Forever in Love

  “I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had.”

  Jude smiles at me. “You really are good at reading people.” He leads me to a cozy corner with a lime-green couch, little round ottomans with aqua and lime stripes, and a round glass coffee table. “This is me.”

  For a crazy second I think he means this corner of the office is where he lives. Then I see his desk next to the window. Jude’s desk is not as neat as Harrison’s or as messy as Dax’s. It’s somewhere in between.

  “This is so cute.” I sit down on the couch, testing it out. “Puffy but firm. I like it.”

  “I never realized how many couches looked good but felt like you were sitting on a rock until I was looking for one.”

  “Good choice of colors.” I pat an aqua throw pillow. “Any cozy couch corner that matches my outfit is winning.”

  Jude sits next to me. But not so our legs are touching. He is just out of reach.

  I look around the office. “This is amazing. I’m really proud of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you usually work this late?”

  “Yeah. Working insane hours is typical for start-ups. I get in around ten and work until one or two.”

  “One or two in the morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “What’s that?” Jude laughs. “The hours are crazy, but they’re worth it. This will all pay off when companies start buying my products. I’m working on thirty-two different patents now.”

  “Whoa! What are they?”

  “A bunch of homelife improvements. You know, tweaks to make your routines run more smoothly. We’re marketing them like little bits of everyday magic. Remember how I told you about those spray and pump bottles that guarantee usage of the entire contents? My investors wanted to brand all my inventions in a coherent way. So I thought of some other things I could develop. Like a vacuum sealer clip for cereal to keep it fresh.”

  “Don’t they already have those air-tight cereal containers?”

  “Yeah, but how many people actually use those?”

  “No one I know.”

  “Exactly. It’s much easier to keep your cereal in their original boxes, which is what most people do. This clip allows the bag inside the cereal box to act just like those cereal containers.”

  “How did you think of that?” I am zapped by a jolt of inadequacy. I cross my legs, smoothing my dress over my lap. Jude is this brilliant inventor and what am I?

  Jude stretches his arm out along the top of the couch cushion. Kind of like he’s putting his arm around me without touching. “Anyone can think of this stuff. I just have too much free time. Had.”

  “So I guess you haven’t been doing a lot of shows.”

  “I’m taking a hiatus. But I’ll get back to the other magic when things settle down.”

  Jude loves performing magic for his enthusiastic crowds. Making people happy makes him happy. But I wonder if he really will go back to that part of his life. The way his company is taking off, it would be sort of weird for Jude to want his Before life back. Scraping by and living with three other guys in a crappy apartment doesn’t sound like good times.

  “Do you still live on Spring Street?” I ask.

  “For now. But I’m looking for a new place.”

  “So is Austin.”

  “Who?”

  “Sadie’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  An awkward silence settles over us. I recross my legs, looking around some more. This really is a cute space. Kind of hipster industrial with some wall sections covered in chalkboard paint, a tall tree in front of the windows, and high ceilings with red heating and cooling tubes showing. The exposed brick along the long wall with windows is painted a glossy white. The windows are tall, with charming arches and wide windowsills where cheerful plants are gathered. The hardwood floors gleam.

  A police siren down on the street breaks the silence, gradually amplifying as it passes the building, then fading out.

  Jude clears his throat. “Sorry—do you want something to drink?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Because I’m the kind of boss who keeps quite an assortment of beverages in the fridge.”

  “You have a kitchen?”

  “Over here.” I follow Jude to the area of the office closest to the front door. A lounge with a smattering of tables, chairs, and benches is arranged next to a corner kitchen. Jumbles of papers, folders, pens, markers, and gadgets are piled on the tables and benches. Abandoned coffee cups are all over a table. I imagine Jude and his creative team meeting there, design ideas sparking as they chug cup after cup of coffee, getting so revved up with inspiration that they fly to their desks without bothering to clear the table. A powder-pink cardigan is draped over the back of a chair. A laptop sleeps on another table. There’s this lingering electricity in the air that was generated when Jude’s people were sitting here before. I can almost feel the residual heat from the crackling fire of his team tapping away at their laptops, plans unfolding faster than anyone can record them, everyone on their phones. This is what I love most about New York City: the intensity, the drive, the passion. The energy is like a drug I live on.

  Jude is addicted to the same drug. You have to be to create all this. Jude Bryant is a nineteen-year-old self-made entrepreneur whose rich parents did not help him at all. He is a rock star. And he’s only just begun to shine.

  It would be hilarious if I ended up being Jude’s publicist.

  Even more hilarious is how both of our lives have been completely transformed since we met. Jude’s life has become tremendously better while mine couldn’t get much worse. But Jude’s life didn’t improve on its own. Jude is the one who made this happen. Scoring those major investors. Obtaining enough funding to pay the rent on this office and salaries for seven employees. Working on thirty-two patents. Everything Jude has he created. He changed his life by taking action.

