Page 22 of Someone Just Like You

“Time to go, Yogi.” Jude stopped short. “What the…”

At Yogi’s feet was a colorful array of rubber and plastic bands, scrunchies, headbands, and tie clips. I threw my hand against my mouth.

“Maybe I should have named him RuPaul.” Jude laughed, then turned to me and grimaced. “I swear I didn’t put him up to any shenanigans.”

“He takes after his daddy, I guess.” I bent to pet him. “Lucky for him he’s so cute.” I glanced over my shoulder at Jude. When our eyes locked, my heart raced stupidly. I turned away and slowly stood. We silently walked to my front door with Yogi leading the way.

“I’ll text you after I speak to George.”

As the mistrust crept in, I opened my mouth to request assurances.

Jude put a finger to my lips.

My breath caught.

“I promise not to fuck with you.” He removed his finger.

I swallowed hard. “Can you blame me for being skeptical?” The words came out choppy.

Jude’s lips split into a crooked, knowing grin. “Not at all.”

We stared at each other unblinking until Yogi broke the silence with a yip. Jude cleared his throat. “Later, Mole.”

“Bye, Rude.” I closed the door behind me and exhaled. As far as face-to-face dealings with Jude went, it could have been worse…somuch worse.

And I hoped the humidity would hold up, because I was all out of hair bands.

Chapter Ten

Two days later, I was on my first date with Timothy. Rather, we were both at Tuttles, where I nursed a glass of rosé and he poured drinks behind the bar. He’d asked if I preferred to wait until we were both available for arealfirst date, but I was happy to drink for free while watching him work. Besides, it was a slow Monday night, and so far, he’d had plenty of time to talk to me.

He’d just told me how he worked as a barback/bartender at Tuttles part-time while securing a certificate at the Institute of Culinary Education.

I beamed at him. “I love that about New York City—so many people pursuing passions outside of their day jobs. The struggling waiter-slash-actor, uninspired lawyer-slash-novelist, mysterious bartender-slash-chef.”

“Mysterious, huh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that the same as sexy?”

I ran a finger along the stem of my wineglass. “For sure.”

We both turned our heads toward the flat-screen on the wall as a commercial for the new Marvel movie came on.

Timothy looked back at me and pointed to the screen. “You a fan?”

I nodded. “A fan, but not a fanatic. I love the Avengers franchise, but haven’t watched all the separate movies.”

“Who’s your favorite character in the Marvel universe?”

“Hmmm. Thor? Storm? I don’t really have one. You?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Groot.”

I froze with my wineglass halfway to my mouth at the second mention of this character in three days. What a strange coincidence.

“Especially teenage Groot,” Timothy continued. “All that angst. I was Groot. We were all Groot.” He drummed the fingers of both hands along the bar. The movements were hypnotizing and somehow familiar.

Before I could reflect further, the front door of the venue opened, and a gaggle of thirsty customers made their way to the bar.

Timothy shrugged apologetically. “Duty calls.”

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