But of course none of that is true.
“I’m doing great,” I tell her.
Her head tilts. “Now, you know you don’t have to say that just for my sake. I know you don’t like people to worry about you.”
“Seriously, Cam, things couldn’t be better.” I slide my hands into the back pockets of my Levis, wondering when Cameo’s going to make a comment and pick apart my outfit. She’s always been that way, critical and opinionated, always liked to point out my perceived flaws under the guise of being helpful.
Growing up, Cameo and I were never that close. We had more of an oil and water relationship, much to our parents’ disappointment. Mom always thought since we were so close in age, we’d be best friends. But she didn’t take into account that Cameo was born with a competitive streak a mile wide and the greenest envy I’ve ever seen in another human being.
Mutual resentment was the only language we spoke during our teenage years. Cameo hated that I ran track better than she could, she hated that I dated the boys in her grade that never gave her the time of day, and she hated that I was a daddy’s girl, but she never liked to go fishing and have coin tossing contests or any of the “boring” things Dad liked to do.
After Dad died and it was just us and Mom, we learned to put our differences aside and we got better at being cordial, but Cameo is still Cameo. Let’s just say I love her, but only because I have to …
And I think it’d make our father happy to see us together.
“Let’s go shopping,” my sister says, sliding off the bar stool. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t ask for a tour of my place. Sometimes I think she’s secretly afraid she might see something that will make her jealous, so she acts oblivious and disinterested. “The doctor gave me his AmEx and there’s a Chanel store up the street. Need I say more?”
I’ve never understood Cameo’s penchant for the finer things. We come from a staunch working-class family. Dad was a mechanic and Mom alternated between staying at home and working at the local bank as a teller when money was particularly tight.
Chanel, Versace, and Givenchy weren’t even on our radar, let alone in our vocabulary.
“Give me a sec to get ready,” I say before heading to my room to change. The saleswomen would have a fit if I walked in there like this. It’d be a moment straight out of that scene in Pretty Woman, and while I normally don’t care what people think, dealing with dirty looks and Cameo at the same time might be a bit much.
A half hour later, we arrive at the Chanel on 3rd Avenue via taxi because my sister doesn’t walk anywhere in New York.
“I need something to wear for the post-wedding brunch,” she says, referring to her impending nuptials to the doctor. “Wedding colors are blushing gold and platinum, but I don’t want to seem too matchy-matchy, so I might try to avoid anything pink.”
A saleswoman with jet black hair and pale pink lips struts up to my sister and offers her assistance.
“Let me just pull a few things I think you might like, and I’ll get a dressing room for you,” she says before leaving.
Cameo and I take a seat on a white lacquered bench and she angles herself toward me, crossing her long legs.
“So,” she says with a wicked smirk. “Any prospects?”
Arching a brow, I lean back. “Prospects?”
“Yeah. Are you dating anyone?”
“That’s random.” I glance toward the back of the store, wondering when the saleslady will be back to save me from my sister. “What makes you think I’m dating? The ink is barely dry on my divorce papers.”
Cameo sighs, placing her hand on my knee. “I just want you to be happy.”
“And I need a man to be happy?”
My sister laughs. “No. That’s not what I meant. I just want to make sure you feel fulfilled in all areas of your life. Love is a very basic human need.”
“I’m extremely fulfilled,” I say, facing forward because I can’t look at her right now. “Thanks for your concern though.”
“You know … if you ever thought about moving back home, the doctor’s got a few single friends that I’d love to set you up with.”
“Not moving back home.” All of my memories of Sweet Water, West Virginia are tucked into the back of my mind where they belong, where they stay ideal and nostalgic forever, untainted by everything that’s changed since I left for college at eighteen.
Once you leave home, it’s never the same when you go back.
“You should at least visit a little more often,” she says.
“I visit every other month.”
When I first brought Hunter home, he couldn’t get over how nice our town was, how friendly the locals were, and how clean and picturesque the tree-lined streets were. But after he made his first million, Hunter always found an excuse not to come with me to Sweet Water, calling it “hickish” despite the fact that he grew up in Ivy Grove, which wasn’t half as pretty as it sounded. Most of his town looked abandoned, and the parts that didn’t were filled with weedy yards and trucks parked crooked in gravel driveways after a night at the only bar in town. I always wondered if he was jealous of Sweet Water, resenting it for being quaint and homey and all the things he never had growing up.
“Maybe Mom should start coming here,” I say.
Cameo clasps her hand over her heart, giving a boisterous laugh. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
I’m sure she’d waste no time slapping that on the doctor’s AmEx …
Mom’s never been to New York, but she hates it anyway. She hates anything with crowds. State fairs. Theme parks. Concerts. Shopping malls on Black Friday.
“Anyway,” my sister says, “we’re finalizing the catering for the reception, and I really need to know who your plus one is and whether they want chicken or fish.”
“Cameo.”
“What?”
“I’m not bringing anyone,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact.
Her jaw falls as if I’ve just blasphemed all over her wedding. “You know how bad that’ll look? Everyone already knows about your divorce and if you show up alone, they’re going to make a thing out of it, and I really want the focus to be on the doctor and me.”
