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)
I’ll have to settle in with my worries for a while.
For a five-hour-long while. The whole flight, he taps away, a little madman-like, screen tucked low, gaze as intent as if he had blinders on, and he’s unperturbed by anything around him.
As he writes, I resign myself to reviewing the script changes for my character. There’s nothing major, but it’s hard for me to focus with my mind whirling. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I close the script on my reader app then pop in my earbuds, listening to a memoir by a gay Indian actor that boasts a touching, funny kind of charm. It distracts me for a bit, but eventually, my uncomfortable feelings about Top-Notch Boyfriend swim back up.
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.
21
THE REAL SCORE
Jude
I brace myself for I only want to be fake boyfriends.
I don’t want more.
It’s not you, it’s me.
TJ drags a hand through his hair as the car pulls away from the arrivals section. “I had this moment where I was spiraling,” he says as if he has to peel the words apart slowly.
“About what?”
“Me. Who I am. What I want.”
I think I’m going to be sick. “Like what?” It comes out as a croak.
“The things I share—the things I don’t share. Little things like that.” His tone is dry, but I don’t want deadpan TJ now. I want fiery TJ.
I stare down at my shoes, black motorcycle boots, the laces nice and tight. The details distract me from the ache in my chest.
“And then on the plane,” he continues, “I wrote this scene where the laid-back hero goes out with his friends to play ping-pong, and they kind of rib him, since they know the truth of how he feels.”
I look up, frowning. What does that even mean?
“And he tells them the score, even though he knows there are a ton of things keeping him and the other hero apart.”
Is this an allegory for us? “What are you getting at?” My voice cracks and breaks, and fuck, that’s not how I want to sound, but my panic is there for him to hear.
Alarm flashes in TJ’s eyes. “Oh shit. I was trying to tell you a story, and I think I took too long,” TJ says, chagrined. He runs a hand through my hair, and my heart rate starts to settle. “I was telling you about the scene I wrote because it made me think about what I want. I want to be like the hero I’m writing—open with his friends. The thing is, I hardly have been open. I never told anyone but Hazel about you and me.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“It made sense at the time,” TJ says. “When I came back from London, I figured if I told a soul, I’d cave and reach out to you. I was trying to honor our Look Me Up deal. I didn’t breathe a word about you till years later. Hazel figured it out because I was talking about your TV show—Our Secret Courtship.”
“I had to delete your number so I wouldn’t give in and call you,” I admit.
He stares at me, then looks out the window at the city, as if watching lights and cars helps him understand people. “We both have our coping mechanisms. I keep things to myself. Protection, I suppose,” he says.
I take some comfort from him admitting his MO. “Olivia knows the true story. So does my brother—I told him recently about you. But why are you sharing this now?”
He turns back to me. His eyes are vulnerable as if he’s gearing up to say something hard—maybe the reason he told the story in the first place. “Some of my friends are going to be in Vegas. Jason, and Luke too. Luke is the second-string quarterback with the New York Leopards. They want to hang out with us,” he says.