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)
On the other side of the turnstile, the security agent pulls my bag aside. A sturdy woman with a long braid unzips the toiletry kit as she tosses me a stern look, one that says she takes her job seriously. I cross my fingers she doesn’t give a fuck where, when, or how my laundry was hung up to dry for the masses to see. Nope, all she seems to care about are the rules of size and liquid, since she’s fondling my ACURE shampoo and reading the bottle. “Ooh, I like this brand,” she says.
“It’s cruelty-free,” I say.
“Cool. I’m vegan,” she says, then picks up a travel-size container of lube, gives it a curious once-over.
“And that’s cruelty-free too,” I add.
She blinks, her lips parting in question.
“In fact, it’s cruelty-free in all the ways, if you know what I mean,” I add.
She’s quiet, and I watch as her brown eyes process the full meaning. I just smile when she gets it.
“Umm. Have fun,” she says awkwardly.
“Oh, I will. I definitely will,” I say.
This guy is getting his groove back.
But the plane is not.
Seven hours later, I am still not in Los Angeles. We’re flying over Who the Fuck Knows Where. Someplace not close to California, and I am not anywhere near on time.
At this rate, I won’t be at my hotel till after midnight.
Eventually, the plane touches down around ten, when it was supposed to land at eight.
When the wheels touch the tarmac, the frustration that’s buzzed through my body dissipates. This is real. I’ll see Jude in mere hours.
But since we’re not sharing a hotel, will he still be in the mood to meet up tonight after his performance? He might be done for the day. When I text him as we taxi, I keep it thoroughly casual since I don’t want to presume.
Plane just landed two hours late. Gonna catch a Lyft to the hotel. See you in the morning, I presume . . .?
When I walk off the plane a few minutes later, there’s a message.
You’ll do nothing of the sort. I am a night owl, and if I get my sexy ass to your hotel, I presume you’ll be one too.
That answers one question—Jude texts just the same way he did seven years ago. With so much flirty charm.
Luck is on my side when I score a Lyft in five minutes, sliding into the backseat. The driver is chatty, asking me what I’m doing in LA as he turns down Check Your Ego, streaming through his speakers.
“Seeing someone for the weekend. He’s performing in a play. Closing night is tomorrow,” I say, and I don’t try to be casual. I’m legit thrilled to see Jude on stage. “I have front-row seats.”
“That’s awesome. You sound stoked,” he says.
I smile as I stare out the window. “I am.” I’m beyond stoked, and I don’t want to scare off Jude by telling him that his invitation to meet up and then see his play is kind of like a fantasy.
And it feels too good to be true. So good that I need to settle down. I gesture to the radio. “Love this band.”
“Me too. Saw them the other week at Whisky a Go Go and they killed it.”
“No kidding? That’s a great club.”
We talk some more about the Los Angeles music scene, and not once does he ask if I’m the guy who was dumped on TV. The front desk clerk doesn’t do a double take when I check into the hotel an hour later. No one stares at me, and it’s awesome.
New coast, new city, and I feel like a new man.
After I head into my room, I shower like the wind, get dressed at the speed of sound, then head downstairs to meet the guy who looked me up seven years later.
Nerves fly through me as I try to picture the scene. What to say. How to act.
I want to put on my best face for Jude. No way do I want to be the guy in a funk in a coffee shop.
I want to be the guy who’s on the other side. Someone who’s witty, clever, confident. The guy who helps his work wife find the dress of her dreams. The dude who entertains a security agent. The man who chats with a Lyft driver about new tunes.
That’s a start, but is it enough?
Pretty sure there’s no guidebook for how to act when you see the guy who got away.
Except, maybe there is.
Maybe I’ve been writing the guidebook over the last several years, for all intents and purposes.
As I push the stairwell door open and head to the lobby bar, I ask myself who I want to be tonight when I see Jude in a couple minutes.
Easy.
I’m gonna play this reunion like I’m one of the heroes in my books.