CHAPTER SEVEN Jude

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jude

I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

Half an hour ago, I got back from that too-loud and too-crowded bar, and it was as big of a nightmare as I imagined it would be. I had no fewer than fifteen cameras on me as I tried to get into the back of the car Dylan had waiting for me.

"Are you on drugs, Jude?"

"Will you be entering rehab, Jude?"

"This was supposed to be your comeback movie, but critics predict a flop. How do you feel about that, Jude?"

"Do your parents know you're an addict, Jude?"

The questions were as outrageous as they were irritating. I can't tell if my head is throbbing because of the asinine shit I had to deal with or the camera flashes. Probably a bit of both.

Either way, it has me lying in bed before midnight on a Saturday with my phone in my hand, scrolling through messages from some random stranger on the internet, contemplating whether I should write her more.

She knows I've seen the messages. She knows because she's seen my message.

Well, that's not true. She knows Jasper has seen the messages, and she's seen Jasper's reply.

Not mine. None of this is mine.

@OliveMe: My favorite part of living in New York is the people. They're assholes half the time, but when they're good, they're really good. Good people make me happy.

Her words from three months ago are like a punch to the gut, given that I'm not currently being a very good person.

"Reading someone's diary is wrong. You're just as bad as Jasper," I say out loud. Maybe if I acknowledge the problem, it will convince me to put my phone down and stop.

But it doesn't. I keep scrolling because I'm an asshole like that.

@OliveMe: I have a small confession to make. I totally believe in aliens. I think they're just scared of humans, and frankly, they have every right to be. This world is a scary place.

@OliveMe: Butterflies are evil. That's it. That's the entry for the day.

@OliveMe: Sometimes I think about quitting modeling and social media and getting one of those boring 9-5 office jobs. It sounds a hell of a lot easier than giving away so many pieces of myself.

She didn't write for a few days after that confession, and I wish more than anything I could reach through the screen and tell her that what she's feeling is entirely valid.

I relate to it more than she could ever know. It's exactly how I feel about acting. I love it, but at what point will it be too much?

@OliveMe: I have a big photo shoot tomorrow. I'm nervous because it's with a photographer who could skyrocket me to a new level of modeling. I want that. I think. Is it weird to be excited and grateful but also completely and utterly terrified? That's what I'm feeling right now, but maybe it's just the wine talking.

It was from yesterday.

That was the last message she sent before I so stupidly responded to her.

I have no business reading these, and even less business striking up a conversation with the woman.

So I let her know just that.

@JasperRafferty: You don't have to answer that. Sorry for intruding.

I stare at the message for several minutes, typing, deleting, and retyping before I finally hit Send.

Then I stare some more.

I don't know why I can't take my eyes off the screen, but I can't. It's like I'm trying to will her to respond. To look at the message, at the least. To be okay with me being a total sleazeball.

But nothing happens.

No response. No indication that she's seen the message.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Just as I rest my phone on my chest, it shakes against me, and I spring up to a sitting position, gripping it tightly with two hands like a man obsessed.

And maybe I am, which sounds absurd.

But it doesn't stop me from clicking on the notification. Or diving back into Jasper's inbox. Or reading a message that's not really for me.

@OliveMe: To be fair, I'm the one who intruded first, using your inbox as my diary. But if you're messaging me back, that means you don't think I'm completely crazy.

@JasperRafferty: Not completely.

@OliveMe: Oh, so you DO think I'm crazy, just not completely?

I laugh, loving that she's unafraid to call me out on my crap. That's the second time it's happened today, and it makes me as happy as it did this morning.

Huh. Guess we're both crazy, then.

@JasperRafferty: I mean, sliding into my DMs is pretty crazy, right?

@OliveMe: Crazy ... completely stupid and mortifying. Same thing, yeah?

@JasperRafferty: Nothing to be embarrassed by. You're not the first person.

@OliveMe: Probably not, but I really don't think this is what my therapist meant by finding an outlet for my feelings.

@OliveMe: Annnnd now I've just admitted I'm in therapy. Yep. I'm totally crazy.

@JasperRafferty: Two things . . .

@JasperRafferty: Therapy doesn't equal crazy. In fact, I think going to therapy is one of the bravest things a person can do.

@JasperRafferty: I think the digital journal thing is kind of cool. I mean, maybe not the smartest execution if you didn't want anyone else reading all your innermost private thoughts, but still cool. I'm an old-school man myself. Pen and paper for me.

@OliveMe: Wait ... you keep a diary?

@JasperRafferty: A journal.

@OliveMe: Same thing.

