Clara (and Jordan, who is deeply invested now in this entire drama unfolding) insists that I might as well lean in to the precarious rom-com curve I’m speeding along and keep the secret until we meet in person. Without a better plan of my own, and my brain behaving like a bingo machine full of bees, I keep the secret.
Tuesday arrives and so does my period, which is great, obviously. I was really hoping to feel emotionally delicate and gassy on the day that Jude got back into town.
I do my best to not find a hundred excuses why I need to walk through the lobby—walking to the drugstore on the corner for tampons is obviously a real necessity, as is my need for a second coffee from Mug Life across the street even though my pot is still full on the counter, as is my desire to go outside and feel the snow, as is my need to get takeout for lunch even though my new fridge is full. But none of these very legitimate reasons to walk downstairs result in me bumping into Jude.
At two o’clock, I think ... maybe? And although there’s no Jude-Friday in sight, to my delight, Larry has returned. While he meticulously and precisely delivers the mail to each box, we chat about his trip to Nova Scotia (In January?I ask, aghast) and his new rescue mutt, Freddie. I look up when I hear footsteps on the marble stairs from the second floor, and my heart drops into my butt when I see him.
Knowing he’s Jude makes him ... unbelievably hotter. Does he realize how great his hair is? Does he know how good those jeans hang on his hips? Did I ever notice before that his arms are tan, toned, and trophy-worthy? This man coming down the stairs is my open-minded colleague, my banter king,my plot twist in human form. He’s smart and thoughtful. I told him his slide deck sucked, and his only response was to pay me an exorbitant amount of money to make it better. What man does that?
He sees me now and breaks out into a smile that sends the bees from my brain into my stomach.
But right behind him comes Catalogs.
“Jude!” she calls out, and he turns, stopping to let her catch up.
He doesn’t know I’m Veronica. To him, I’m just another neighbor—one who didn’t realize there was a way to move furniture into the upper floors of our building and excels at underestimating the size of cardboard boxes. The moment between us has snapped shut, and the two of them walk down the stairs together, talking through smiles. She’s wearing a low-cut tank top with a push-up bra that makes her boobs look like they’re auditioning for a role in an action film. (To be fair, I would cast them.)
I linger near my mailbox, looking like I have more to sort through than the two flyers in there, listening to their conversation.
“... rainy and cold,” he’s saying, “but still way better than Chicago this time of year.”
“Who would get married inOregoninJanuary?” Catalogs asks, her voice husky, flirty. She comes to stand between me and Jude, turning her back to me.
“I mean,” he says, huffing out a soft laugh, “everything was inside, so the rain wasn’t a problem.”
“That’s good.” She leans in while he reaches to slide his key into his mailbox, lowering her voice. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to, I don’t know, grab a drink or something sometime this week?”
I can’t keep my gaze from flashing over at him when she says this. The color drains from his face, and he flicks his eyes to me over her shoulder and back, aware that we’re not standing that far apart and I can hear everything. “Oh, um, Sami, that’s so nice of you but, um, I’m actually in a relationship.”
My breath locks in my chest.
He means me, right? After all, I had reservations about ogling Friday before I knew he was Jude. AndI’m seeing someoneis something you say when you want to let a person down easy. My heart swells.
“Oh,” Catalogs—Sami—says. “I didn’t realize. I’ve never seen you with anyone.”
He shrugs and the moment turns monumentally more awkward when he says a quiet, “Yeah, well.”
Sami slinks away without ever acknowledging my presence, but who could blame her? Jude unlocks his mailbox while I sort through my two flyers for a tenth time. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s horrified I’ll mention what just happened or if he wants me to break the tension by cracking a joke. Cracking a joke is definitely what my brain is screaming at me to do.
Honestly your “no” was so nice, I almost want to ask you out, too, just to hear it again.
Some women collect purses, some collect rejection stories. You just gave her a good one.
You did great. Most guys would’ve faked getting a phone call to escape.
But that isn’t what I really want to say. I swallow past the thundering beast of a heart inside me, working up the nerve to tell him, “Hey, you just turned down a woman in front of me,becauseof me, and ... ta-da! Here I am!”
Smiling, I turn to him, my mouth opening, and our eyes meet just as his phone rings. He holds up a finger, wincing in apology, and swipes to answer. I catch the name on the screen:Calliope.
Jude tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, saying a soft, “Hey, sweetheart,” as he pulls the mail from his mailbox.
My stomach tilts, my skin flushes hot.
Hey, sweetheart.
Oh my God. Is this moment really happening?
During Valentine’s week to boot?
