Another Year Later …
I’m going to call him, “Judd the Dud.”
The guy sitting across from me at the cheapest pizza place in Campus Town checks football scores on his phone, laughing and nodding to himself before firing off a text message.
I yawn, cursing Lila’s name for setting up this blind date.
Judd Johnston is the epitome of a Hollister-wearing Joe Anybody, who has lived in Illinois his entire life, has a perfectly boring family, is majoring in ‘Business’ and can’t carry on an interesting conversation to save his life.
And the worst thing about him?
He doesn’t fucking read.
Hates books.
“I’ve never been into reading,” he told me five minutes ago. “Books are just boring to me.”
“Wonder what’s taking our pizza so long?” I ask, spinning my napkin ring and resting my head in my hand. I’ve already rearranged the parmesan cheese and red pepper flake shakers, and I’ve taken a field trip to the bathroom just to get away from Judd, but it’s been twenty-minutes and we’re still sitting here, staring at each other with dead eyes.
He adjusts his visor, which must be a thing here at Greatwood. All the guys wear backward visors and boat shoes and they all have messy, long-ish hair. To the untrained eye, these guys would be cute. They’d be worth the random fling or hookup.
But my tastes have matured since Kerouac.
And none of these boys hold a flame to what I really want.
When our waitress finally delivers the goods, I wolf down three pieces before he finishes his first, and then I tell him I have a test to study for the next day.
“But it’s a Friday,” he says.
“It’s an online class.” I try to sound remorseful. “Thanks for the pizza though. See you around!”
Before he has a chance to contest my early termination of this God-awful date, I’m already out the door, practically jogging toward the bus stop to catch the next one. When I get back to the off-campus apartment I share with Lila, she’s curled up on the sofa with her newest flavor-of-the-month watching some cheesy reality show on the DVR.
Springing up, she’s all smiles, resting her hands on the small of her back as she follows me to my room.
I kick off my heels, yank out my earrings, and strip down, changing into a thin white tank top and a pair of pajama shorts.
Lila’s smile fades when she checks the time on her phone. “It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Yep.”
“So it didn’t go well with Judd?” Her frown borders on a pout.
“To say the least.” I plunk myself down on my bed, shoving a pillow behind my neck. “I just want to Netflix and chill right now. By myself.”
“Lame.” She exhales, taking a seat on the edge of my desk. “What was wrong with him? Why didn’t you like him?”
Resting my forearm over my eyes, I say, “I don’t know. He was boring.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “He’s not Kerouac. That’s what you’re trying to say.”
Sitting up, I roll to my side, facing her. “Not true.”
“Bullshit.” Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes. “Look, I know Judd isn’t Kerouac, but that’s the whole point. You need to move on. You need to see that there are other guys out there who aren’t him.”
“Regardless, he’s not my type.”
“Fine. Whatever. Don’t date Judd. Who the hell cares? Just stop comparing every guy you meet to Kerouac because there’s only one of those, and he moved on a long time ago.”
Rolling to my back, I close my eyes. I know Lila’s right.
But it doesn’t change the way I feel.
He’s the only one I want.
The only one I’ll ever want.
Chapter 40
FORD
“You’re American, right?”
I’m sitting at the end of a bar in Milan when a leggy brunette sidles up to me, a martini glass in her left hand. Her wide mouth forms a smile and she tosses her thick waves over one lanky shoulder.
Glancing toward her for a split second, I turn my attention back to the whiskey sour I’m nursing.
“Sorry. I thought you were American,” she says, biting her lip.
“I am,” I finally respond.
“Oh, jeez.” The woman clasps a hand at her chest. “Thank God. I don’t speak any Italian. I’m here for a modeling job, and I’m new at all of this.”
I take a sip, staring straight ahead at the backlit shelving unit before me and the shiny bottles of liquid amnesia.
I was never much of a drinker until the last couple of years, always opting to do so socially or with a good book and an even better cigar. But lately, I’ve found a strong drink takes the edge off, and as long as I don’t overdo it, I manage to straddle the line between the past and future just enough to function.
“Where are you from?” she asks, elbow resting on the bar, her entire body facing me.
I’m not sure how to answer her. As of right now, I’m not really from anywhere. Ever since my sister kicked me off her couch last year, I’ve been drifting around from country to country, taking in the sights with nothing but a backpack on my back. Contract work pays my bills, mostly writing or translating academic write ups into English. Sometimes I’ll teach some ESL classes. I take what I can get, and so far, I’ve been getting by just fine.
“You’re seriously just going to ignore me?” she asks. “I’m just trying to make conversation, not hit on you. It’s been a week since I’ve spoken to someone without an accent, and I heard you order your drink, that’s how I knew you were American. I’m homesick. And you looked nice. Guess I was wrong.”
I smirk, taking another sip. “Yeah. You were.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch as she lifts her martini glass, contemplating whether or not she wants to splash her drink in my face. The emerald green liquid sloshes in her hand, threatening to spill over the rim before she takes a step back then trots off in her sky high stilettos.
Absinthe.
She was drinking absinthe.
Even thousands of miles away, I can’t get away from her.
Chapter 41
Halston
Another Year Later …
“I’m sorry Halston. The trail ran cold as soon as I got to New York,” the private investigator I hired to locate Kerouac fills me in over the phone. “Looks like he left Rosefield three years ago, moved to Brooklyn, then after that … nothing.”
“How can there just be nothing?” I ask. My stomach churns when I think about the student loan I took out to pay the investigator, and the fact that it was all for nothing.
“I’m guessing he went overseas,” he says. “For all we know, he could be backpacking in Europe. He wouldn’t have an address there. That’s the only thing I can think of. There’s no death certificate, so he’s still alive. He’s just … not anywhere we can find him.”
Hunched over my computer desk, I rest my palm against my forehead, trying to think. “So there’s nothing else we can do?”
“Not unless you want to pay me to go overseas, but no offense, sweetheart, but even I wouldn’t recommend that. It’d cost you a small fortune. No ex-boyfriend is worth that,” he says. His voice is wise and sharp, and he reminds me of a father figure. “If you were my daughter, there’s no way in hell I’d have let you hire a PI in the first place. A man who walks off like that, leaving you broken hearted? Not worth an ounce of your time or money.”
“You’re sweet to say that, but our situation wasn’t that simple.”
“Oh, hey.” His tone perks. “One other thing. He’s got an ex-stepbrother who lives in the Silicon Valley area. Name is Mason Foster. He’s some tech billionaire. I tried calling him several times, but he never would get back to me.”
I lift a brow. I had no idea he had a step-brother. In fact, he never really spoke about his family at all.
“I can give you his number if you’d like. Maybe you’ll have better luck?” He clears his throat, rattling off ten digits that I scribble down as fast as I can.