@OliveMe: And don't argue that it's not. We both know it is.

If she really wants to get to the nitty-gritty of it, then fine. I guess they're the same. But there's no way in hell I'm admitting that to Jasper.

@JasperRafferty: You win. This time.

@OliveMe: You'll come to know that I always win.

I wince. Not because I don't find her bold attempt at flirting with me endearing, but because she's implying what can never be—that this conversation will extend beyond tonight.

It won't.

I can't.

Because I'm not Jasper.

@OliveMe: Sorry. That came out sounding a little weirder than I intended.

@JasperRafferty: How about we stop apologizing to each other tonight, huh?

@OliveMe: Sorry.

@OliveMe: OMG

@OliveMe: That was totally unintentional! Guess it's my inner Midwesterner coming out.

@JasperRafferty: You're from the Midwest?

@OliveMe: Yep. Born and raised. I lived there until I finally escaped to New York.

@JasperRafferty: I've lived in NYC my entire life. Well, NYC and LA.

@JasperRafferty: But you probably knew that already, didn't you?

@OliveMe: Nah. Who are you again?

I grin. I like her humor.

Even more, I like that she's treating me like I'm not a Rafferty. Like I'm just some random guy she met on the street.

@JasperRafferty: You never did tell me about the shoot.

@OliveMe: Oh. That.

@OliveMe: It was good. I think. I HOPE.

@JasperRafferty: You're not sure?

@OliveMe: I mean, I gave it my all, but that doesn't always mean something in this industry.

@OliveMe: LOL at me for trying to provide Jasper Rafferty industry insight. As if you don't already know.

@JasperRafferty: I don't know about modeling.

@OliveMe: Did you block out your early years as a model that well?

Early years as a model? I never modeled. It was never my thing. It was—

Oh crap.

It was Jasper's thing, and I'm Jasper.

@JasperRafferty: Guilty as charged.

@OliveMe: Oh, come on. It's not all that bad.

@OliveMe: Wait. You've read my diary. You know it is.

@JasperRafferty: I didn't read your entire diary, you know ...

@OliveMe: Thank you. I think.

@JasperRafferty: You're welcome. I think.

@OliveMe: I would understand if you did, though. I mean, I'd deserve it, using your DMs and all.

@JasperRafferty: That was a little ...

@OliveMe: Bizarre?

@JasperRafferty: I was going to say unorthodox.

@OliveMe: Oooh. I'm totally going to bust that out in therapy when I tell Ingrid all about this.

I want to tell her not to tell anyone about this, but that wouldn't be fair, since I plan to share it with Shane, my therapist.

He's going to love this.

And by love, I mean completely call into question my sanity, just like I'm doing myself.

@OliveMe: I'm only kidding. I won't go blabbing Jasper Rafferty's secrets to the world.

There it is again. The reminder that it's not me talking to Olive.

I need to stop. Now.

@OliveMe: If you want to block me, this weirdo sliding into your DMs all the time, you can. I'll totally understand.

I should. I really, really should. Block her and delete the messages and pretend she never existed.

Hell, I even hover my finger over the button, aimed and ready to make this all just a bad dream.

But no matter how long I let my finger linger there, I can't seem to make myself press down and do the deed.

Why? Why can't I do this?

Because she makes you feel normal, you idiot.

Ah. Right. That.

@JasperRafferty: No blocking necessary.

@OliveMe: And here I was, worried you'd think I'm a complete and total creeper.

@JasperRafferty: Well . . .

@OliveMe: GASP!

@JasperRafferty: Kidding.

Olive doesn't message anything else, and neither do I.

Mostly because I don't know what to say to her. I don't know how to keep the conversation going, let alone end it, which is exactly what I should do.

So instead, after several minutes of silence from both of us, I send her one last message for the night.

@JasperRafferty: I believe in aliens too.

Then I get reckless for the third time tonight—I turn off my phone and slip into sleep.

As it turns out, shutting off your phone for a peaceful night of sleep is a bad idea when your name is all over the press.

"I swear, Jude ..." Dylan pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head at me, her wild red hair flying all over the computer screen. I figured the fastest and easiest way to give her proof of life was to video chat her. I'm still lying in bed, and I have no doubt she's already been up for six hours. "You are going to be the death of me—heart palpitations like this shouldn't be a thing at twenty-nine."

I wince even though I know she's just being dramatic. She's not having palpitations. She's just annoyed.

Really, really annoyed. Likely more annoyed than I've ever seen her.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, shoving the glasses that have fallen down my nose back up. I hate wearing them, but I'm also too lazy to get out of bed for my contacts. "I shouldn't have turned my phone off."

