MY SECRET CAVE IN MIDDLE EARTH
TJ
First comes the bright tone of the trumpet—next the majestic rumble of the tuba. Then the crisp rattle of the snare drum.
Mason rounds his desk, waving an imaginary baton, conducting the marching band pumping through his computer.
“You wanted a parade,” he declares as I stare from the doorway, my jaw on the floor. In the pantheon of Mason praise, this is Everest.
“For real?”
He stretches across his desk with a flourish, hits a key, then cuts the sound. “For real, but don’t let it go to your head, kid.”
“You do an excellent job at downsizing my head daily.”
The dapper man takes a chair across from the couch, gesturing for me to grab a seat too.
I do, and I’m literally and figuratively on the edge of it. The possibility that the pages I sent him last night aren’t garbage is exhilarating. But just to make sure . . . “So? You like the first few chapters?”
“No, TJ. I just planned that entire Sousa reenactment on a Wednesday morning because I hated them,” he says with an aggrieved sigh, lifting his gaze heavenward. “What is it with today’s youth? They’re so needy. Back in my day—”
“Oh, we’re talking about the Paleolithic era again. I do love your dinosaur tales. Continue.”
He ignores me, whipping off his black glasses and setting them on the sleek metal table. “It’s got everything I want in a sexy rom-com. The mix-up with the laundry when the laid-back hero gets the uptight one’s washed and folded clothes, but then they discover they wear the same Rafe Rodmans and that throws them both into a tizzy. Hello! Hot underwear can distract even the most disciplined man!”
“Especially if it’s yellow with fox illustrations on the waistband,” I offer with a grin.
“Who knew laundry could be so sexy?”
Me. I learned it last week with Jude. “Dude, dryers. Am I right?”
Mason waggles a finger at me. “And the blanket-shopping date. Where did you come up with that? That was brimming with sexual tension and flirting. Also, why are there blankets in literally every store?”
“Everywhere, blankets are multiplying. So obviously, blankets are banging,” I say, seconding my laid-back hero’s thesis. Also, these fictional guys I’m writing aren’t carbon copies of Jude and me—no one would ever accuse me of being laid-back, and Jude Fox is not uptight.
This is my imagination cranking.
But Jude certainly helps.
“And then that scalding-hot kiss in the back of the SUV while they drove around the city.” Mason brings his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “It was hate-kiss perfection. And I was like, ‘Tremaine, you sexy beast. Get over here right now, hubs.’”
That’s the highest of praise. “I’m like lube, Mason.”
“Top-shelf lube at that. Anyway, after I read the pages, I took the liberty of talking you up to Brooks & Bailey this morning,” he says.
Shit. I was kind of hoping to stay off my publisher’s radar until I was done. Like maybe they’ll collectively have professional amnesia that I’m a year late with my book.
“And?” I ask, my nerves tripping over themselves.
“Amy Summers sent this over. Think of it as a motivational gift.” He heads to his desk to grab an orange ceramic mug then thrusts it at me. Inside the mug is a fox—my editor loves mugs with animal head figures at the bottom. Creature cups, she calls them. I smile, then unwrap the piece of paper around the fox and read her note.
Dear TJ,
Reading your books is like drinking a vanilla latte and finding a cute ceramic fox at the bottom of the cup. I can’t wait to read your new romance and discover what delights await readers on the pages! Carry on and have all the coffee!
Xoxo Amy
“Aww. I’m gonna post it on Insta when I go to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium later today. This is like the nice editor’s way of saying don’t fucking miss a deadline again,” I say, tucking the mug into my messenger bag.
“I see you haven’t lost your ability to read between the lines. Keep those skills sharp.”
“Always.”
“Now, don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t get complacent. Keep it up. Write, write, write. At the pace you’ve set the last five days, I think you could finish this in a month.”
Has he lost his mind? “Seriously?”
Judging from his blank stare, the answer is yes, seriously. “You’ve written sixteen thousand words,” Mason says. “That’s more than three thousand words a day. Do I really need to say I was right or is it patently obvious? You needed some dates. I sent you on some.”
He’s . . . not wrong.
Dating Jude did inspire me.
But not until we cleared the air and fucked it out.
That was when the words began to flow. Words have flown faster since our just-for-us date on Sunday.
“You sure did,” I tell Mason, but I don’t dive into the truth. Fake dating didn’t motivate me. Real dating did. Maybe because my heart is no longer imitating Han Solo in carbonite.
“See? A little make-believe never hurt anyone.” Mason strides to his desk, rapping his knuckles on it. “By the way, you’re a damn good actor. The pics of you and Jude make it look like you’re enjoying his company a lot more than a ball waxing. But hey, maybe you get your balls waxed at a different kind of place than I do,” he says with a wink.
“I am enjoying it,” I say, not sure why I need to defend my fake romance to Mason.
“Good, good,” he says quickly, then pats the table. “Let’s chat about Web—”
“I mean it. Jude is—”
Mason tilts his head, curious. “Easy on the eyes, like I said? Fun? Gentlemanly?”
He’s all of that, but the words barely cover Jude. “He’s great,” I say, and even though it’s true, it tastes like a lie, acrid and bitter.
I don’t want to bite into this taste again.