“I don’t think people care about me as much as you think they do.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s how it’s always been, Love. And you know it.”
“I thought we were past that.” My voice tempers to a whisper. I don’t want to get into it here.
“Past what?”
I don’t buy her clueless act, and I’m not going to continue this petty and pointless conversation in the middle of a Chanel boutique.
“Anyway, we’re less than three weeks out from the wedding so if you don’t find a plus one in the next couple of weeks, let me know and I’ll take care of it,” Cameo says, inspecting her manicure.
Take care of it how?
“All right. It’s ready for you,” the saleslady says when she returns.
It’s hilarious to me that she’s hyper-worried about me stealing attention on her wedding day. I’ve seen her dress. It has miles of tulle and taffeta and a million beads. I highly doubt anyone could steal the show if they tried.
Although … no one back home in Sweet Water has ever seen Jude Warner, and I can’t help but chuckle to myself at the thought of showing up with him as my plus one. Talk about stealing the show. But I won’t do that—to him or to her.
I turned him down when he asked me for a date. I’m not going to turn around and ask him to accompany me to my sister’s wedding.
Cameo can protest all she wants, but I’m not bringing a date. Besides, I’ll be too busy doing my maid of honor duties and ensuring she isn’t freaking out at caterers and florists the week leading up to her dream wedding to the doctor.
“Love, come look at this,” Cameo calls for me from the dressing room. “Do you think this blouse is too snug in the back?”
It fits perfectly. She’s crazy. “It’s fine.”
My sister
’s matte red lips spread into a smile. “All right. I’ll take it. But don’t go anywhere. I’m going to try on a dress next. And when I get back, I want to tell you about this friend of the doctor’s. You’ll just love him.”
Before she turns to head back into her dressing room, I say, “Oh? Did I not make myself clear earlier?” I feign ignorance. “I’m going solo.”
“Do we have to talk about this right here?” she asks, her matching hazel gaze flicking to the saleswoman standing behind me.
Oh, now she cares.
“Nope,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about this at all because there’s nothing more to say. I’m coming alone, and that’s that.”
Chapter Twelve
Jude
The bar owner licks the callused pads of chubby fingers and counts five bills, all of them hundreds.
“Here you go. Good show tonight,” he says in a thick Jersey accent before giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Welcome back anytime.”
I shove the money in my wallet and latch my guitar case before grabbing my phone and ordering a ride to the train station. It’s a quarter past two in the morning and I’ll probably get back to the city a couple hours before the sun rises, but this was worth it.
Singing with my guitar is the only time I feel like me.
The true me.
It makes me forget anything and everything that’s bothering me. It’s almost meditative because I’m so absorbed and in the moment.
I can’t go the next six months without performing, so I called around to a bunch of bars in Bergen County looking for work. The Green Elephant was the only place that called me back, and it was only because the band they booked had to pull out at the last minute. I had to audition via FaceTime and the guy mulled it over for all of five seconds before saying, “You’re hired. But ya gotta be sober and ya gotta play some covers. My people like covers. Bon Jovi. Guns-n-Roses. Ya know, stuff like that.”
My Lyft pulls up ten minutes later, and I load up in the backseat of a red Chevy sedan. The driver is a young woman, hair sunshine blonde and voice angel soft. She reminds me of Love, whom I haven’t seen since we toured that building in Brooklyn a few days ago.
I keep wondering when I’m going to bump into her next, which means she’s constantly on my mind. Love is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep, and I’ve never experienced that with anyone before—not even the girl I dated for three years in my early twenties or the chick I dated for six months last year.
It makes no sense, but the more I try to fight my thoughts, the worse it gets.
I’ve given up trying to make sense of it, and all I can do is tell myself it could always be worse—I could hate her.
“We’re here,” the girl says as she pulls up to a train station. I grab my phone and tip her before climbing out and grabbing my guitar.
A few moments later, I’m buying my ticket and waiting by the platform for the 2:43 PATH train to Hoboken.
By the time I board, I settle into a seat in the back of the second car, hoping I’ll have it all to myself so I can catch a quick nap. Resting my head against the glass, I close my eyes and try to fall asleep despite the dull ringing in my ears from tonight’s performance, only the moment I do, all I can picture is Love.
Love laughing.
Love talking with her hands.
Love looking at me the way that she does, distracted and lost in thought.
This entire thing is fucked up.
Raking my hand across my mouth and exhaling, I push the thoughts from my mind and try to think about anything else but her: the Mets, the Killers, the Ramones, Piper and Ellie, Paw Patrol, Vinnie’s Pizzeria. Anything.
If she knew who I really was, she’d want nothing to do with me—and rightfully so.
I can’t fall for her.
I can’t.
Chapter Thirteen
Love
“Hey, stranger,” I call after Jude from our end of the hallway. He’s just about to step onto the elevator, but he reaches out and holds the doors for me. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” His emerald gaze drinks me up and I realize the last time he saw me dressed like this, I was hidden under an oversized sweatshirt.
