Page 15 of The Spirit of Love

Chapter Nine

I’d like you to meet Jude de Silva…

Near sunset on Monday evening, after my sudden, shocking demotion, I’m standing next to a two-ton saguaro cactus, watching a doom-shaped dot on my phone. Jude de Silva, known genius, Zombie Hospital ’s new director, and Sam look-alike is getting closer.

Approximately thirty-six minutes ago, Jude shared his location with me, unprovoked, to “reduce logistical confusion.” I’ve spent the last thirty-six minutes watching him, in avatar form, descend upon my evening.

It wasn’t enough for Jude to wreck my day; now he’s insisting upon a “quick chat” to curdle my night.

He’s been blowing up my phone ever since I fled the set at the first reasonable opportunity this afternoon.

I assumed he’d be too busy to notice, too much of an utter genius to care… but he noticed. And he seems to care.

I can’t stop seeing Jude’s—Sam’s—face from this morning. He’d looked so genuinely excited to waltz in and steal my dream.

Zombie Hospital ’s new director.

Jude is the last person I want to see, but he insisted we do this, so I’m taking some pleasure imagining him in eastbound evening rush hour, coming to meet me in this part of town.

I don’t know where Jude lives, but for most Angelinos, Pasadena is very inconvenient, which was at least one good reason to invite him here.

That and I was already here at the Huntington Gardens, still with hours to kill before Olivia’s dress fitting at a bridal shop up the street.

But Jude didn’t balk when I dropped the pin. He shared his location and got on the 101.

The Huntington Gardens, LA’s prized botanical gem, keep occasional late hours in September, winding down their “Summer Evening Strolls” series.

When I arrived an hour ago, the tranquil Japanese garden felt too Zen, and the lush rose garden, too superior.

When I found myself among the cactuses, the flora finally fit my mood.

Because my rage continues to blossom like an Adenium obesum , otherwise known as the desert rose. Which is poisonous.

I figured I could stay a while among the burrs and needles because I’m not meeting my friends at the bridal shop until eight.

Olivia made special arrangements to keep the store open late to accommodate my schedule…

back when I was supposed to direct today.

Back before Jude de Silva, director from another vector, pierced my heart and soul.

My palms are damp and my chest feels tight because Jude is close and getting closer. And I’m still so upset I don’t think I should see anyone, let alone my new boss and the source of all my rage.

If he wants an apology or even an explanation for what happened in Rich’s office this morning, I may accidentally impale him on a dragon fruit tree. The only upside to this encounter might be seeing him in natural light and confirming with clear eyes that he’s not…that he has nothing on Sam.

I smile because that’s what happens now when I think of Sam. But the smile soon fades. Sam’s so far away, he might as well be a dream. Jude is my now , my waking nightmare.

I hear footsteps, and I know it’s him. I don’t want to look up, but I do.

At the sight of him—still in his suit from today, his face fixed on his screen, pursuing my pin—I let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my lungs since the meeting in Rich’s office.

Jude doesn’t carry his shoulders like Sam.

He doesn’t walk like Sam. He doesn’t take in the natural world like he’s grateful to be participating in it, like Sam.

His hands, though, they’re familiar. And I wonder if I went to him and took his hand in mine, if my skin would know the answer. Not that I will ever take Jude de Silva by the hand.

When he finally looks up, he seems startled by his surroundings, like he hadn’t known until now he was in a botanical garden at all.

And then he looks at me. And his dark eyes go soft, a little downturned at the corners.

His brow smooths out, like day two of a really good vacation.

And there is something . I don’t know. Something reminiscent of the man I fell for last weekend.

He smiles, and my stomach twists the way it does right before a kiss.

I have to look away and hope Jude doesn’t see the heat rising to my cheeks.

“Fenny.”

“Jude.”

“I found you.” He glances at the saguaro over my head. “So you’re into cactuses?”

I raise an eyebrow. “When I’m in certain moods.”

“Nature’s wisest plant. They never let down their guard.”

“Inspiring. Is that a Glennon Doyle quote? Or some team-building trope you’re developing for tomorrow?”

“Funny,” he says, dry as a desert garden. “I’m not above team-building. Are you?”

“The thing is, Jude. This team— Zombie Hospital —it’s pretty much already built. We saved you the effort, long ago.”

“Right, so I’ve learned. I got to talk to the rest of the cast and crew today, but I didn’t have a chance to connect with you. You left so early.”

