Page 22 of The Spirit of Love

“Fine,” Jude says. “But you’ll need to wear this.

” Without looking, he grabs an item off the rack nearest to him.

It’s a gothic feathered black turtleneck shawl with sleeves long enough to drag the floor.

He raises an eyebrow at the sight of what he’s selected and then grabs a snakeskin midi skirt to pair it with.

“Deal,” I tell him, and we swap clothes.

In the absence of dressing rooms, we retreat to different aisles.

I can hear Jude on the other side of a rack of clothes.

I listen closely to the soft swish of his shirt dropping to the floor.

I hear the metallic rush as the zipper of his pants goes down.

I hold my breath as I picture him stepping out of them, wearing nothing but simple black briefs.

My chest flushes with heat as I whip off my own shirt and unzip my jeans.

Oh, God, did Jude hear that? Is he picturing me in my paisley thong?

How did this silly, tender outing suddenly start to feel hot?

The sooner I get un-naked, the better. The shawl is impossibly itchy, feather tips poking out everywhere, and very hard to get over my head.

But the skirt I love. It’s slinky and cool, slightly rough to the touch.

It hugs my curves and has a long slit up the left leg.

I turn to the mirror and catch my breath.

If I were the kind of person who could leave the house like this, I’d probably get a ton of compliments.

“I don’t know if we should do this,” Jude calls from the next aisle, which tells me he must look like a total fool.

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this,” I call back. “Ready or not.”

We meet at the end of the aisle, and I start laughing so hard I almost don’t notice Jude’s not. I finally catch how he’s staring at me, like he’s hungry. His eyes run all over my body, sending electric sparks across my skin.

“Wow,” he whispers.

“Ditto,” I say, relishing his absurd gold barrel-shaped shorts and the doubloon that gives him Henry-VIII-at-the-disco vibes. And also relishing the way he seems to be thirsting for me—for this outfit anyway.

“So do you want to take pictures for future blackmail purposes?” Jude asks, holding out his arms.

“I want to take you to Medieval Times.”

“I want you to rent both of those pieces and wear them to the Zombie Hospital dinner at Amy Reisenbach’s house on Friday,” Jude says. “I meant them as a joke, but they’re not.”

I smooth my skirt and laugh. “There’s no way I’m wearing this to the Zombie Hospital dinner.” But it crosses my mind: If I was directing this season, maybe I’d have the confidence to show up in something this bold. As it is, I have just enough confidence to blend in with Amy Reisenbach’s drapes.

He’s looking at me closely, like he’s trying to read my expression. “I know,” he says, “I always hate those dinners. You’re working, but you’re supposed to act like you’re on vacation.”

“ You’ll be fine,” I say. “You’re everybody’s darling. You just stand there and soak up the compliments.”

“God, that sounds horrible.” Jude shudders.

At first, I assume he’s joking, but the longer I look at him, the more convinced I am that he’s being sincere.

It makes me wonder why receiving praise for his work wouldn’t sit right with him.

Imposter syndrome? Is he a fraud? There’s more to Jude than I can fathom yet, and I’m surprised to want to know more.

“Have you ever brought your mom here?” I ask. “She’d probably love it.”

Jude shakes his head. “She lives in Dallas now. We haven’t talked in a while.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t really see eye to eye anymore,” he says. “She’s religious. Heaven’s a big part of her worldview.”

“I take it it’s not a big part of yours?” I ask.

“Definitely not.”

“ Definitely ? Really? Who gets to know that sort of thing for sure?” I say, surprised.

Although I shouldn’t be. Jude did make a whole movie about a character who believes in the darkest version of nothing.

I wonder if that’s when Jude and his mom fell out of touch, when his movie came out and she hated it.

“I’m not unique,” he says. “Lots of people don’t believe there’s anything after this. Lots of people take comfort in exploring that darkness. Don’t you ever, Fenny?”

“I’m no stranger to darkness, but I still choose to believe—”

“In what?” He interrupts me so cuttingly that I don’t want to say it out loud. Not to him. Not anymore.

But I know what I believe inside. I’ve known it since I was ten years old and woke up in a hospital bed after seeing the beauty beyond this world.

It gave me faith that we’re here for a reason.

To love each other, to be kind, to connect.

That if we live accordingly, no matter what our public lives amount to, it’s worth it on a soul level.

And then I feel like the fraud, because even though I know all this, I still find myself wanting the public validation of landing the role of director. I still find myself blaming Jude because I’m not getting what my ego thinks it needs.

“Sometimes,” Jude says, filling in the space I didn’t, “it just feels good to wonder: What’s the fucking point?”

“I mean, just taking a stab in the dark here,” I say, irritation creeping into my voice, “perhaps love and kindness are the point?”

“ Love and kindness ?” he repeats, squinting like I’ve suggested contracting head lice is the point.

“It does seem to be what we’re here to do. It’s not exactly a novel idea.”

“No, in fact, it’s a very tired idea.”

I narrow my eyes. “Love is a tired idea?”

“In movies and TV, yes,” Jude says. “That’s all I mean. There’s no potential for surprise. I was just talking to Buster about this today.”

“Buster?” I ask.

“Yeah, we’re exploring new ideas for his character to confront in the first episode.”

I stiffen. “Because I’m responsible for rewriting that episode, it seems like you should be talking to me. All you’ve told me to do so far with the scripts is ‘have a fling.’?”

“I sent you fifty pages of script notes last night.”

Right. Shit. “Which I am working my way through,” I stammer, caught.

“And I’m talking to you now,” he says. “I’m saying there’s no salvation for Buster’s character. No love or meaning.”

“This is all wrong,” I say, beginning to panic.

I didn’t want to get into the details of the show with him tonight.

But there’s so much he doesn’t understand about Zombie Hospital that the subject is nearly impossible to avoid.

“If there’s one character who needs salvation on this show it’s Buster’s.

Eleven million viewers need that kid to believe in something—”

He shrugs like we’re debating whether to take the escalator or the stairs. “Unless they don’t.”

“People believe in love, Jude.”

He studies my face. “People like you?”

He makes it sound like a bad thing. I feel stung and embarrassed, and so I sting back. “Is this why people think you’re talented?” I demand, feathered hands on hips. “Because you believe in nightmares while everyone else believes in dreams?”

“I really don’t know why people think I’m talented,” Jude says, looking away.

“You’re not a genius. You’re a shell.”

“Didn’t take you long to crack the code,” he says evenly, holding my gaze.

I want to give him a piece of my mind. About how, in the rare moments when Zombie Hospital has a chance to make our audience feel something, I want to make them feel connected, not alone.

But if I told Jude any of that, then he’d know what he stole from me, and that’s a secret I’m not willing to give him.

This shawl feels like it’s choking me. I tug at the neck, trying to find the snaps. What am I doing playing dress-up with the enemy?

“I have to get out of this thing,” I gasp. “I have to get out of here.”