Page 28 of The Spirit of Love

“Because it was supposed to be your job. You should have it.”

“Someday.”

He puts both hands on the bar. “What if I walk—”

“Don’t do that. Why would you do that?”

“Because this is your dream. It was never mine. I just got lucky. Well, first I got very unlucky, but somehow, I turned a bad thing that happened to me into the inspiration for a movie. And people liked it. And it landed me in a position where I got to pick my next project. Zombie Hospital was a whim—”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.” I stare down into my beer.

“I’m only here because I loved something you wrote,” he says. “Fenny, I’m so sorry. I’m going to make this right.”

“If you walk, Jude, people will hate me. Everyone’s so excited you’re here. I would be an enormous letdown.”

“Impossible,” he says. “But maybe…we can find a way to work together.”

He’s smiling like we’ve made a great decision, but I feel nervous.

“I like it when you smile, Fenny,” he says.

“You do?” I look at him and feel something pulse between us. It unnerves me—and I like it.

“I don’t want to be the reason you’re not smiling. Ever. I’ve got an idea to bring it back tonight. Will you indulge me for a little longer?”

“I’m very excited about this plan,” Jude says in the parking lot after we’ve paid our bills. I was about to hail a cab back to the hotel when he pointed down a darkened trail. “Take a walk with me and Walter Matthau?”

“Now? There? Really?” I can see nothing, but I know it’s the direction of the national park, which is closed at night, unless you have camping permits.

“It’s really stunning,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “We’re camping out there actually.”

“You’re not staying at 29 Palms?”

“Do you know how many injuries and deaths occur each year due to hotel negligence?”

I stare at him, trying to fit this into my ever-expanding knowledge of the enigma that is JDS. “You don’t trust anyone , do you?”

“You say that like it’s an insult, but I have no problem admitting that when I can avoid putting my life in the hands of strangers, I avoid it.”

“What about mountain lions? Do you know how many campers were mauled by mountain lions in Joshua Tree last year? Okay to put yourself in their paws?” I tease.

“Since 1986,” Jude says, “there have been four fatal mountain lion attacks in all of California. No attacks, fatal or nonfatal, have been reported in Joshua Tree.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because the people were too dead to report them.”

Walter Matthau whines.

“When your jokes embarrass a dog,” Jude says, “maybe it’s time to rethink your approach.”

“What happened the last time you stayed in a hotel?” I ask.

“A chandelier fell on me in the night.” He points to a scar above his eyebrow, which I lean in to run my finger over.

“No way.”

“Eight stitches.”

My eyes fall on the longer scar that runs down the side of his jaw. It’s very faint. Mostly hidden by his beard. I’d never noticed it, but then I’ve never stood this close to Jude de Silva. I point at it. “Is that from the chandelier, too?”

“No. Not that one.” He turns and waves me forward. Together we start down the dark trail. “Do you know about night vision?”

“I know it takes eighteen minutes to kick in,” I say, quoting Sam, remembering how he’d held me in his arms as he rattled off this stat.

“Very good,” Jude turns to me. He sounds surprised, but in the dark, I can’t see him yet. It hasn’t been long enough. “So until eighteen minutes pass, I’m going to point out the dicey parts of this trail. Right there, small rock. Right there, subtle incline. Watch your step.”

He takes my hand. His touch startles me. Warm, gentle. When I try to compare it to Sam’s, I find I can’t remember Sam’s touch as clearly as I should. As clearly as I want to. And maybe that’s for the best.

“Is this okay? I’d hate myself if you tripped when I could have prevented it.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”

The three of us walk in silence for a while, Jude only interrupting the hooting of desert owls to tell me where and how not to trip. Finally we arrive at his tent, pitched next to a broad, flat rock.

I wish I’d thought to camp like this. It’s a simple but cozy setup. Not much different from the one I had at Parson’s Landing.

“I don’t have any firewood,” he confesses.

“Better to see the stars.”

Jude hands me a blanket to spread out over the rock.

We both climb up and then lie back. We look up at the stunning, spinning galaxy.

Jude lets out a sigh that makes me wonder if he’s feeling as grateful for this view as I am.

I know reverence is not his style, but how could anyone not feel awe in the face of this?

“Stars,” he finally says, breaking our comfortable silence.

“So many.”

“No, I mean stars ,” he repeats. “You told me the other day that we can choose something to believe in. Maybe I choose stars.”

“They’re a great thing to choose.”

“I can only see a couple from my condo,” he says. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe if we believe in something, we have to be able to take it on faith that it exists. Maybe we can’t have proof all the time.”

“I like that very much.”

“Don’t. Move.” Jude whispers.

I try not to move, but I turn my head to see what’s going on. He points, very subtly, down his chest, where Walter Matthau has just snuggled up and laid his head on Jude’s belly.

“You did it,” I whisper, grinning. “You bonded.”

“I think we all bonded,” Jude whispers back.

“Yeah. We did.”

“Fenny,” he asks. “Are we cool now? You and me? Are we okay?”

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 jalapeno 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.”