“Listen, I talked to Robert Walsh at Webflix last night, and they just snagged Sebastian Lowe to play opposite Christian,” he says.
That’s quite a coup. Sebastian’s latest movie is a critic’s darling. “Sebastian is great,” I say.
“And fingers crossed, they’ve got a new writer working on the adaptation for film. He’s sharp and hilarious and loves queer romance because, you know, he has taste, and he knows it’s the best thing since dogs. So, there you go. We should get this Top-Notch Boyfriend train rolling again,” he says. “Choo-choo.”
“That’s great too,” I say.
And truly, this is good news.
But as I leave, a weight sinks in my gut. I’m lying to Mason by omission. As long as this fake romance continues, I’ll have to keep biting off these lies. Sure, Mason doesn’t have to know the full truth of Jude and me. Maybe he wouldn’t even care if he did. But I’m lying by telling everyone he’s my boyfriend when the truth is so much more complicated than that.
Jude Fox is the first guy I ever fell in love with, the only man I’ve ever loved, and the person I want to get to know all over again right now.
And over the last few days, I haven’t lied with Jude. I’ve been real with him, truthful with him, honest with him. I like the new me.
It’s a big change, stripping away my defenses, but it feels good.
I just wish I didn’t feel this bad as I head into the New York morning.
* * *
I do my best to set those thoughts aside as I meet Hazel to write. I power through a couple of scenes, and then I post a pic of the fox mug on Insta with the caption: The Magical Energy Imps in this cup of coffee are directly responsible for the scene on the dryer. You’re welcome.
The replies from readers land in a barrage of I can’t wait to read it and Bring it on, King TJ.
Their words fuel another round of writing.
By the time the clock hits two, I’ve logged another chapter, and Hazel has finished the meet-cute in her new book, the spin-off of her big hit, Sweet Spot. We read each other’s pages, offering little suggestions here and there. “And don’t forget to introduce Dane Donovan soon,” I add, reminding her about the character Malcolm inspired. “I’m planning a friend-group scene, and Dane, AKA The Big Douche, is about to show up.”
She bangs her fist on the table. “I will never forget my mortal enemy. And you want to know why? In the last week, Malcolm has been liking all my tweets and LOLing on all my Instagram posts, but guess what? I checked out his Goodreads shelves. And last year, he one-starred Sweet Spot and left a review with nothing but an eye-rolling emoji.”
I burn. “Fuck him. He broke the golden rule.”
“Thou shalt never disparage another author online,” she says.
We smack palms in solidarity then return to the scenes. When we’re done, we reward ourselves with a toffee cookie we share, breaking off bites. As we go, we decide we should write a TV show, and that we’re going to call it Meet-Cute Again, and it’ll be an ensemble comedy with queer and straight romance, and we will cast it with our favorite actors and actresses.
“We’re brilliant,” Hazel declares.
“Geniuses,” I add.
“Webflix should hire us right now,” she adds.
“Meet-Cute Again is going to be the new binge-worthy show.” Holy hell, it feels good to banter about writing with my work wife. “This is good. You and me, shooting the breeze.”
“We always shoot the breeze.”
“I know, but I want you to know it means a lot to me,” I say, trying on this patent honesty thing for size. I’ve never lied to Hazel per se, but I also could stand to be more open.
With a lift of her brow, she glances left, then right, then whispers, “Are we living in the movie Face/Off? Did you steal my friend TJ’s face and slap it on?”
I snort-laugh. “We’re not in the John Travolta/Nicholas Cage flick, but point taken. I’m usually a dick.”
“I mean, if the shoe fits,” she says, teasing. “Seriously, though, this is nice. You being all expressive and such with your feelings.”
“I’m testing a new MO—being open. How’s it working for ya?”
“Weird but good. Which is how I’d describe you. That’s me being open with my feelings and giving you a compliment,” she says.
“Weird is good, babes,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the mug and picks it up. “Do you think the fox is intentional?”
Amy has to know about Jude and me. Even if I’ve never posted pics of us on my Insta, FoxMan is all over the socials. “How could it not be intentional? It’s a little too coincidental, otherwise.”
Scanning the shop, she lowers her voice. “So is she also saying I know that Jude Fox is the secret you hide at the bottom of a tasty beverage?”
Whoa. Deep thoughts. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you think my editor knows the full story?”
Hazel shrugs as if to say, stranger things have happened. “Could she?”
If Amy knows the truth, would she care? Probably not. She’s not all up in her writers’ business.
Unless . . . readers would care.
Shit.
I slam my computer closed, stuff it into my messenger bag along with the creature cup, and point to the door. “We have to meet Jason and Luke for pinball. Let’s go,” I say. My Hawks buddy is in town visiting Nolan, and Luke lives here.
I don’t know. But I’m tired of the way these questions own me.
Fuck the secrets.
I call Jude in his Lyft. The second he answers, I speak: “Ask the driver to wait two minutes. I want to show you something. I’m in 4A. The doorman will let you in.” With that invitation, I begin to pry open . . . theyears.
Jude wastes no time. “I’m there,” he says, leaping at the chance.
Wilde sure was right about romance, but it’s time to face the uncertainty and let Jude into my home.