“Going for a run?” I ask, pointing to his Dry Fit shorts-and-tee get up before pressing the button for the main floor.
The doors close and it’s just us and the scent of his shower-fresh skin.
“Thought I’d hit the trail in the park before that midday sun kicks in,” he says.
“No consulting today?”
“Nah,” he says, stifling a yawn. “Gave myself the day off. Was up late working last night.”
We arrive at the lobby and he lets me out first, fingertips grazing the bare skin on my back where my top has ridden up. My skin prickles at his touch, but I pretend not to notice.
Raymond watches us leave, giving us a nod and fighting a half-smile like he thinks he’s witnessing the beginnings of something special.
“Hi, Raymond,” I give him a wave. “How’s it going?”
He gives me a wink. “Wonderful. Have a good one, Ms. Aldridge. You too, Mr. Warner.”
Jude gives him some sort of wave-salute thing, and even as we leave, I feel him watching us.
“So nice out,” I say, taking in a lungful of clean, mid-morning air.
Today is one of those rare summer days when it’s not too hot, the breeze is just right, and the sky holds nothing but a handful of puffy white clouds that occasionally block the sun at just the right moments. Suddenly the idea of sweating it out at Soul Cycle while pop music blasts my eardrums doesn’t hold the appeal of a jog in the park with a side of fresh air, but I don’t want to invite myself along—he might get the wrong idea.
“You like to jog?” he asks, basically reading my mind.
“Uh, yeah, actually. I do.” I stare ahead, tempering my excitement. Running in Central Park was one of the reasons I wanted to move to the Upper East Side.
“I could use a partner today,” he says, one hand rested on his narrow hip, fingers tucked into the waistband of his shorts and a hint of taut skin peeking out. “Sometimes it gets boring … going alone, I mean.”
I hesitate, not wanting to seem desperate because I am desperate. Desperate for some fresh air and a sweaty, breathless, mind-clearing jog.
“I don’t know …”
Jude rolls his eyes. “Come on. Let’s not do that thing where I invite you to do something and you hesitate and in the end, we both know you’re going to give in. So … just spare us both this time and give me that big, fat yes you’re holding back.”
I almost choke on my spit.
He’s right.
And I didn’t even realize I was doing it.
“You sure?” I finally ask, though I’m mostly doing it to mess with him.
“Good god, woman,” he says, wrapping his warm hand around my wrist and leading me to the corner where we wait our turn for the crosswalk, and a few minutes later, we find a park bench and begin to stretch.
“Ready?” He jogs in place for a second as he waits for me to finish.
A moment later, we hit the trail.
I keep behind him a couple of paces, his strides being longer than mine, and I watch as the sweat gradually saturates his white shirt, making it cling against his muscled back. Halfway into our run, he pulls his shirt over his head and bunches it up in his hand, running all the while.
Two muscled divots down his lower back all but point toward his perfect ass, and I thank my lucky stars he doesn’t know I’ve been staring at him the entire time we’ve been running. I’ve always found running to be a little boring with the exception of running track in high school, but I could run for hours if I had a view like this to keep me occupied.
Approaching a congested piece of sidewalk, we pass a couple of power-walking older women and a crowd of joggers and dog walkers when I lose him, but a minute later, I find him resting on the sidelines of the path,
hands on his knees as he waits for me.
When Jude spots me, his olive-green eyes light in a way that Hunter’s never did, and I feel it everywhere: in my bones, in my chest, in my stomach. I might not be dating Jude (or planning to), but I like spending time with him. Cameo would be happy to know that I find my time with him to be extremely fulfilling.
He joins up with me again, our arms brushing against each other as we navigate through a small pocket of tourists.
“Race you to that tree?” Jude says toward the end of our run. He points ahead to a giant oak surrounded by enormous boulders.
“What’s in it for the winner?” I ask, words breathy and teasing.
“Winner gets to decide what we’re doing Friday night.”
I reach out, trying to jab his arm, but he dodges me in time. That whole quiet thing earlier was nothing more than me reading into him, worrying over nothing.
“Smooth,” I say, pretending I’m more annoyed than flattered that he’s still interested in me.
Jude turns back, flashing a quick wink. “So you in?”
He may have long legs, but I’ve got speed.
“Yep.”
“Go!” Jude’s strides lengthen and he’s several paces ahead of me.
Clearly, I underestimated my competition.
Damn it.
Arms pumping and quads burning, I chase after him, catching up but not enough. The tree ahead grows nearer with each breathless second, and I’m so close I could reach out and touch Jude if I tried, but he’s still in the lead.
A short moment later, his hand is splayed across the gnarled bark of the oak tree and he’s wearing the biggest victory smile I’ve ever seen. As soon as I get there, he gathers me in his arms, securing his hands behind my back, and swings me around.
My skin sticks to his, the two of us glistening with sweat.
“You let me win on purpose, didn’t you?” he asks, breathless and possessing a devious glint in his playful gaze. For a moment, it’s just us. Everything else fades away for an endless second until he loosens his hold.
War and Love Page 6
