Chapter Eleven Veronica
Chapter Eleven
Veronica
Pushing up from the couch onto an elbow, I frown in the direction of the sound, wondering who the hell thinks one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon is a good time to stop by unannounced. This is prime nap time. What if I were napping?
Standing, I kick an empty cracker box out of my way and shuffle to the door, stretching to look through the peephole.
Holy shit.
I jump back, spinning in a helpless circle.
“Veronica?” Jude asks on the other side of the door.
“Hey, yeah, hey.” I dig my fingers into my hair, trying to comb it into something less like a staticky bird’s nest. “What’s up?”
“Can you let me in?”
Let him in? What for? To him, we’re strangers!
But there’s something in his tone that makes me suspicious. I grab my phone from the entryway table and look at my notifications. Sure enough, there’s one there.
@jtildeChi has accepted your follow request.
Fuck. I forgot to cancel it.
“I’m—” I cough loudly. “Super sick.”
“Bullshit.”
I go still, staring at the door. “What?”
“I said, bullshit. Come on. Open the door. We need to talk.”
I look down at my body. I’m wearing enormous grizzly paw slippers, worn plaid flannel pajama pants, and a T-shirt that says Current mood: snacks with a chocolate ice cream stain on it from about twenty minutes ago. “I’m, uh, not really looking my best.”
“I honestly don’t care.”
“I do,” I say.
“Then I’ll close my eyes.”
“I bet you’ll peek.”
I hear him laugh on the other side of the door. “Do you want me to wear a blindfold?”
“Would you?”
A brief pause and then: “If it means I can come in and talk to you, yes.”
“Let me grab a scarf.”
“This is absurd.”
“I know,” I say. “I don’t care. Be right back.”
I walk to my bedroom, catching sight of my reflection. It’s worse than I thought. I grab a black jersey cotton scarf and return to the front door, opening it only enough to extend the scarf to him. A few seconds later, he knocks again.
I open the door and reach for his elbow, guiding him with his hands outstretched into the living room and to the couch. “Sit,” I say.
“This is . . .” Jude shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“I know. However, I’m too unshowered for this reveal.” But looking at him . . . he is, too. Has he been as out of sorts as I have these past few days?
“How long have you known?” he asks, getting right to the punch.
“I found out last Saturday.”
His jaw drops open, and he gapes at me. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I look at him, wearing those soft, worn jeans, an even softer T-shirt, and socks. He must’ve come upstairs without putting shoes on. Did he come as soon as he saw my follow request?
“I was thinking it would be sort of fun to reveal myself at our date.”
I can only see the mouth part of his frown, and for a beat I wish I’d let him leave his expressive dark eyes uncovered. “So why didn’t you?”
I don’t say anything. While a part of me knew there was an explanation there that doesn’t include him having a girlfriend, I am an Occam’s razor girlie: The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Now that he’s sprinted up to my apartment, I suspect I was wrong.
Jude presses his lips together and goes quiet, too, and I just have to suffer through the weight of it because, at this point, I don’t know how he hears my answer and doesn’t conclude I’m too dumb to date.
A few beats later, those full, soft lips part and he lets out a quiet Ahh, then says, “That day with Sami.”
“Yep.”
“You heard me tell her I was in a relationship.”
“I did.”
“Then Calliope called.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You think I have a girlfriend.”
“Sure do.”
Jude reaches up, slides the scarf off, and, for the first time with full awareness, our eyes meet. My stomach melts; my heart takes a giant heaving lurch.
“You look beautiful” is the first thing he says to me.
The second is “Callie is my niece.”
And third, he says, “When I said I was in a relationship, I was being hopeful.” He smiles at me. “I was talking about you.”