Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“It was that or beer,” he says. “And you explicitly stated no beer so I was forced to make an executive decision.”
“Fair enough.” I can appreciate a guy who listens; a guy who isn’t afraid to make a decision under pressure. I tip my drink in his direction. “Thank you.”
“So … Jovie,” he says my name like he’s trying it out on his tongue for the first time. “Is that like … Bon Jovi?”
“One and the same,” I say. “Only spelled with an i-e.”
“Were your parents Bon Jovi fans?”
“They were. Believe it or not, I was actually conceived in the bathroom at a Bon Jovi concert,” I say. “August 1996. It was the These Days tour. Van Halen opened.” I squint, trying to recall all the details my parents have overshared with me over the years. “Saratoga Springs, Florida. It was raining cats and dogs that night. My mom was there with her boyfriend who ditched her for her best friend. My dad was there by himself because—I dunno—he does a lot of random things by himself. Anyway, they met and then I happened then they got married and now they’re boring, middle-aged schoolteachers living happily ever after in Kennebunkport.”
“Pretty sure I was conceived in the back of an El Camino behind a strip club,” he says.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you were joking.”
He takes a sip of beer. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“That’s a hell of a way to come into the world though,” I say. “Not a lot of people can say they were conceived like that. I bet there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of us Bon Jovi babies.”
I swallow a mouthful of hard lemonade. It’s just as saccharin as the fuzzy navel wine cooler sloshing around in my empty stomach. I should have eaten before we went out tonight, but I came back from a four o’clock class, took an online test that was due at midnight, and grabbed a shower before meeting up with my friends.
I’m about to ask him about his interesting moniker when the room begins to tilt and spin.
I think I’m going to be sick …
The burn of bile rises up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Will you excuse me for a second?”
Abandoning my perch in the corner of the party house’s packed living room, I squeeze through throngs of partygoers in search of the nearest bathroom. Racing down the hallway, my stomach on fire, I try every door until I find one that opens.
I spot the vanity first, then the shower.
I don’t even notice the dark-haired guy zipping his fly until I’m already curled over the sink, expelling orange-tinted liquid Mount Vesuvius style.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The guy sharing the bathroom with me throws his hands in the air and takes a step back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, tasting the bitter, disgusting liquor all over again with each word.
Hunched over the sink, I keep my head down.
“You okay?” He scratches at his temple before brushing his dark waves across his forehead.
“Yeah,” I lie. Another wave of nausea rolls through me, but I manage to stave it off. “That’s what I get for drinking on an empty stomach.”
“Rookie mistake.”
“I know, right?”
The handsome stranger hands me a roll of toilet paper.
“Thanks,” I say as I tear off a few sheets. I dab my mouth before washing my hands.
“Hey, you, uh … want to grab something to eat?” He checks his watch. “This party’s kind of lame, and I was thinking about moving on anyway. There’s a 24-hour diner around the corner with the best late-night pancakes …”
“Late-night pancakes are my weakness,” I say. “Do they have chocolate chip?”
“They do. But they don’t hold a candle to the maple pecan,” he says. “What do you say? You in?”
“You had me at late-night pancakes.”
We exit the bathroom together—a move that garners a handful of stares, oohs, and aahs from the people loitering in the hall, but my bathroom stranger friend doesn’t seem to notice and I couldn’t care less.
Passing the living room, I stop to glance to the corner where I was chatting it up with Stone before things took an unfortunate turn—but he’s gone.
It’s a shame.
He seems like a guy who would appreciate a late-night pancake.
“You okay?” my new friend asks.
I take one last scan of the place, searching in vain for the Kelly green polo and the sandy blond sailor.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We’re a block into our journey when he says, “I don’t think you told me your name.”
“Jovie,” I say, though I don’t feel like going into the whole how-I-was-conceived spiel. “What’s your name?”
“Jude,” he says, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets as we stroll under a moonlit sky.
We don’t leave the diner until a quarter past four in the morning. It turns out Jude is an avid bicyclist/hiker/climber, business management major, and collector and curator of all things nineties and early 2000s pop culture. We reminisce about Orbitz, Fruitopia, and Heinz purple ketchup, and he promises to show me his Pog collection one of these days.