SOME ALBATROSSES
Jude
Everything in 4A is a surprise.
I envisioned something else entirely for TJ’s apartment. “Confession: I thought your home would look like a library,” I say as I gobble up the actual details.
“I wish,” he says wistfully. “Maybe with the next royalty check I’ll go full Beast mode and get a library with a ladder.”
I thrust my arm in the air, “pick me” style. “I’ll be your Belle.”
His smile is sweet but a little hurried—no time to waste. I’ve only got two minutes, and I make the most of them. File everything away to recall later. The tiny kitchen with its gleaming white appliances looks rarely used. The living room where one wall is exposed brick, and the opposite is sky blue, with bright, cartoony images of the Space Needle and Pike’s Place hung in simple frames.
“Seattle. Where you’re from,” I remark.
“Yep,” he says.
They share space with drawings of animals scampering over related puns.
You’ve Got to be Kiddingunder a young goat.
Suck it Up below a hummingbird.
“Wordplay. Where you live now,” I tease.
“You’re good.” TJ gives an approving smile, then nods to the hallway. “Want to see the rest?”
Hell yes.
“Of course,” I say, in a supreme understatement, but I’m sure he can hear the excitement in my voice.
I follow him quickly. It’s a short corridor; one door leads to a bathroom, the other to a bedroom. He gestures to the bedroom door, permitting me to gawk.
I take it, happily.
My gaze doesn’t leave the bed, with its dark green duvet and mountain of charcoal gray and silver pillows—late afternoon sunlight streams in through a window. At night, moonlight would coast over TJ’s naked skin. What a sight that would be. “I’m getting ideas,” I whisper.
“We’ll miss our flight if your ideas get really good,” he says.
“Fair point.” I spin around and return to the living room, where a question nags at me. “Where do you write?”
He shrugs casually. “Usually at a coffee shop.”
That tracks, but now that he’s answered, it turns out it’s not what I wanted to ask. There’s something else I’m desperate to know, but he keeps talking and walking.
“Sometimes I write on the couch,” he adds, patting the sofa as he moves past it. “Though not when Nolan was crashing here a few months ago. This couch was his bedroom for a while when he was in New York. He and Emerson live together now.” I hear the offer in his voice, but he stops shy of saying, you’ll meet them someday. Still, I like that he’s thinking it.
But I can’t love it because of the elephant that parked its wrinkled gray ass in the middle of the room. TJ mentioned his home was teeming with his books. Yet, I don’t see a single one.
Did he hide his entire oeuvre before inviting me into his space?
My stomach twists. The idea he put away his books because I’d be here is a slap in the face. I want him to trust me. More than that, I want to be trustworthy.
But maybe he still needs to protect himself. Maybe someday, he’ll let me in deeper. “Thank you. I feel like I just got a VIP tour backstage,” I say, doing my best to appreciate what I have rather than pine for what I don’t.
“One more thing,” he says, and when I turn, he’s standing in front of an ottoman.
It opens to double as storage, and it’s stuffed with books, including Top-Notch Boyfriend. TJ picks up a copy. “Space in New York is limited. So, here you go.” He brandishes the book then sets it down with a thud. “The thing that split us up,” he says, sounding resigned to the role his breakout hit played in our breakup.
It makes me sad too. Thanks to my insecurity, I drove the wedge between us after his success.
But the book haunts him for other reasons too. TJ thinks his next book won’t live up to this one. That he won’t write that well again.
I’m sure he will, though. I have all the faith in the world. “Your new book is going to be fucking amazing,” I say, wanting to give him all my confidence, the way he’s done for me.
“I hope so,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. “There might be a few little crossover elements with this one. Maybe that’s a bad idea since people will compare the two.”
“They might, but I’m certain your new book will be better than top-notch.”
“Maybe it will,” he says, hopeful. Then he picks up the novel again and weighs it in his hand like he’s not sure what to do with it.
For a few seconds, I’m afraid he’ll hold it out to me.
