30
The Reunion Guidebook
TJ
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
My Jude wasn’t JustJude when I last checked him out on socials. Ergo, JustJude is probably some random guy. Maybe the newest pity fuck. Still, I click that profile so fast. Just in case.
And . . . holy fucking dream guy.
I gawk at the phone, then glance around the coffee shop. Can everyone tell what just happened to me? That I got a message from the guy who got away?
No one’s looking at me. Everyone’s in their own world, chatting about yoga and mindfulness, ROIs and business plans.
Hazel doesn’t even look up. Meanwhile, my pulse spikes to the sky.
The second I click on the profile pic, my breath catches like it has every time I’ve watched his shows. He’s still somehow more beautiful—and I have no idea what kind of sorcery this is—than when he was twenty-three.
At thirty, he’s matinee idol gorgeous, with any trace of early twenties innocence all gone. He’s matured in the best of ways. His blue eyes are more smoldering. His lips are more biteable.
Most of all, his charisma is rocket-fueled. Wow. He’s sooo . . .
Wait.
I bet this is just a fan account. Yup. That has to be it.
But when I scan the info, it’s blue-check verified. Holy shit. This is the one and only Jude Graham, who’s no longer Graham.
A smile spreads to the edges of the city as I read his new stage name. A quick search tells me he changed his name a couple of years ago, and he goes by Jude Fox now, but the handle is what gets me.
Could this really be an homage to the day we met? If I’d told you I was Jude the Third, I doubt you’d have come looking for . . . all the Wildes. Besides, I’m just Jude.
Oh, but he was never just anything. He was the only guy who ever made me this light-headed. This . . . happy. He was the only one who never hurt.
I scroll to his feed and a pic of him on stage in a play. He’s laughing, looking like sunshine and sex and every queer man’s wet dream. The next image is from Broadway World, a close-up of a news tidbit from a few weeks ago. The West End production of Pillow Talk is traveling to Los Angeles to open at the Mark Taper Forum for a month-long run. Buzz swirls around the play and its star, Jude Fox.
Chills.
I have chills.
Not only did he debut on the West End at last, as I believed he would, but the show is coming to America. Mark Taper is big-time in the theater world. I knew he’d make it.
I click on another shot. He’s on set in Afternoon Delight, a British TV dramedy, the one Hazel mentioned. Looks like he’s had a recurring role for the last few seasons. “As the show’s heartthrob,” IMDb informs me. No shit, IMDb. As I check out a few more pics, my skin tingles everywhere.
I’m floating outside my body, watching this moment play out for some other dude as my finger hovers over the DM link.
He’s probably just saying hi. I’m guessing he saw the video and is offering a pat on the back. That sounds like him. Jude never laughed when I told him the story of my name. He didn’t laugh when he read those chapters of my trunk novel. And he didn’t laugh when I shared all my dreams.
This is merely a friendly check-in. That is all.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. Take a breath. Swallow down my hope, then open his DM.
Hey roomie,
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
Seven years, but the years have been good to you.
As luck would have it, I’m wrapping up a play in LA, and I’m going to stick around for a couple days to take a few meetings. I know you’re in New York and I’m all the way across the country, but LA is closer than an ocean.
Maybe I’m crazy for reaching out to you after all this time, but I’m positive we’re both single, and that seems as good a reason as any to extend you an invitation to the other side of the country. Are you free at the end of the month?
As Jack Worthing said, when asked what brings him to the country: “Oh, pleasure, pleasure! What else should bring one anywhere?”
Pleasure indeed.
Jude
For once, I don’t analyze. I don’t break it down in my head. I don’t do a single thing except buy a ticket to Los Angeles for next weekend.
There’s a difference between a pity fuck from a stranger and an offer from the guy you had it bad for once upon a time.
The difference is everything.
I count down the hours till I leave. I keep busy in every possible way. I pop into my favorite bookstore, buy a book for Jude, pack it, then unpack it. I’ll wait and see what the vibe is before I give him a gift. After a week has passed since the infamous DM, I head to JFK on a Saturday afternoon and send my suitcase through security.
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.