Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
As we go head-to-head in a pinball round of romance writers versus quarterbacks, I debate what to say to Jason about Jude and me.
Where to start.
And, most of all, if it’s my story to tell.
When we’re done, I have no more answers.
I’m more twisted than I was when I left Mason’s office. Jason claps my shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you in Vegas this weekend with your dude?”
I snap my gaze to him, surprised. “You’re going to Stone’s concert?”
“Hell, yeah. It benefits LGBTQ charities. That’s kind of my thing.”
“Mine too,” Luke puts in.
Right, right. Of course, they’re going. I should have thought of that sooner. Jason adds, “I head back to San Francisco for an event, then I’ll be in Vegas Saturday afternoon. But let’s shoot for Saturday night after the concert, K? We can all hang.”
Another twist of my gut. Another squeeze of my heart. “Of course. Yeah. I’ll, um, see you there.”
I’ll need to learn how to escape from this secret-keeping cave in Middle Earth soon.
That night, I sink onto my couch and bury my head in my story. But the nagging feeling doesn’t fade. What do I say to Jude about meeting with my friends in Vegas? How do I handle hanging with him and my buds? Do I act like he’s my real boyfriend? Or my real fake one? My head spins in confusion.
I think back to the day I left London, nearly eight years ago. That first weekend when I was home in the States, I decided I would tell no one about Jude. I stuck to my promise for years until Hazel saw through me. She’s still the only one with access to the Jude vault.
I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m not embarrassed about who I love. I’m out and proud and have been since I was a teenager.
But I’m also cautious of people. Because of the things they do. The secrets they keep.
In middle school, I had to learn to protect myself because of my name. A few years later, when I stumbled across the dirty truth about my parents’ divorce, I chose to protect the rest of my family. I didn’t tell a soul the real reason they were splitting up.
Self-preservation is a pattern, and I’m not sure how to undo it or if I can.
I close my laptop and leave it on the coffee table. Flopping down on my big sectional, I practice words to say to my brother, friends, and family.
Words I’ve never said to Chance. Or Jason, Nolan, Easton, Jo, or Owen. Not to Mom or Dad. Or Mason. Not in any form. Not once.
Did I ever tell you about the time I fell in love in London?
Or maybe . . .
Hey, remember when I said romance and I were on a timeout? Funny story. It’s not because I was dumped on national TV by the Chicken King. It’s because of this guy who came back into my life and stole my heart again.
But I left when things got tough. Now I’m fake dating him.
And falling for him all over again.
That’s a lot.
That’s the motherlode, and I don’t know how to mine it. Instead, I lift open the top to my ottoman and pick up a copy of my favorite play from inside. Maybe somewhere in the pages of this Victorian satire, I’ll find the right words.
Or maybe this book will just remind me of my big fucking problem. I bought this new copy of The Importance of Being Earnest when I was packing to go to Los Angeles last year, but I never gave it to Jude. I wasn’t sure what to expect from our weekend, so I didn’t bring him this gift.
I meant to, but I backed out.
Typical.
This book is all my roadblocks packed into one single object.
I, TJ Hardman, didn’t give this book to Jude, tell him about my Webflix deal, or share my deepest feelings with him.
Flipping open the pages, I land on one of Wilde’s truest lines.
The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
The next day, after I finish packing for our flight this afternoon, I scroll through Instagram replies from the coffee cup shot. Reading the excitement is the only thing that doesn’t make me feel topsy-turvy.
At least, it doesn’t until I spot a new comment from The Man’s Man on my post.
Dude, so glad you’re writing again! Can’t wait to grab that drink and talk shop. Let me know when.
Shit. I forgot about drinks. Maybe I have a mental block about that guy. But I said I’d go. Plus, there’s that advice about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.
I reply: Let’s get together soon. Next week?
Planning drinks with that guy makes me feel dirty, so I focus on things that make me happy—Jude, writing, friends.
Trouble is, some of the things that make me happy also make me feel uncertain.