Being the private, guarded person I am, I know a half-truth when I hear it. I also know how annoying it is when someone won’t take a hint and keeps pressing you for an answer you’re not willing to give. I don’t want to find out too much about Real Jude, anyway. The less I know, the less chance I have of getting confused and repeating my earlier stunt of treating fantasy like fact.
“Sounds perfectly reasonable.” I dunk a French fry in ketchup and eat it like I don’t have a care in the world, including knowing anything personal about him.
He smiles uncertainly at me. I’m content to eat the rest of my meal in silence, but he’s squirming in his seat like a naked hairy man in a Velcro chair.
Eventually, he sighs and blurts, “That’s really only half the story. About why I came to Chicago.”
I raise my eyebrows in the strongest expression of interest I can muster. In reality, I’m silently begging him to leave it alone.
“If you’re a criminal, exiled from your home country, I don’t want to know.”.
He chuckles nervously, and I’m worried for a minute that I might have guessed correctly. But then he says, “Close. Divorced and exiled. However unofficial and voluntary the exile may be.”
This is a most distasteful revelation. The Jude I’ve come to know and—in some twisted way—love has never loved another woman but me. He came to me an inexplicably talented virgin lover. And he certainly doesn’t have any baggage as messy as an ex-wife!
“You don’t have an ex-wife!” I state confidently, speaking more to my fantasy than to him.
He laughs, obviously thinking I’m kidding, giving him my version of “stroll on.”
“You sounded so English when you said that just now. Reminded me a bit of home.” Rubbing his eyebrow, he says, “I wish I could deny it. But alas.”
He looks pretty chagrined by the fact, but I have no idea what to say to him. All the next logical responses would lead to further disclosures that I’m not interested in hearing. Actually, I am interested, but I know I shouldn’t be—can’t be—so, it’s best for me to just drop it.
But how do I go on with this lunch? “Oh, that’s nice. Ready to head back to the office? Unfortunately, I can’t be seen with you, so you leave now, and I’ll be about five minutes behind you”? Somehow I don’t think that’s a socially acceptable response.
“Bummer,” I say instead, panicking as the silence drags on. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not, to be quite honest.” At my shocked expression, he explains, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I’m glad to be rid of her.”
“Okay!”
“That came off wrong,” he quickly states. Clearly embarrassed, he laughs at himself. “What I meant…”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I interrupt him, standing up and grabbing my purse from the floor. “It’s none of my business.”
He rises, too, coming around the table and following me through the tables crowded into the tiny space. When we emerge onto the sidewalk, he says, “Bloody hell, now you think I’m a right git.”
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I reply, “Whatever that is. I don’t have an opinion of you one way or another.” For some reason, I’m really mad at him. I wish I knew why. I only know that I am, and that it causes me to spew, “I’m just an administrative assistant where you work. And you’re just another one of the guys who orders me around and looks at my breasts when he thinks I don’t notice.”
“Come again?” he sputters next to me. “I’ve never… that is, I resent that accusation! Every last word of it!” His tone softens, and he mumbles, “At the risk of sounding completely pathetic, I thought… perhaps… that you and I were becoming friends.” When I say nothing but keep walking, he continues, “And it was a bit of a relief, actually. I haven’t made many friends since moving here.”
I will not feel sorry for him. I’ll be strong. He can be friends with someone else. Leslie will be the first volunteer, as long as the job comes with benefits.
“I don’t really do the whole friend thing,” I state as matter-of-factly as possible.
“Bollocks,” he says. I assume he’s calling me a liar, though I’m not sure, until he challenges, “What about Lisa and Zoe?”
Coolly, I reply, “The three of us don’t hang out together outside of work. Lisa has a husband and step-daughter who keep her busy. And Zoe… we don’t seem to have the same interests. We’re just co-workers who don’t hate each other.”
He slows down, and I find myself adjusting to match his pace, although I can’t explain why. I mostly want to get back to work, where I don’t have to talk to him anymore.
After a while, he says, “Well, at least you have that.”
“What about your rugby team?” I ask, kicking myself for letting on that I retained anything from our contact last night.
He snorts. “Truth be told, most of them are wankers, a bunch of blokes with something to prove, trying to be hard cases. I like the sport, but I haven’t really clicked with any of the blokes I play with.” He sighs. “And I hate to sound like a whinger, but I don’t really fit in with any of the blokes at work, either. A few of them seem downright adversarial, in fact. As if they’re trying to set me up for failure.”
I wish I could reassure him otherwise, but I can totally see where that might be the case. A gaggle of xenophobic morons, most of them, elbowing