"You're right. You shouldn't have. We could have had a crisis on our hands. Not to mention that I totally thought you were kidnapped and being held for ransom since I couldn't get in touch with you, Mr. Sleep until Ten in the Morning."

"Jude will do just fine."

She glowers at me, not appreciating my sarcasm.

I can't entirely say I blame her. She's not the only person who believed something was wrong.

When I turned my phone back on ten minutes after ten, I was instantly bombarded with messages and voicemails from my mother, sister, Dylan, and even Jasper. He was worried about me slipping away on my own last night. Funny, since he's the one who should be worried, slinking home with random women. His untamed sex drive is so going to be his downfall one day.

After I called my mom and sister back, I sent Jasper a single emoji—the middle finger—then tackled calling Dylan, all while ignoring the obvious and glaring notification sitting on my phone:

@OliveMe has sent you a message.

"How can I make it up to you?" I ask Dylan, brushing a hand through my bed head and flashing her the most charming smile I can muster with no caffeine in my system.

I honestly can't remember the last time I slept so late, and if I weren't so scared that Dylan would break into my apartment and go all Misery on me, I'd shut my phone off more often.

True to herself, her glare doesn't lessen at all.

"You can start by promising me you'll never, ever scare me like that again."

"Yes, ma'am," I answer with a salute, earning myself an even scarier stare.

Man, I'm on a roll this morning.

"Secondly, you can tell me why you shut your phone off."

Because I wanted to hold on to that bit of normal I felt with Olive.

But I can't tell her that. Telling her that would open a box I'm not ready to tackle just yet.

After confessing to Olive how I felt about aliens, I spent half the night plagued by dreams of little green creatures trying to get me to board their flying saucer.

I wasn't entirely surprised I had Olive on my mind when I woke up. Or that reaching for my phone to message her was my first instinct.

But thanks to this morning's slap of reality, I haven't done anything that foolish just yet.

Just leave her be, Jude. Pretend it never happened.

"Hello! Earth to Jude!"

I snap my attention back to the angry redhead. "I'm listening. Keep going."

One of her perfectly shaped brows lifts. "I asked you a question."

"Oh." Heat steals over my cheeks. "Can you repeat it?"

Dylan exhales heavily. "You know, you're not making these drug- and alcohol-misuse accusations any easier to dodge. Not with the way you're acting."

She's right. I know she is. "I'm just ... distracted, is all."

"By?"

"My lack of proper sleep over the last few months?" I shrug. "It's been a whole whirlwind of shit. My parents' anniversary party, the ten different events I ‘had' to attend, and then hitting the road for this press tour. I'm out of practice with all this."

It's not a complete lie. I am out of practice with how demanding this job can be. Most people believe it's all glitz and glam and constant parties. While that might be true, there's also a lot of work involved. And if you're like me—a person who'd rather be at home than out at one of those parties—it's even tougher to have to push through sometimes.

Sometimes I wish I'd never taken that time off for college, but another part of me knows that without it, I probably wouldn't still love acting like I do. I grew up in this industry. Those years off were necessary if I wanted to avoid the kind of nervous breakdown I've seen far too many of my fellow child actors go through, even if they do sometimes make me feel like I'm behind where I "should" be. Sure, I did a few guest appearances here and there, but my name hasn't been first on the call sheet since Eternity: Forever and Always failed, which could have had something to do with that god-awful redundant title, I'm sure.

Now here I am, being thrown back into it at full force, thanks to Love and Arson.

I'm totally out of touch.

This time when Dylan sighs, it's more resigned. She mashes her lips together, then sits forward, her serious face coming out to play. "We'll scale back on the social events. They really are helpful and can open so many new doors, but I get they aren't your thing. We can cut a few."

A wave of relief washes over me. It's short lived when my publicist opens her mouth again.

"Besides, you're going to need more time for the dates I have lined up for you."

"‘Dates'? As in, plural? We agreed on one."

She gives me a wicked grin. "You owe me now for turning your phone off."

"No. One date only. That's it. I am not budging on this."

She narrows her eyes, looking every bit like she wants to argue. To my surprise, she doesn't. "Fine," she bites out. "One date. But I still get to pick it."

I groan. As much as I'm not looking forward to the date, I think I'm even less excited about the idea of Dylan picking it. "You know you're killing me with this, don't you?"

"You're being dramatic, Jude." She cackles—yes, cackles—just like a witch. "Besides, you could have fun, you know. Maybe even fall in love."

"Love? You don't even believe in love," I accuse.

