos. “I would never impose on your trivia nights.”
She says that now, but I have a hunch things are going to change after she pops out their first tiny human.
Jude turns to me. “You driving?”
I nod. Jude’s a terrible parallel parker so I refuse to let him drive us downtown. Sitting shotgun while he pulls in, pulls out, and cranks his wheel fifty ways to Friday isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to The Bronze Whaler for 90s trivia night—our first Monday of the month tradition. I know these nights are limited, each one another grain of sand through the hourglass. The closer we get to Jude and Stassi’s nuptials, the more in danger these outings are of becoming extinct.
We make our way in, registering at the table and grabbing our buzzer before ordering a couple of beers and snagging our favorite high-top table. Ten minutes later, the game kicks off with a series of easy questions. We nail the first three.
“You hear anything else from Jovie?” Jude asks between the fourth and fifth question.
I’d almost forgotten that I replied to her earlier.
I didn’t mean to. And I hadn’t planned to. I came out of a particularly contentious mediation session and the next thing I knew, I was pounding away at my keyboard, letting off steam.
“What does the acronym A-O-L stand for?” the trivia host asks into her microphone.
I hit our buzzer, but the table to our left gets it first.
“You weren’t kidding when you said Stassi was upset about that whole thing,” I divert the topic, but only slightly.
Jude exhales before reaching for his beer. “It’s all she’s been talking about all day.”
“What is the first name of the sheep that was cloned in 1996?” the trivia hosts asks.
I slap the buzzer.
“Team Stude at table two,” she calls on us, using the ridiculous moniker we came up with as kids—an amalgamation of our first names.
“Dolly,” I answer.
“Correct! Team Stude is still in the lead with four points,” she says. “Next question … who sang the song Steal My Sunshine?”
A table in the back snags that one.
“How’s your dad doing?” I ask. Last I heard, Paul was living the good life at some place in West Palm Beach. The older he’s gotten, the less he can tolerate Maine’s punishing, everlasting winters.
“Good,” Jude says. “He’s excited to come back and see everyone.”
It’s been at least a year since I saw Paul last, and while he isn’t my dad, he’s raised me since I was ten and given me copious amounts of life advice that’s yet to be proven wrong. We text every now and again—mostly him checking in the way a father would. I appreciate it just the same.
“Moving on,” the host says. “Name the highest grossing film of the nineties …”
Jude smacks the buzzer and calls out the answer. “Titanic.”
The host points to our table. “Another point for Team Stude.”
I’ve never understood Jude’s obsession with all things nineties. He was hardly out of diapers before Y2K. If I were an armchair psychologist, I imagine it might have something to do with those years being the only ones he had with his mother before she passed.
“Name the butler in the popular series The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” the host says.
The table to our left gets this one.
“Going to grab another round,” I say. “Think you can hold the fort down?” It’s a stupid question because of course he can. The man eats, breathes, and sleeps this shit. I’m convinced he’d sell the soul of his firstborn child for a time machine if he could.
He gives me a thumbs up and I head to the bar. While I wait for our drinks, I pull up my phone and check my Facebook messages for the sake of filling the time.
Tapping on the last message from Jovie, I give it another read, and then I tap on her profile. I haven’t read it in ages. Actually, I’m not sure if I’ve ever taken the time to look at it. Scrolling to her bio section, I stop when I get to the part that mentions she’s the bestselling author of the Dashing Dukes of Pembroke Place series.
I click through a few of her photos—many of them book covers with frilly fonts and shirtless men holding long-haired beauties in long flowing dresses. The description beneath the fourth image says it’s recently been optioned for a TV series.
I’d always given Jovie shit for majoring in creative writing. I thought it was a frivolous major, that she wouldn’t be able to get a real job with it. And I never squandered an opportunity to razz her for sticking her nose in those drugstore paperbacks she’d leave all over the apartment when we lived together.
But she proved me wrong.
She proved us all wrong.
I pay for our beers with cash and return to the table.
“I got us two more points,” Jude says. “Still in the lead.”
His phone lights on the table and a text from Stassi fills the screen. He doesn’t notice, and I consider not pointing it out, but I’d hate to get him in hot water with the future ball and chain.
“Stassi just texted you,” I say.
He checks his phone and fires something back.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
We miss the next question.
“She was asking if I put the deposit down for the flowers because she just got a bill,” he says.
And here I thought it was something that could have waited until he got home …
“Next question,” the host calls out. “In what city do the Simpsons characters reside?”
