THE CASE OF THE REAPPEARING PAGES
Jude
I have a new admiration for location scouts. That job is hard.
TJ and I scour the city on Saturday morning for the perfect backdrop.
Well, we scour online from his couch. I lose my focus, though, tempted by that toasted bagel he’s crunching into.
“What about Abingdon Square?” he asks when he finishes his bite.
I consider the pic of the tiny park nearby. “But is it too cute? Like we’re trying too hard?”
“Fair point.” We scroll through Instagrammable New York from Central Park to the High Line, to the Brooklyn Bridge, but I can’t think straight with that disappearing bagel so close to me.
He’s almost done with it, and its death saddens me. I whimper, then lunge for it, grabbing the final piece and popping it in my mouth. I moan in pleasure. “Carbs,” I groan.
TJ cracks up. “Poor Jude.”
When I finish it, I sigh happily. “I’ve got the answer!”
I tell him my idea, and he loves it.
* * *
An hour later, we’re showered and looking sharp. I have on a burgundy Henley I didn’t wear on my trip, and TJ’s got on his fox shirt.
We grab a Lyft and head to my place. “Before we start,” I say, as we head up the steps, “I have a prop I think might come in handy.”
“No dildos, you pervert. That’s selling us too hard.”
“Mmm. We should add sex toy shopping to the shopping list after blankets. Wait. No. Before blankets.”
“Done.” He mimes checking off a list.
I laugh. “Anyway, I have a book I want to show you. It’s not on my bookshelf,” I say, excited to let him in on a little secret of my own.
Inside my home, I bring him to my bedroom and slide open the nightstand drawer. The copy is worn, but I remember perfectly the day he bought it at An Open Book. I, too, can recall the night we read it together and the morning he left it behind for me to discover once he was gone.
I turn around and hand him the paperback. On the cover are two men in top hats.
“You kept it,” he says, reaching for the book like it’s a precious artifact—another record of us.
“I would never let it go. Open it. I saved all the notes you left me in our flat too.”
Reverently, he opens the pages, re-reads his roomie letters to me, then shuts the book, shaking his head in disbelief. “You brought it to New York even after . . .?”
I nod. “Even after.”
He sets it down, and kisses me deeply.
And so intensely that I have no choice but to pause our plans. “Get naked now,” I tell him.
* * *
Twenty minutes and two blow jobs later, we’re both presentable again.
We take a seat on my emerald-green couch, the copy of The Importance of Being Earnest at our side.
“Are you ready?” I ask him.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
I grab my mobile, set it in a phone stand on the table, and hit record.
“Hi there, everyone. And Happy Saturday. I’m Jude Fox, and I’m here with my boyfriend, TJ Hardman.”
The bearded babe waves to the camera. “Hey everyone.” He drapes an arm around me, hand resting on my shoulder like it usually does.
It’s unposed and natural.
“So, you might have read some stories about us. And we wanted to set the record straight,” I say, glancing briefly at my guy. He looks content. It’s a good look. “Yes, it’s completely true that we had a fake romance. At the time, it seemed like the only option for both of us for various reasons,” I continue, but I don’t go into detail. Though the confession is public, the reasons remain private. “And yes, we were supposed to break up. But sometimes life imitates art. We didn’t break up. We’re staying together.”
I look to TJ, and now it’s his turn.
“We fell in love. For real. Sort of like in a romance novel, where they have to fake a love story and guess what? It becomes real. That’s us. Some people might say this is just another stunt. That’s okay. We know the truth. But we want you—my readers and his fans—to know the full story. We want to share it with you,” he says, and my heart soars, full of joy and pride.
This is a whole new TJ. Open, vulnerable, fearless. He looks at me with a glowing smile as if he wants confirmation he should keep going.
“Start at the beginning.”
TJ takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time, I was a finance reporter, and I went to London for work. The very first day I met a beautiful—we’re talking heart-stopping—guy outside a store. He talked to me, flirted with me, then gave me his name. Jude. Just Jude, and he said he worked at a bookstore on Cecil Court. And I thought, Score. This smoking-hot British babe wants me. But, you see, Cecil Court has about twenty bookshops. So yeah, this guy,” he says, pointing a thumb at his chest, “went wandering down Cecil Court looking for that guy.” He squeezes my shoulder.
Jude takes up all the space in my mind. He makes everyone else look like a carbon copy of an already faded, old-timey, black-and-white photograph.
After the last week of getting to know him, I’m no longer convinced I can handle fifty more weeks of living together with, let’s face it, my dream guy. He’s the swooniest man I’ve ever known, and my entire body vibrates just being near him. He’s wickedly charming and ridiculously beautiful, and I am so far gone.
Then we go to our public pages and tell our readers, our fans, and friends to watch the video.
Anyone is welcome to hear our love story.