  Jude took control of his life and turned it around. I hope I’m doing the same with mine.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Jude asks. He opens the refrigerator’s clear glass door to an entire top shelf crammed with bottles. “We have water, Joe Tea, Pellegrino, Fanta, a random can of grape soda—”

  “Water would be good. Thanks.” I’ve been nervous all night about seeing Jude. I thought by now he would have told me why he asked me over. But he’s acting like the last time we saw each other didn’t even happen. Like he didn’t walk out on me. Like we’ve been friends all along. Or . . . whatever we are.

  “Or I can make coffee?” Jude offers.

  “I’m good with water.”

  “Okay, but I need a caffeine hit.” Jude selects a K-Cup for the Keurig. He is probably going for Italian dark roast if he has any. I love that I know those kinds of details about him. I know he got that scar above his left eye from falling off his bike when he was nine. I know his first crush was Samantha Rutherford in fourth grade. I know he first saw Blue Man Group when his mom took him, which inspired his passion for performance art. I love all these little things that make Jude who he is. And I want to find out much more. I want to know everything there is to know about this boy.

  We take our water and coffee back to the cozy couch corner. We’re in the middle of a conversation about how David Blaine held his breath for seventeen minutes and four seconds when I dare to speak the unspoken question.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  “Shoot.”

  My mouth is dry. I take another sip of water. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

  “To my office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not?”

  “No, I mean . . . why did you even call me? It sounded like you didn’t want me in your life anymore the last time I saw you. What changed?”

  “I don’t know. I was sitting here at my desk last night, remembering how I was telling you about my meeting with potential investors on our second date. I didn’
t know whether my idea would take off or they would laugh in my face or what. And now look. Everything changed so fast.” Jude blows on his coffee. “You were excited for me, and your excitement made me work harder. You’re part of the reason I scored those investors. You were in the room with me when I presented to them. Not physically. But your spirit was there. So I guess I just wanted to show you how it all turned out. And to say thank-you.”

  There he goes again. Enchanting me with his magic spell. But this is one magic spell I want to be enchanted by. Unlike Logan, Jude is for real.

  “I would rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all,” Jude says.

  “Same here. I missed you.”

  “Not half as much as I missed you.”

  Wait. Did I agree to be just friends with Jude? And is that all he wants us to be?

  Jude doesn’t know that Logan and I aren’t together anymore. Would he want me back if he knew? And if he did want me back, would that be the best thing for him?

  I have to be careful. There is no way I am breaking this boy’s heart again. Jude doesn’t deserve for me to be reckless with his feelings. Telling him about Logan before I figure out exactly what I want with Jude would be selfish.

  So I don’t say anything. I just sit with him in the cozy couch corner of his new office, celebrating everything he is and everything he will become.

  CHAPTER 15

  ROSANNA

  I AM TOO EXHAUSTED TO meet up with Sadie and Darcy at the Skyscraper Museum. After not sleeping at all last night because of the mouse, I just wanted to come home from camp and take a nap. But of course I want to see D more than I want to sleep. Plus it’s Friday night. Friday night is when people go out to start celebrating the weekend. I do not want to be Lame Napping Girl. I want to be Fun Friday-Night Girl.

  D’s friend Jesse gave him a last-minute extra ticket to Imagine Dragons. I’m just meeting up with D at a café before the show.

  As soon as I see him, I know something’s wrong. D isn’t waiting for me in the casual, confident way he usually is. He’s all tense, sitting straight up instead of leaning back in his chair, his leg jiggling up and down.

  He’s not even smiling. D always smiles when he sees me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as I sit down across from him.

  “How can you tell something’s wrong?”

  “Because I know you.”

  D stops jiggling his leg. He looks at me, then looks at the table. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Not good.”

  “Oh.” His tone makes my stomach twist.

  “It has to do with Shayla.”

  A surge of adrenaline makes my heart pound.

  “She . . . you were right,” D says. “She wants me back. We were talking last night and she told me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she’s been nervous about telling me, but she wanted me to know she still has feelings for me.”

  D looks at me with wide, scared eyes.

  “She thought we were breaking up,” he continues. Is he defending her? “That’s why she told me.”

  I am baffled. “Why would she think we were breaking up?”

  “Addison told her you were going to break up with me.”

  “What?” I can’t even believe what I’m hearing.

  “I know. I told Shayla that Addison is a nutjob. But Shayla believed her. So . . .”

  Ever since Addison confronted me at camp, I haven’t heard from her. Her eerie silence has been creeping me out. I’ve been wondering what her next move would be. When Addison confronted me, she told me that she just happened to be at some club where Shayla was and that she told Shayla I was going to break up with D. But nothing has happened since then, so I thought she was making it all up to scare me. I can’t believe she actually did it.

  “What did you say?” I ask, dreading his answer.

  “I told her Addison was lying.” D’s eyes aren’t scared anymore. “Addison was lying, right?”

  “Of course! No, what did you say to Shayla about wanting to get back together?”

  “I said I was with you.”

  “And?”

  “And what? You and I are together. End of story.” D reaches across the table, holding my hand in his. “Don’t worry about Addison. She’s a freak. All that matters is that we’re together.”

  D is making me feel a little better. But Addison isn’t the one I’m worried about.