We hit the buzzer at the same time. I let him answer.
“Springfield,” Jude calls out.
Twenty questions later, we walk away reigning champs. I’m pretty sure we’ve answered every trivia question they’ve asked tenfold, but tradition is tradition, and one of these days, these nights will be a thing of the past.
We grab a couple slices of pizza from Pie City Pies before hopping back into my car and heading to his neck of the woods.
We’re halfway there, an old Radiohead tune playing low on the speakers, when Jude clears his throat.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing marrying Stassi?” he asks.
I’d slam on my brakes if we weren’t already cruising past a green light.
“A little late to be asking that question, don’t you think?” I ask back.
He’s quiet.
“You getting cold feet?” I glance at him through the corner of my eye.
His knee is bouncing, and I’m mentally preparing the speech I’d been wanting to give since the day he professed his undying devotion to that woman.
“Forget it,” he says. “Forget I said anything. I’m just … yeah … it’s gotta be cold feet.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He fixes his attention out the passenger window, like he’s here but half a world away at the same time.
I swallow all the things I wanted to tell him, and I remind myself that my only job is to be happy for him and to support him as he navigates this bullshit existence that we call life.
If things ever fall through, at least he knows a good divorce attorney …
I’ll even do him a solid and take him on pro-bono.
If our roles were reversed, I know he’d do the same for me.
Chapter Seven
Stone
* * *
Age 19
* * *
“You ready, man?” Jude sneaks up behind me, squeezing my shoulders.
I shut my laptop lid and spin around in my desk chair. His hair is shower-damp and the overpowering scent of his woodsy cologne permeates the confined space of the dorm room we share.
“I thought we weren’t leaving for another couple hours?” I ask.
He claps his hands together. “That was the first plan. New plan is, that girl I’ve been telling you about is coming here, then we’re going to grab a bite to eat at Meyer’s Pub, then we’ll start at Friday After Class at Nightshade.”
For the past week, all Jude’s been able to talk about is this girl he met at the house party we crashed last weekend. He ran into her in the bathroom and apparently they went out for pancakes? It didn’t make sense and he’s not the best at sharing every finite detail when it comes to anything, but he’s been obsessed ever since.
Every time I come home from class, he’s on the phone with her. Sometimes I'll catch them on the phone in the middle of the night. And when they’re not talking, they’re texting.
I’ve known Jude long enough to know he falls hard and fast for every girl, but he swears this one’s different than the rest. He’s also coming off a bad breakup. His high school girlfriend of two years dumped him last month and he’s been a wreck ever since. His dad always says the best way to get over the old one is to get under a new one—or something like that. So that’s always been Jude’s MO. He’s never single for long. In fact, I don’t even think the dude knows how to be single.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling. “I was hoping I could finish this paper before we left. I’m on the last section. I’ll probably skip dinner and meet you guys at Meyer’s.”
“Lame,” he says. “As your best friend, brother from another mother, and roommate, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
I smirk. “It’s not up to you.”
“Come on. I really want you to meet this girl. She’s nothing like Brittany. You’re going to love her, I promise.”
“And if I don’t love her?”
“Then you’re a fucking idiot. Now come on. She’s going to be here any minute.” He waves for me to stand. “Hustle, Atwood. Move it.”
The way he’s bouncing around on the balls of his feet and flailing his arms reminds me of a kid waiting in line for a super hero movie, already hyped up on sugar and soda. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the man this excited for anything.
Brittany sure as hell didn’t put this kind of pep in his step.
If anything, she brought him down.
Those two were always fighting, always bickering, and always knee-deep in their drama-of-the-week. The day she dumped him, I silently celebrated. I felt guilty of course because Jude was destroyed. He sulked around, refused to go out, and only left his room to go to class. Even then, he’d oversleep and miss half of them.
Last Friday I had to sit him down, tell him to snap the hell out of it, and forced him to go out. Being underage, however, meant our only options for going out were to wander along Farley Street looking for the houses playing music and packed with people.
That’s the night he met this chick—whoever she is.
That’s the night I also met Jovie.
I don’t tend to get hung up on girls, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about her constantly. Despite only sharing a brief conversation, it felt like we were clicking. She had the cutest fucking smile too. Dimples and all. She was gorgeous with wavy blonde hair that stopped at her lower back, eyes bluer than the Pacific. Full lips the color of ripe strawberries.
