It is, which means I’m the only one awake and this is why I logged into Instagram for the first time in like two months. Of course the first thing I see is flat earth nonsense.
The machine knows how to get you to engage.
Terrifying.
So for next Friday, I was thinking around 7 for dinner? I’ll make reservations somewhere that is able to accommodate the mass of your charm.
Sounds perfect.
Great. I’ll get all your info when I’m back in town.
I hear some activity downstairs in the kitchen so I’m going to see who’s up. Have a great weekend, Veronica, I’m really looking forward to next week.
Me too
Chapter Eight
Veronica
Ihave a momentary flush of panic on Saturday when I see the mail lady in the lobby, thinking I’ve missed my one o’clock lunch with a friend, but then realize that it’s only ten in the morning. What is this chaos?
But given that she’s nearly done, I linger in the lobby, noodling on my phone, to save myself a trip back downstairs.
And also, maybe hoping Friday happens to pass by.
I have a pang of guilt the second that thought hits. I shouldn’t be thinking about other dudes when I have a date with Jude on Friday. But then again, it’s not like he and I are athingyet. I’m not betraying anyone by hoping to see my unattainable crush.
When the mail lady leaves without a word, a smile, even a glance my way—I miss Larry—I head to my box, pulling out the small stack of mail there.
And hallelujah: My severance check has finally landed. I lift the envelope, kissing it.
Beneath it is the stack of regular junk I barely look at anymore—useless coupons and a reminder to schedule my dental cleaning. But at the very bottom is another envelope.
It’s weird to see the name there, and for a second, I think Jude has mailed me something.
But my retainer was direct deposited. I sent my W-9 directly to Payroll; I’ve never personally given Jude my address. He doesn’t know where I live.
And then I register that it’s notfromJude.
It’stoJude.
The disorganized mail lady has made a mistake, and I’ve accidentally received something mailed to Jude Tilde. Apartment 2C.
“Friday literally cannot be Jude,” I say, pacing my apartment. “That is like, I don’t even know. A fanfic trope escaping into the wild.”
“How many Jude Tildes do you think live in Chicago?” Clara asks. I made her come right over mid-workday to look at the envelope herself. She came to the same impossible conclusion: A person named Jude Tilde lives in apartment 2C in my building, which is the same apartment where Friday lives—seemingly alone—therefore the chances of Friday and Jude being the same person are ... very high.
“Maybe Jude is actually the roommate that we never see because he secretly lives in Friday’s cupboard?”
“Are youhopingfor that?” Clara asks, frowning.
“I’m just trying to come up with any other explanation!”
“Why? Isn’t it ideal that Jude is the hot neighbor?”
“It’s great,” I agree. “It just feels ... weird?”
Clara shrugs. “You said Jude is in Oregon. Maybe go knock on the door at 2C, and if no one answers, there you go.”
