Page 34 of The Hard Launch

All of dessert—which no one wanted, but Wally insisted we have—is spent listening to Edmund and Keith discuss, across the table, their shared devotion to Guns N’ Roses and all the times they’ve each seen them live. It’s somewhat better than the time Keith dropped by our pod and told Glenn and me a detailed summary, complete with spoilers, of a Nicole Kidman movie called The Interpreter. At least Edmund seems to be enjoying this.

And finally we can go. Wally and Edmund valet parked, so they’re gone as soon as the check is settled. The rest of us trade murmured reviews as we get up and head for the door. The general consensus is, it went well—right?

But it’s over, and that’s something to be happy about.

“My ride’s here in three,” Kate says. “Want me to drop you, Lacey?”

My heel still hurts, but I need to decompress after so much food and stress. I tell her I’ll walk, and she heroically finds a Band-Aid in her purse for me. Trevor reluctantly accepts a ride from Keith. Amber’s husband is meeting her at the bar.

“I’ve got to get my helmet and my jacket from the coat check,” Jude says. “But Lacey, I’ll walk you home.”

It’s not phrased like a question, so I don’t have a chance to deflect. I tell him I’ll meet him outside, and I sit on the steps of this fancy-ass restaurant and try to get a Band-Aid to stick to my angry heel.

“Isn’t that just going to come off when you start walking?” Jude asks above me. I look up. God he’s tall. And those eyebrows. The motorcycle helmet in his hand and leather jacket slung over his arm are somehow making everything worse.

He extends his other hand to help me and I take it. Our eyes meet as he pulls me up, and once I’m standing he drops my hand a little too quickly. Like I have cooties.

“How’s the blister?” he asks.

“It’ll be better once we start heading downhill,” I tell him, starting slowly home.

The fog is in, making a dome above lit-up Grace Cathedral. It’s quiet and magical; we pass through Huntington Park in silence.

“How do you think that went?” he finally asks.

“He’s impossible to read,” I say. “It was like having dinner with the Sphinx.”

“A total mindfuck, every time I talk to him.”

I tell him I thought what he said seemed to connect with Edmund.

“I was doing this thing called managing up,” he says, bumping me with his arm as we walk. We go another block in silence, while I try to figure out why this handsome version of Jude showing up tonight and walking me home has me feeling sad. I’m confused, I think. I like consistency, I like predictability. People who run hot then cold are bad enough; Jude somehow does both simultaneously. Walking me home, touching my arm. Talking only about work.

“Were you in the school band?” he asks, like he can hear my thoughts.

“I was.”

“I have a borderline-magical ability to guess which instrument people played. I’m never wrong.”

“Go ahead then,” I say. We’re almost at my building.

“Clarinet. No, not just clarinet. I’m going to say first chair, first clarinet.”

He’s right, of course.

“I’m not ashamed. I was a practical girl playing a sensible instrument.”

“Not just playing it,” he says.

“Right. Playing it better than anyone else.”

“What about me?” he asks. “Want to guess?”

“Yours is obvious.”

“It is?”

“You got good grades, your teachers adored you, you had a bad haircut. Which means you played the trumpet. This is me,” I tell him. I walk up the steps to my building and pull my keys out of my bag. Jude follows, but stops two steps below the top.