Page 66 of The Spirit of Love
I can tell from his tone that he knows the answer, even before I do. Somehow, during the past week of bickering in cactus gardens, working crazy hours, trying on absurd costumes for no reason, eating Summer’s salad as the sun set over Malibu, passing coaster notes in dive bars, and opening up to each other in unexpected ways, Jude and I have connected.
“We’re cool,” I say. “I think we might even be…friends.”
“That’s lucky for you, because now you can try my friends-only blue cheese jalapeño burger.”
“Maybe I’ll make you my famous pancakes with passion fruit syrup in return, like friends do.”
“I hope I never taste your cooking.”
I laugh. “What?”
“You told me you cook when you’re mad. I don’t want to make you mad. Not again.”
I roll onto my side to face Jude. My night vision activates, and he looks beautiful under the stars, his expression relaxed and open. I’m petting Walter Matthau, but my hand is so close to Jude’s body. One small move, and we’d almost be spooning.
“Anger is healthy,” I say with a playful smile. “Besides, if history is any guide, I’d probably get over it eventually.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Is this it?” our productiondriver, Macy, asks, putting the van in park in front of my sister’s house on Monday night.
“This is it. Thank you, Macy!” I call as I carefully climb over our sleeping DP and then Buster, who is deep into a Minecraft game on his iPad. When I finally make it out from the van’s fifth row back corner seat and grab my backpack from the back, Jude has the passenger window rolled down and is studying Edie’s front yard.
I’d been surprised when Jude and Walter Matthau caught a ride back to LA with the production van, which Rich calls the “Book Mobile.” I know from having once negotiated my own director’s contract that the show would have paid for Jude’s private black car service back to his condo downtown. I’m even more surprised now, when Jude opens the front door and climbs out.
“Is this your house?” he asks, looking up at Edie’s yellow-door two-story craftsman that sits at the top of a long staircase lined with all varieties of my sister’s plant-babies—passion fruit and tomato vines, citrus trees, and raised beds bursting with rosemary and dill. Before having kids, Edie had triple the number of edible projects going, but the current state of her frontyard feels pleasantly indicative of the current state of her life: a little chaotic, a little neglected, and weedy yet bursting with life.
“I don’t know why,” Jude says, “but I pegged you for a devout west-sider.”
“I am,” I say, surprised that Jude has taken the time to consider which neighborhoods suit me. “I live in Venice. This is my sister’s place. We’re having dinner.”
“Oh. With your nephews, right?”
“Right.” I glance at Macy, at the van packed with cast and crew members, who surely want to get dropped off at their homes, too. I’m not sure what Jude is doing, starting this conversation here and now, but he’s looking at me like he wants me to say more. “Frank and Teddy, those are the twin toddlers. And my little baby nephew is Jarvis.”
“So…who’s cooking?” he asks in a leading tone. “I hope someone other than you?”
“Rude, Jude!” Macy calls, but I laugh.
“My brother-in-law is grilling, probably something with under point-five percent fat ratio, so it’s bound to take a while to chew. But”—I drop my voice because Buster’s headphones may not be fully noise-canceling—“I brought the pièce de résistance.” Stealthily, I give Jude a peek inside my backpack, where I commandeered a sack of peanut M&M’s from craft services and plan to gift them to my nephews for dessert.
“You bribe toddlers to love you?” Jude teases. “Is that what the cool aunts are doing these days?”
“Oh, shut up. They can’t even deal with how much they love me. It has nothing to do with M&M’s.”
He smiles. “Need help with your bags? That’s a big staircase.”
“Bruh,” I say, giving him a squint. “I’ll see you in, like, less than eight hours.” We have a sunrise shoot tomorrow morning, all the more reason I’m confused that Jude is now out of the van, having this chat. If I was the one holding up the van, I can imagine a lot of honks and someWhat the fuck, Fenny?s from the back rows. But everyone waits patiently for Jude to figure out what he’s after with this conversation.
“Or,” he says, “I could just walk you up. There’s something I wanted to ask you.” He turns back to the van. “Macy, thanks. I’ll get out here. Come on, Walter Matthau,” he says to the dog, passed out in the front passenger footwell.
“You sure?” Macy asks. “Bye, Walter Matthau!”
“Yeah,” Jude says, grabbing his things from the back of the van. “We’ll catch a dog-Uber home.”
We wave as the van chugs away and then Jude and Walter Matthau follow me up Edie’s steps. Walter Matthau gives my sister’s lawn several hundred sniff tests, disappears, and eventually comes bounding out of a rosemary bush, tail wagging and smelling like focaccia.
Jude is quiet, climbing the stairs with his camping gear.