  All the fun Friday night potential has been sucked out of the air. Emotional exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks on top of my physical exhaustion from staying up all night. The Donovan fuel tank I was running on is empty. I need to take a nap. When he leaves for the show, I drag myself home.

  It is hard to fall asleep. I can’t stop thinking about Shayla. And even with the holes plugged up and traps put down, I still feel like I keep hearing a mouse skittering around. I bolt awake a bunch of times until I give up and call my mom. I stay on my bed to talk to her just in case anything is running around on the floor.

  Mom is worried about the mouse.

  “Are you sure your super plugged all the holes?” she asks. Her agitation trickles through the phone along with the sounds of my little sister, Grace, washing dishes. I picture them in the kitchen on a typical night after dinner, Grace at the sink and Mom putting the leftovers away. My heart aches to be with them right now.

  “I think so,” I say. “We were up all night searching every room.”

  “You girls need to stay on top of this. Mice can be a serious issue.”

  “We will.” I want to reassure Mom as much as I want to reassure myself. Even if I don’t know how much our super cares about the mice. He seemed nonchalant, like this is New York City so what are you going to do?

  Mom wants to know about camp. I’m thankful for everything she wants to talk about that isn’t D related. When she asked how he was at the start of our call, I just said he was good and working hard. She likes that about him. I tell her about the potato-print banner we made in arts and crafts today. I tell her we had fried chicken for lunch because it’s Friday and there’s always something delicious for lunch on Fridays. I tell her about the herbs my kids got to take home from nature with instructions their parents or guardians can use to cook with them this weekend. I do not tell her about Momo. What I’m going to do to help her is still unclear. She seemed okay this week, but I know that these kinds of problems always come up again. The only thing Mom knows about Momo is that she’s one of my campers. I don’t want her to worry.

  “How are things there?” I ask.

  “Hold on.” The background noises dim as Mom moves into another room. I hear a door close. Then silence.

  “Mom?” I say.

  “I’m here. There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Aunt Irene and Uncle Ernie are getting divorced.”

  “What?” There’s no way I heard her right.

  “It was a shock to me, too. To everyone.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “They’re not talking about it. Other than to say they grew apart.”

  “But they had such a happy marriage.” Aunt Irene and Uncle Ernie cannot be getting divorced. That is impossible. They have been my example of a successful relationship for as long as I can remember. My parents also have a good relationship, but they haven’t been together from the start like Aunt Irene and Uncle Ernie have.

  My mom is technically my stepmom. My biological mother left when I was one. I don’t even remember her. My dad has some pictures of her locked away in his big black chest from college, but I haven’t looked at them in years. She was pretty. She had brown eyes and long, wavy light-brown hair like me. Even in those faded pictures of her, you get the sense that she was restless. That she wasn’t quite all there. That only parts of her were visible while others were blurry, just like in the pictures.

  “It certainly seemed that way,” Mom s
ays. “But relationships aren’t always how they appear.”

  “How could they grow apart? They’re already adults.”

  “You don’t stop growing just because you’re grown up. People can find themselves when they’re in their forties, fifties . . . even older.”

  “But I know they were happy together. It wasn’t . . .” I am shaken to my core. I can’t even believe we’re talking about this. Because if we’re talking about it, that means it’s happening, and that is impossible.

  If Aunt Irene and Uncle Ernie could break up, what does that say about any other marriage?

  I remember that movie night when Darcy and Sadie and I were talking about affairs. I used my aunt and uncle as an example of a happy marriage. They were my role-model marriage. Now I’m doubting everything I thought I knew about the strength of their relationship.

  Reading in bed before I go to sleep, I can’t concentrate on the words. My thoughts keep drifting away from the story to the concept of appearances. How could a relationship that looked so secure be so tenuous? Is any relationship truly what it appears to be? I think about the other relationships I know. Sadie and Austin seemed incredibly happy together before she found out he was married. But they were happy. Their relationship was as happy as it looked. It’s just that, from the outside, no one would ever guess how complicated things were. Darcy and Jude seemed perfect together, and I still think they were. But Darcy didn’t want a committed relationship like Jude did. Their relationship still has potential if Darcy is willing to fully invest in it.

  Then I think about D. How do we look to other people? I could sort of pull off looking like I belonged with him when I was wearing those clothes Darcy gave me. Now I can’t even imagine what people think. Probably something along the lines of What is a boy like him doing with a girl like her? Or do people see us as a happy couple? I wish there were a way to find out exactly how we appear to the rest of the world.

  Romantic relationships aren’t the only ones that can have deceptive appearances. Take my relationships with my younger brother and sister. They are technically my half siblings, but they have never felt less than whole to me. Just like my mom has always been my real mom. Someone looking at our big family on one of those rare occasions we went out to eat would never guess the truth about us. When the seven of us were all together, we could cause quite a stir . . . in a good way. Anyone looking at us would see a happy family sitting at three square tables hastily shoved together at the pizza place, laughing over slices and garlic knots. Or confiscating the big corner booth at the diner, singing along with the jukebox. Or reading one another fortunes from fortune cookies at the Chinese restaurant, with a running commentary about how true each fortune is for the person who got it. No one would ever guess that another mother existed before mine.