She lifts a shoulder. "Not for myself but maybe for you."

I squint at her. "I could fire you, you know."

She grins sweetly. "But you won't. You love me."

"Not at this moment, I don't."

Appearing unbothered by my statement, she moves on to the next task at hand: discussing the interview I need to be at shortly.

She's been like this since I met her when she was working as an assistant to Jasper's publicist—business, business, business. It's why I've been with her for so long. She's professional but not afraid to call me out when she needs to. I was lucky as hell I found her after Lakedale ended. I was lost in my career, unsure of what I wanted to do, and along came Dylan, waltzing up to me with all the answers.

She's the one who encouraged me to take time off and figure out who I wanted to be. She's the whole reason I went to college. So when I graduated and realized that acting is what I want, she was the first person I called and offered the job as my publicist. I was her first client, the one who gave her a leg to stand on. She's been my ride or die since, and I've not regretted it yet. I don't think she has either.

We run through the rest of my day, one that's packed with me running from interview to interview, then making an appearance at some new Broadway show. I don't have to stay the entire time—thank fuck, because musicals aren't my thing—but I do have to stay until intermission, at least. After that, I'm free for the night.

It's absurd to have my day mapped out like this, to make an appearance here or to show up there, but I get it—it's a necessary evil. It's especially necessary with a new movie coming out. Buzz is good. Headlines, no matter how awful and untrue, are a good thing. It keeps my name in the spotlight, which means more people interested, which means more exposure, which means more moviegoers.

It's one big game ... one I'm already sick of playing.

I want to go back to how I felt last night messaging with Olive. Go back to that feeling of just being some guy talking to some girl. I'm over the pressure of being Jude Rafferty, the guy trying to make a comeback and not be seen as the kid from Lakedale or the failed vampire show.

I just want to be me, which means I need to stay away from Jasper's inbox, even if Olive's diary is calling to me.

I need to block her. Delete our messages. Move on.

But no matter how much conviction is behind my thoughts, it's pointless. The second I get off the video call with Dylan, I'm on my phone and navigating to Instagram to see what Olive has sent.

I shouldn't. I know that. But ... I can't help it. She's too good a distraction from all the chaos and worry that's been slowly creeping in since we started hitting hard on the promo for the film.

I've been working on this movie for years, it seems like, and now it's finally coming out and I'm finally getting my shot at being something more than the kid from the cheesy TV show or "the Rafferty who went to college." The stress of it all ... it's slowly starting to consume me, which I know is going to lead to more blunders like the Snoopy-underwear incident, and I can't afford those for so many reasons.

Even though I know I shouldn't be talking to Olive, I want to anyway. It makes me feel grounded. Normal. Real.

Well, as real as I can be while pretending to be my brother.

But that's a problem for another time.

@OliveMe: Aliens invaded my dreams last night. Big, tall blue ones with rippling muscles and huge ... bulges. They were kind of hot.

I bark out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of my mostly empty apartment. I moved in only two months ago, and since I've been constantly on the go, I haven't had the time to decorate anything. Not that I'm any good at that, but still. I'm sure my mom will want me to unpack and do something with it, especially since she's not acting as much these days and has entirely too much time on her hands. I'm still planning to split my time between here and LA, but I wanted to be near family too. Now that Cait has a baby on the way and Jasper is spending so much time here, too, it makes sense to put down roots in earnest as well.

@JasperRafferty: I dreamed of aliens too. They were green, though.

@OliveMe: And their . . . bulges?

@JasperRafferty: You know, it never occurred to me to check them out.

@OliveMe: Uh-huh. Likely story.

@OliveMe: I'm kind of surprised you messaged me back ...

@JasperRafferty: Did you not want me to?

@OliveMe: Honestly, I'm not sure.

@OliveMe: I still don't even know what to make of the fact that you responded yesterday. Or that you've read my diary. I'm still in shock.

I'm in shock too.

Shocked I opened her messages. Shocked I messaged her back. Shocked I'm still messaging her. Shocked I'm pretending to be my brother because, apparently, I'm that damn desperate to feel normal.

@JasperRafferty: We can pretend this never happened. Just say the word and you can go back to your diary. The ball is in your court, Olive.

An alarm chimes from my discarded laptop, and I know it's a reminder from Dylan that I need to get moving so I'm not late for what's sure to be another torturous interview.

When I glance back at my phone, I see that Olive's not seen my message yet.

Good. I'd rather not know her response. At least, not now.

Because truthfully ... selfishly ... I don't want to pretend it never happened.

I want to hang on to normal for a little bit longer.