WHEN WE WERE GOOD, WE WERE REALLY GOOD
Jude
I don’t really have the time for a call, but I have to answer, considering the state William was in when I last saw him. What if I don’t and something happens? Or he breaks more than a hotel room? I step away from the crowds, darting into the doorway of a shuttered store. “Hey, mate. How’s it going?”
I brace myself for the usual lies—everything is great. I swear, I’m fine. I just miss all my friends.
But what I get instead is a deep breath. “Hey. I’m good. Really good. Listen, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about what you said last time I saw you. When you took me home from the Luxe.”
Hope rises in me. “Yeah?”
“About making changes and whatnot,” he adds as if I don’t recall every word.
“And what are you thinking?” Rehab. Please say rehab.
He’s quiet, but New York’s not. Cabs lurch by, and crowds jabber. Somewhere nearby, a siren wails.
“I’m definitely thinking,” he finally says.
But if he can’t even say the word rehab, he might not be ready to quit drinking. “How’s it going this week? Have you been back at yoga?”
“Oh!” There’s sunny excitement in his voice. “I didn’t tell you?” I wince. Those words rarely mean good news with alcoholics.
“Tell me what?”
“I have been going on the reg. My new yoga teacher is fine as fuck, and we went out last night for a smoothie.”
“Is that code for something?”
“No, it was legit a smoothie. Tonight, we’re going to . . . a bonfire on the beach.”
Bonfires on the beach usually involve bottles. I check the time. “William, I need to take off. I’m due at the theater any minute. But be careful, okay?”
“At the beach? Don’t you worry. I’ll fight off all the sharks.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. Why the fuck won’t anyone else tell him the truth? Why won’t his family, his agent, his other friends? “I want you to think seriously about getting help,” I say, and tough love hurts. It’s gut-wrenching.
“I know you do, Jude. And like I said, I’m thinking about it. I’ll talk to Damian about it.”
“Is that your new guy?”
“Let’s hope so. Have I mentioned he’s hot?”
“Yes. Yes, you have,” I say, wishing his yoga fling was a good sign, when in fact, it’s probably a sign he’s turning to men, as well as alcohol, to fix whatever is empty inside him.
“Anyway, you enjoy the show. Say hi to TJ for me. Would be fun for us to hang again now that you’re back with your man,” he says, and that’s the guy I know. Earnest, real, unfiltered.
I latch onto the memory of the supportive person he can be. He’s always wanted his friends to be happy. “I will,” I say, though I know I won’t tell TJ I spoke to William.
Anytime his name comes up, TJ turns into a jealous dragon . . .
Wait a moment. This is bonkers. How did I miss that obvious fucking neon sign?
If TJ’s jealous, that might mean he’s not over me after all.
I’m practically buzzed as I tuck my phone into my pocket. When I reach the St. James, I’m still grinning. The lobby is teeming with photographers, snapping pics of influencers, producers, celebrities of all shapes and sizes.
I cut through the crowds, saying hi here and there to a few industry people. I spot that guy from Food who TJ introduced me to earlier in the week—the Man’s Man. He’s built like a slab of beef. He tips his chin toward me. “Hey, Jude,” he says. “Whoa. Like The Beatles song.”
Never heard that before. “Indeed, like The Beatles song, Malcolm.”
“Good to see you again.” He offers his fist in some sort of frat-bro bump. Can I pretend I don’t see that? Not with all the paps around. But the last thing I want is someone taking a shot of me fist-bumping a frat bro, so I pat his shoulder in greeting instead.
“Hope you enjoy the show, Malcolm. Lovely to see you again,” I say.
“Tell your dude I DM’d him,” Malcolm calls out.
I flash a red-carpet grin. “Absolutely.”
I push him out of my mind, returning to the delight of TJ’s jealousy. When I find my date, he’s just beyond the doors, swiping the screen on his phone. My smile is unbeatable. So is my libido as I rake my gaze over the man from head to toe. He looks sharp in stylish black trousers and a shirt with—Are those psychedelic mushroom drawings on it?
The man has style, and it’s because of me. The memory of thrifting in London is such a feel-good drug.
I cut through the crowds, walking past a few photographers on the hunt for celeb shots, and stride right over to my date. When he notices me, he tucks his phone into his pocket. I stop a few inches away. Before he can say a word, I cup his face.
