Page 6 of Someday Not Soon

Thanks, big bro. Hey, do you know yet if you’re coming to my bachelor/bachelorette getaway next weekend?

Jude

Still trying to trade work days with some people. But it’s not looking good, so I don’t think so.

Madi

Booooooooo. We’ll miss you.

Beside me, Cliff clears his throat. “Sure you don’t want to tell me her name yet?”

I laugh and swipe my badge to re-enter through the heavy metal side entrance. “Fuck off, Cliff.”

“Why so defensive, Judey?” he yells back.

Because I’m an idiot. And as soon as I heard she wasback in town, it reignited an infatuation I’ve harbored for a woman I haven’t seen in a decade. Now, she’s lodged in my mind once again, and I have no idea how to silence the thoughts.

In fact, I’m not even sure if I want to.

Chapter Four

Jude

Past (Ten Years Ago)

Three weeks ago,I returned to my hometown for the first time in years, looking for a break from the relentless grind of maintaining my 4.0 GPA. After my parents moved to a new state, staying with my sister, Madi, was the only logical option for the summer. She had mentioned her best friend lived with her. But being four years older than them, I had left for college before they ever met in high school. Combined with my lack of social media, everyone’s lives were pretty much a mystery to me. My focus had been acing my pre-reqs, not seeing if my Aunt Lisa vacationed in Barbados or Miami this year.

I had no idea what kind of roommate situation I was walking into. And I definitely had no idea the roommate would look likethat—so overwhelmingly gorgeous that it was difficult to not constantly stare.

The moment I saw her in that dingy bar, I couldn’t shake her face or voice from my mind. Ella Thatcher was like a catchy song or vivid dream—her presence weaving like ivy, wrapping around every square inch of my brain.

I constantly find reminders of her throughout the day. Like when a Foo Fighters song plays on the radio, and I can perfectly picture her singing along to her favorite ‘90s music. The hills in late summer, green transforming into gold—looking exactly like her hazel eyes. My three daily cups of dark brew coffee, the same shade as her long mocha brown hair.

She’s my sister’s best friend, as well as my roommate. And I have to leave by the end of the summer to start multiple years worth of medical school.

Those are all valid reasons why I shouldn’t make a move on her, yet none of them possess enough weight to dissuade me completely. Because for every reason why this would be a horrible idea, there seem to be a hundred reasons why it’d be worth it.

Ella silently pads into the kitchen in nothing but a hoodie that barely covers her ass and a pair of fluffy socks. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her doe eyes glance in my direction. Every morning she looks surprised to find me here again. And while I typically am an early riser, there’s a large portion of myself that arises early now because I know I’ll get to see her.

She pours herself a mug of coffee from the freshly brewed pot I made for us. “Morning,” she says, blowing the steam with pursed lips.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask, my own voice still rough with sleep.

“I managed a solid few hours, which is a win in my book.”

“A few hours? How the hell do you teach Pilates classes for hours on that?”

She walks past me to the fridge and lifts her mug. “Caffeine. Lots of it. Oh, and the constant fear of failure. Can’t slack off when you’re terrified people will judge you for a terrible class.”

I grab a pan from the cabinet and turn to her. “Sit. I’ll make breakfast today.”

Giving me a look like she’s not backing down, she stands her ground with a carton of eggs in her hand. I stare right back, both of us smirking at each other.

Being the only two awake in the house most mornings, we’ve settled into a routine together. I make coffee, while she makes eggs. But today, there’s an air about her that teeters on exhaustion. An impulse well beyond my control kicks in, and all I want to do is take care of her.

“Ugh, okay. You win. I’m too tired to even fight you on it.” She passes me the cardboard carton, a cautious look on her face like I’ll suddenly change my mind or ask for something in return. “Thank you,” she whispers, sitting on the barstool at the counter beside the stove.

I may not know all the details of her past, but the one thing that’s obvious is she’s not accustomed to being looked after. There’s a flicker of discomfort every time I do something small, like having the coffee ready when shewakes up. It’s like she doesn’t quite know how to handle someone being in her corner.

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