The host points to our table. “Another point for Team Stude.”
I’ve never understood Jude’s obsession with all things nineties. He was hardly out of diapers before Y2K. If I were an armchair psychologist, I imagine it might have something to do with those years being the only ones he had with his mother before she passed.
“Name the butler in the popular series The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” the host says.
The table to our left gets this one.
“Going to grab another round,” I say. “Think you can hold the fort down?” It’s a stupid question because of course he can. The man eats, breathes, and sleeps this shit. I’m convinced he’d sell the soul of his firstborn child for a time machine if he could.
He gives me a thumbs up and I head to the bar. While I wait for our drinks, I pull up my phone and check my Facebook messages for the sake of filling the time.
Tapping on the last message from Jovie, I give it another read, and then I tap on her profile. I haven’t read it in ages. Actually, I’m not sure if I’ve ever taken the time to look at it. Scrolling to her bio section, I stop when I get to the part that mentions she’s the bestselling author of the Dashing Dukes of Pembroke Place series.
I click through a few of her photos—many of them book covers with frilly fonts and shirtless men holding long-haired beauties in long flowing dresses. The description beneath the fourth image says it’s recently been optioned for a TV series.
I’d always given Jovie shit for majoring in creative writing. I thought it was a frivolous major, that she wouldn’t be able to get a real job with it. And I never squandered an opportunity to razz her for sticking her nose in those drugstore paperbacks she’d leave all over the apartment when we lived together.
But she proved me wrong.
She proved us all wrong.
I pay for our beers with cash and return to the table.
“I got us two more points,” Jude says. “Still in the lead.”
His phone lights on the table and a text from Stassi fills the screen. He doesn’t notice, and I consider not pointing it out, but I’d hate to get him in hot water with the future ball and chain.
“Stassi just texted you,” I say.
He checks his phone and fires something back.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
We miss the next question.
“She was asking if I put the deposit down for the flowers because she just got a bill,” he says.
And here I thought it was something that could have waited until he got home …
“Next question,” the host calls out. “In what city do the Simpsons characters reside?”
We hit the buzzer at the same time. I let him answer.
“Springfield,” Jude calls out.
Twenty questions later, we walk away reigning champs. I’m pretty sure we’ve answered every trivia question they’ve asked tenfold, but tradition is tradition, and one of these days, these nights will be a thing of the past.
We grab a couple slices of pizza from Pie City Pies before hopping back into my car and heading to his neck of the woods.
We’re halfway there, an old Radiohead tune playing low on the speakers, when Jude clears his throat.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing marrying Stassi?” he asks.
I’d slam on my brakes if we weren’t already cruising past a green light.
“A little late to be asking that question, don’t you think?” I ask back.
He’s quiet.
“You getting cold feet?” I glance at him through the corner of my eye.
His knee is bouncing, and I’m mentally preparing the speech I’d been wanting to give since the day he professed his undying devotion to that woman.
“Forget it,” he says. “Forget I said anything. I’m just … yeah … it’s gotta be cold feet.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He fixes his attention out the passenger window, like he’s here but half a world away at the same time.
I swallow all the things I wanted to tell him, and I remind myself that my only job is to be happy for him and to support him as he navigates this bullshit existence that we call life.
If things ever fall through, at least he knows a good divorce attorney …
I’ll even do him a solid and take him on pro-bono.
If our roles were reversed, I know he’d do the same for me.
Chapter Seven
Stone
* * *
Age 19
* * *
“You ready, man?” Jude sneaks up behind me, squeezing my shoulders.
I shut my laptop lid and spin around in my desk chair. His hair is shower-damp and the overpowering scent of his woodsy cologne permeates the confined space of the dorm room we share.
“I thought we weren’t leaving for another couple hours?” I ask.
He claps his hands together. “That was the first plan. New plan is, that girl I’ve been telling you about is coming here, then we’re going to grab a bite to eat at Meyer’s Pub, then we’ll start at Friday After Class at Nightshade.”