But more than that, she was witty and funny and genuine and didn’t reek of desperate insecurity like most of the other girls that night, who were falling down drunk and wearing hardly more than a couple squares of fabric on their overly tanned bodies.
I noticed her when we first walked in. She was sitting by herself on the armrest of some sofa, sipping a peach wine cooler and bobbing to the music, her eyes closed. In a world where being alone is a death sentence for most, she was the picture of contentment.
Maybe it was the three beers I’d already chugged, but I decided to shoot my shot.
Everything was going well until she excused herself for a second—and never came back. People do that shit all the time—they walk off to do something, run into someone they know, and get sidetracked. Despite the fact that she never came back, I didn’t take it personally. Odds are I’ll see her around again either on campus or at some random party.
Before my mother passed, she always said, “What’s meant for you will always find you.”
She hasn’t been wrong yet.
In the past nine years, I found a home with Paul and Jude, a hell of a deal on a vintage Mustang the week before my seventeenth birthday, and a full-ride college scholarship to the University of Maine. All things considered, I’m sitting pretty good and my life’s only getting started.
Jude grabs a couple beers from our dorm fridge. We’re getting low, but Jude’s dad comes once a month to visit and he always stocks us up.
“Knock, knock,” a woman’s voice sounds from the open doorway as I pop the tab and toss back a mouthful.
“Jovie,” Jude says. “You found us.”
I almost choke on my drink.
Fuck me.
It’s her.
She throws her arms around him and he pulls her in, burying his head against her shoulder.
“Jovie, this is my roommate, Stone,” Jude says a moment later.
Her ocean eyes light as if she recognizes me. But I keep my expression unreadable. While Jude’s been rambling on about this woman all week, I shared a little bit about the girl I’d met as well. I didn’t have as much to say since we’d only talked for maybe ten minutes before she vanished, but I told Jude when I found her again, I planned to ask her out.
“Jovie, nice to meet you,” I say before she has a chance to point out the fact that we’ve already met. Her gaze flickers as she squints, as if she’s trying to determine if I truly don’t recognize her or if I’m simply pretending. “We should probably head out if we want to get a table.”
“Yeah, let’s bounce,” Jude says, slipping his hand on the small of her back. “Meyer’s is crazy on Friday night.”
I saw her first.
I talked to her first.
I wanted her first.
But Jude has her now, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen him this alive, this high on life.
What kind of best friend would I be if I took that away from him?
Chapter Eight
Jovie
* * *
“Feel free to go anywhere you want.” Talking to a dog feels silly, but Domino’s been sniffing the same row of bushes for a solid five minutes now, looking for the perfect spot to do his business. “The world is your oyster.”
A woman jogs by with earbuds in, giving me a brief smile. I wave back. I’ve never understood the concept of running for pure enjoyment, but I can appreciate a nice, long walk in a beautiful day.
“Come on, buddy,” I say. “I’ve got five more chapters to write before I can call it quits today, and I really want to call it quits.”
I’ve been hopped up on decongestants and English breakfast tea all morning, but I hit my stride sometime around 10 AM and I need to get back into it before I lose it again. Once I hit my word count for the day, I have a binge session of Selling Sunset waiting for me.
Finally, he lifts his leg, does his thing, and trots back to the sidewalk. I adjust his leash and follow behind. As soon as we get back to my place, he laps some mouthfuls of water from his bowl in the kitchen before settling onto his orthopedic dog bed.
This is only our second day together, but I think we’re going to be okay (aside from the box of Kleenex he tore up this morning when I was in the shower).
I brew a fresh cup of tea and settle in at my desk. By one o’clock, my stomach rumbles. While I know I should eat something, nothing sounds appetizing. Not being able to taste or smell has really sucked the fun out of that sort of thing.
I take a break, stretch my legs, and trek to the kitchen to grab a piece of string cheese and a pear, neither of which taste like a dang thing.
By the time I return to my desk, I check my email and putz around online for a few minutes before mindlessly checking my Facebook. I don’t normally check it this often, but I’m curious to see if Stone wrote me back after my last message yesterday …
The little red notification shows I have one new message.
Holding my breath, I click on it.
My stomach does a miniature somersault when I see his name in bold and a new, unread message beneath it.
* * *
Jovie—
Fictitious flimflammer … that’s a phrase you don’t hear every day. Is that how your characters speak in your books? Also, since you’re having difficulties making the connection between what you do and what the Wizard of Oz does, allow me to simplify. You were both selling things that aren’t real. Not only that, you both promote the notion that happiness is something we can only get from someone else.