Fuck cheek kisses. I want his sexy mouth, so I take it, lingering for a few risqué seconds on his lips.
He trembles, then whispers, Wow.
“Hope you don’t mind that I went off-script,” I murmur.
His strong arm wraps around my waist. “Your ad-lib is on point.”
When I pull away, he does as we planned, dropping a kiss to my cheek and . . . click.
There’s a camera. There’s a flash of light. There’s Slade in the corner of the lobby, approvingly smiling as he chats with the morning news host from the infamous chicken dude interview.
Slade mentioned he might grab tickets, so I’m not surprised to see him. Plus, as the press guy for a talent agency, no one would think he was here to babysit two clients faking a romance. He looks like he belongs.
And perhaps, for the first time since we met again, TJ and I look like we belong together too.
Trish beelines for us, clasping a mic, her blonde bob as unmoving as the hair on a Lego woman. I flash back to the viral video, picturing the moment when TJ’s ex refused to hold his hand on camera.
I grab his hand. His brown-eyed gaze sails to our threaded fingers. Is he thinking about that other interview? Cataloging the differences?
I hope so.
Trish arrives and sticks out a hand. “Hi there, TJ. I’m Trish from the morning news, and we’ve talked in the past.”
“Of course. Good to see you again,” he says, so smooth and on it.
She shifts to me, introducing herself. “And I’ve adored you since Afternoon Delight and Our Secret Courtship. And, get ready for this—I even saw you in The Artificial Girlfriend way back when.”
Whoa. That’s hardcore. “Hardly anyone mentions that show,” I say, truly surprised.
TJ nudges my side. The pride on his face is picture-perfect. “Told you you were great in that.”
Trish thrusts the mic in his face. “So, you saw The Artificial Girlfriend too?”
“I did,” TJ says warmly. “Little-known fact. I helped Jude rehearse for that series.”
Trish looks confused. “How did you do that?”
TJ squeezes my hand, giving me an affectionate glance before returning his focus to Trish. “We were roomies for three weeks in London. Eight years ago,” he says, and the memories—dear God, the fucking amazing memories—of those twenty-one days hit me like the sun rising in the morning.
“He helped me run lines for that audition,” I say.
“He was nervous. But I knew he’d get it.”
I smile, a little embarrassed. “He was very, very encouraging.”
“That’s not all, Trish,” TJ says, and I freeze for a second, unsure where he’s going. Then, he turns to me and finishes, “Remember what I said about you getting an Oscar someday?”
Damn, that’s sweet and sexy. I lift a finger, wag it. “Don’t jinx me.”
He returns to Trish, who’s waiting with avid eyes with a laugh. “Allow me. I told him, and this is pretty much an exact quote, When you get your Oscar, be sure to thank me for running the lines that got you your breakout gig.”
I smile for the twentieth time tonight, a little glowy everywhere.
“You did say that.”
Trish beams. “What a wonderful story. Roomies reunited.”
“Hey, that could be the name of your book, TJ. Or wait—maybe The Roommate Arrangement. How about that?”
He gives me a crooked grin. “You’re naming my books now, Jude?”
“Seems I am,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.
“Just one more question,” Trish says. We’ve made it this far, so I mentally cross my fingers that she isn’t about to curveball me with an Is William really just a friend?
She turns to my date instead. “TJ, is it too soon to expect that Jude might inspire your next big book?”
He blinks as if he’s caught unprepared. Then he parts his lips to speak, but no sound comes. He looks lost.
I jump in. “A man can hope. Thanks again, Trish.” I want to ask him what’s wrong, but a few more bloggers ask for photos, so we smile and pose and answer a few simple questions.
Are you looking forward to the musical?
-Absolutely.
What do you think of your Oscar prospects?
-It’s an honor to be nominated.
How are you enjoying New York?
-It’s wonderful, especially since my boyfriend’s here.
When we’re done, I guide TJ away from the spotlight of reporters and away from Slade and the handsome man by his side, presumably his date. I tug TJ into a corner of the theater, near a bar. “Sorry Trish asked you that.”
He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a mood. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”
But once we’re inside my home, I set my phone on the counter, and it blinks with a text from William.
The words flash on my screen for both of us to see.
Thanks again for talking earlier.
TJ arches a brow and gives me a scathing look. This is the problem with friction. It’s good in the bedroom, but it’s bad out of it.
And it turns out when we’re bad, we’re quite horrid.