I don’t want to read it, but what if that helps him? If so, I’ll brave Flynn’s story.
“You know I haven’t read Top-Notch Boyfriend but if you ever wanted me to, I would,” I offer. “If you want someone to make sure the crossover hits just right, or someone to read it and remind you the new book is going to be even better than the first, I can be that guy.”
There. That’s manageable. Even if the thought of cracking it open feels wildly uncomfortable.
But maybe that’s what relationships are about—getting through the awkward times together. Being there even when one person seems to have something you don’t—because you’re a team, and their wins are your wins.
Their losses are your losses.
TJ sets down the paperback and smiles at me. “Thanks, Jude. I’ll let you know if I ever need that.”
I glance at the book again, hoping he doesn’t, but ready if he does.
* * *
A couple of hours later, we board the flight. The brunette in the third row does a double-take when I turn into the seat in front of her.
“Are you Jude Fox?” the woman asks. She’s maybe thirty, possibly thirty-five.
“Yes, I am,” I say.
She brings her hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with tears as she seems to fight off a stranglehold of emotions. “Your film . . . wow. You captured it—loving an addict. Your performance was so true,” she says, and two lone tears slide down her olive cheeks.
That’s one of the most emotional reactions I’ve ever gotten to If Found, Please Return. It’s gratifying to connect with someone so strongly. “Thank you. That means the world to me. Truly, it does,” I say as TJ puts our bags overhead.
“And then to see your character find love again? Well, it gave me hope,” she says, her voice wobbly. “I think the whole film gives a lot of people hope.”
My heart swells with gratitude. “That’s all I can ask for,” I say as she swipes at her cheeks. I hunt in my pockets for a tissue, even though I don’t carry them. When I look around, as if one will magically appear beside me, TJ’s vanished.
Where did he go?
Two seconds later, he returns, handing me a tissue.
Look at that. My fake boyfriend is so thoughtful. I give the tissue to the woman. “Thank you,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “My sister battled addiction. That’s the other reason it touched me so. Sorry.”
I want to wrap her in a hug. “It’s so hard to watch someone you care about go through that struggle. Hard to know when to be there for them, and when to be tough.”
“That’s the hardest part,” she says.
My eyes stray to the man by my side. TJ’s quiet, though his expression hints he understands the dilemma too.
“Anyway, I’m Sofia, and I don’t want to interrupt your flight. But I had to say that, and to thank you. I can’t wait to see your next movie or TV show.”
“Thank you, Sofia. I can’t wait for you to tune in too.”
I sit, blowing out a breath, touched but energized, too, by the interaction.
Once he sits, TJ turns to face me, smiling softly. He’s not saying I told you so, and he’s not saying Didn’t I say once upon a time that you’d be recognized?
But he doesn’t have to voice those things. We both know he had more faith in me than I had in myself. That’s not something I want to take for granted ever again. But I don’t want to risk saying something damning in public, botching either our fake or our increasingly real romance, so I fish out my mobile and send TJ a text.
Jude: Thanks for the tissue save. A very romance-hero move.
When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he checks it, mouths clever, then types.
TJ: Did you like that more or less than the way I took off my shirt the other day?
Jude: Do not give me an unsolvable dilemma!
TJ: Answer the question, Jude.
The day TJ left London, we said goodbye at the river and made big promises to each other. That we’d focus on our careers, that someday, we’d look one another up. And that he’d base a hero on me.
God, it sounds silly in my head. It’d sound more ridiculous if I ever breathed it aloud. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to him, and that part of TJ is still so very private. Though, I’ve never told him about the two years when my career nearly came to a standstill. Maybe some stories ought to remain private. Some parts of us that are for ourselves only.
When the neon lights of the city of sin come into view, I’m antsy to get off the plane. To walk off these weird feelings about his home, books, and friends.
Once we’re out of the airport, we slide into a town car with a partition. Before I can quip about dirty deeds in a secret city, TJ blurts out, “Yesterday, I kind of had an existential crisis.”
My stomach plummets. This can’t be good.