“Something came up.”

You did, dickhead .

“Everything okay?” He tips his head, and I have to look away again because from a couple of angles, despite the beard, despite the hair, despite the arrogance, there is something Sam-like about him.

Is this what happens to me when I fall for someone? I see them in everyone, including the worst possible people in my life? Is there a medication to undo this particular mindfuck?

“I can manage,” I say.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Jude says awkwardly, looking around him. “It’s like a scene in a film noir.” He levels his gaze at me. “Should we walk?”

He gestures toward a fork in the path lined with succulents named Silk Pinwheel and Moonlight Jenny. I keep my eyes on the plants and the plaques that bear their names, anything so I don’t have to look at him.

A warm breeze rustles through the plants as we walk, carrying the fruity scent of prickly pears. We’re the only souls in the cactus garden.

“So,” Jude says. “We’re going to be working closely together. Do you have any questions for me? Do you want to know my background, or—”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You’re…good?” he says. “You have no interest in learning anything about me?”

“I know enough.”

“I heard you went to film school at UCLA. That’s impressive. I—”

“Please don’t,” I say. “Just don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t play the fancy school game. Rich went to Harvard. Adele went to Yale. You probably went to the American Film Institute. No one cares.”

“I didn’t go to film school. Applied, but didn’t get in.”

“Can I borrow your pocket square?” I ask.

“Sure,” Jude says, reaching into his breast pocket. “Are you alright?”

“I just need to wipe the tears from my eyes. Your story is so sad .”

“Got it.” He tucks away his pocket square.

“Come on. It’s obvious why you’re here. An unexpected delay in the shooting schedule for your next film? Perfect timing to take a giant paycheck. You’re just another masturbating nihilist with a slight sense of humor.”

“You’ve seen my films? You think they’re nihilistic?”

“I don’t need you to pretend to care about Zombie Hospital , or any of the people who work on it. We already care. We care enough.”

“You’ve got it wrong.”

I laugh. “Oh, I can’t wait to be corrected.”

“I’m a huge fan of the show.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. I—”

“Spare me. Let’s just do the work and then leave each other alone after hours to live our lives.”

“Right.” He nods, as if this is an unusual request he’s trying to figure out how to accommodate. “Are you married, Fenny? Kids?”

“Yeah, I’ve got nine husbands and six kids. They should be around here somewhere.”

“What’s your life like, outside this cactus garden?”

“I don’t have one. The evil fairies won’t let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Our footsteps crunch along the path.

“I work a lot,” he finally says. “Wow, that sounds pathetic.”

I sigh, saddened by the fact that lips shaped so much like Jude’s spoke to me in a cabin on an island just the other day about a love of hiking and fishing, cliff-diving and zip-lining.

Jude must do something in his spare time.

What’s he hiding? And why on earth should I open up to him if he’s this closed with me?

“How’d your other meetings go today?” I ask him. Aurora. Buster. Can any of them be counted on to help sabotage Jude’s working experience for me? Would any of them—I wonder—have told Jude he replaced me? Does he know?

He didn’t shoot at all today. He took meetings with the cast and crew on the soundstage all day long. The word I got from Ivy is that he needed to get his bearings, and that he’s reordering my shooting schedule entirely, starting tomorrow.

“The meetings were pretty awkward,” he says. “I used a script.”

I stop walking and look over at him, his hands clasped behind his back.

“What? I was nervous.”

“Hand it over,” I say and put out my palm.

Jude sighs, knowing defeat. From his suit pocket, he passes me a crumpled piece of paper. I unfold it and read the rushed cursive:

What’s your favorite thing about the show?

How best can I help you reach your dreams?

What would you be doing with your life if not this?

I give him back the paper. “What ingenious questions. Truly genre-defying.”

“You’re harder to impress than Danny DeVito at a table read. I’m doing my best here, Fenny.”

“I’ll answer the third one,” I say.

“Really? Okay. Great.”

Jude faces me, and suddenly I feel a little nervous about what I’m about to say. Then I remember he deserves it. You don’t want none, don’t start none.

“I’d be a wilderness EMT,” I say. “You know? Search and Rescue. Somewhere cool like Catalina Island.”

Jude’s chin tips up slightly. He clears his throat. He licks his lips. “It feels like you’re trying to tell me something. Do you want to tell me something, Fenny?”

“Nope, it just seems like a cool job.”