Here's the next chapter. Thanks for being patient, I tend to write in bursts. Let me know what you think!

2. The Meal

Stella leaned in the doorway, looking at her younger cousin in a knowing way. They had become closer as adults, and Tommy stayed with her whenever he needed to be in L.A. It was nice to have that connection in such a fractured family as theirs.

"Tom." Tommy looked up quickly from his spot on the sofa, where he had been reading the latest industry magazine.

"Hi, Stell," he smiled. "How was work?"

"Two coffee cups, huh?" She asked, ignoring his question entirely and starting right in with one of her own. "I saw them in the sink. You get really thirsty?"

"Funny, Stella," Tommy responded, rolling his eyes at her. "Jude lives in this building."

"I know," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "So—"

"You knew?" Tommy cried, standing up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I only moved in here last week, and you came in yesterday and practically went right to bed because of jet lag, so it's not like I'm keeping secrets here," Stella said defensively. "I was chatting with a neighbor a few days ago. She seemed a little star-struck and mentioned that Jude Harrison lives here. She apparently tries to live really anonymously."

"I saw her in the elevator and practically had to drag her with me for a cup of coffee," Tommy lamented.

"Dude, you are so far in love with that girl, still," Stella laughed.

"No I'm not!" Tommy argued.

"Yes, you totally are," Stella smirked. "Don't lie, Tommy. Don't deny it. Just go get her."

"It's not that easy. She doesn't even like hearing about anything having to do with her past life. She completely shuts down. She doesn't even do music anymore."

"Well, change that," Stella replied, as though it were a no-brainer. Her cousin, for all his musical prowess and business acumen, could be incredibly thick. "Make her embrace all of that again. You know you can. And if I recall, she was too talented to be doing anything else but music."

"I know," Tommy sighed. "I just have to make her see that."

…..

Jude came home from work exhausted. She had bought new pumps that were now killing her feet, her editor had been a bitch all day, and she wasn't happy with the final copy for the summary for the latest World War II saga, either. Further, she'd spilled her latte all over her desk upon sitting down at work that morning. Nothing had gone right.

She hit play on her answering machine, doubting she would have any calls. She had friends, sure, but usually they just called her cell phone. Then she heard his voice. Jesus Christ. He had called her.

"Hey Jude, it's Tommy. Listen, I know I caught you off-guard yesterday, and I'm sorry about that. I really want to see you again—I want us to be friends. Let me know if you'll go out for dinner, tonight or tomorrow maybe? My number is…"

Jude hit pause on the machine while she tried to collect herself. Her breathing had quickened during the brief message. She wondered if she could last through a dinner with him. More practically, she wondered if she'd get noticed if someone noticed Tommy first. She had worked so hard to protect her life, her small life in L.A., from the trappings of fame she'd left far behind in Toronto. Tommy was far more famous than she'd ever been—Boyz Attack trumped Instant Star—and she worried that the media would go back to their old games if someone sighted Little Tommy Q with the elusive Jude Harrison at some restaurant near Hollywood. But she had to call him back.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Jude."

"Jude!" He sounded so excited. She hated to break his heart this way, she really did.

"Look, Tommy, I've been really swamped with work, and I'm really tired—"

"Tomorrow night then, for dinner?"

"I have a work meeting, I'm sorry," she lied, hating herself for doing it.

"Then how about I come over now and cook you dinner?"

"You cook?" She was so surprised that she forgot to turn him down immediately, as had been her plan.

"I cook," Tommy replied. "Pretty much anything you want."

Jude sighed. She usually ordered in pizza or Chinese for dinner, or made herself some scrambled eggs, which were as far as her own culinary skills went. But she could really go for a legitimate homemade meal right now.

"Come on over, then," she said. "17th floor."

"See you in a few minutes," he replied, and they hung up.

Jude wondered if she should change her clothes. She decided against it, but did apply a fresh coat of mascara and brush her hair a little. Then she decided she shouldn't put so much effort into it. This was just a casual dinner as friends. But she knew that there was an underlying…something—that could never be erased. Before she could think too deeply, the doorbell rang, and it was Tommy, with two armfuls of groceries in brown paper bags.

"Wow," Jude laughed. "You cooking for an army?"

"The way you eat, if I remember correctly," he laughed, "is not unlike an army."

"Ouch," she smirked, but didn't refute his claim. "What did you bring?"

"Chicken—I make a mean chicken scallopini—potatoes, spinach—"

"Sounds perfect."

"I forgot wine," he noted apologetically.

"I have enough wine to serve to an army and all their closest friends," Jude laughed. They made eye contact for a long moment, before Jude looked away quickly. "I can't cook for my life, but I can handle the wine."

"Good," Tommy said. "As long as we've got wine."

…..

"We're drunk, Little Tommy Q," laughed Jude, finishing off her piece of chicken. Tommy had been correct. His cooking was excellent. Even his sautéed spinach had been delicious, and Jude didn't even like vegetables that much at all.

"No, you're drunk, Big Eyes," Tommy replied, smiling. He had had at least two or three glasses, but Jude was probably past six. She was thoroughly tipsy.

"How weird is this, Tommy," Jude said, in a moment of calm. "You, me, Los Angeles, having dinner…"

"I don't think it's that weird," Tommy replied. "Doesn't this feel right?"

"Tommy."

"No, Jude, it does," he said, more firmly, his voice a bit louder. He put his silverware down next to his plate, gathering his courage, knowing she'd get upset but unable to stop himself. "This feels so right."

"Tommy, I haven't seen you in years," Jude argued weakly.

"Doesn't that prove what I said even more?"

"No, Tom. It means this is a nice moment in a longer story that wasn't always very nice at all," Jude reminded him pointedly, wishing he would drop it so they could have some after-dinner coffee and finish off the evening in a pleasant manner. "Don't you remember how terrible it all was?"

"Of course I do, Jude. It was terrible for me too."

"No," she said, strongly, looking him in the eye. There was anger in her voice, in her face. Anger she hadn't gotten rid of after years, after so many days of wondering and thinking and mulling it all over, wondering where they had gone wrong, where she had gone wrong. "No. You can't say that to me now, not after I cried so hard over you."

She was only saying these things because the wine had loosened her up considerably. Tommy recognized that. But he needed to hear these words, the pain in her tone as she spoke them. He deserved it. He knew that.

"When I left you a million voice mails and you never returned a single one of them, when my emails got bounced back…I wrote you a fucking letter, Tommy. A letter. In the 21st century, the only way I thought you might hear me out was in a goddamn letter." She was standing, now, her chair shoved back sharply, a hideous noise as it scraped against hardwood floors. Her words were vicious. She was cursing, too—and she hardly ever cursed. "You cannot hop back into my life because you saw me in an elevator and pretend that this is meant to be…"

"I'm not pretending—" he said, before he could stop himself. Her eyes were cold and icy as she glared at him, cutting off his words with just a look.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I'm sorry it has to be this way. When I went to London I tried everything, anything, for you to just hear me out. You wouldn't even hear me out." She shook her head—bitter, hurt, disappointed—still. "And now I'm 22 fucking years old and I can't let you back in like I did if you're just going to break me like that. I have more respect for myself."

She walked away from the table. He was silent, unable to find the words, any words, that could fix this in even the most partial way.

"You can see yourself out, Tommy," she said. "For good."

And then she walked quickly past the kitchen and into her bedroom, closing the door sharply. She belly-flopped onto her bed, buried her face in her largest pillow so that he couldn't hear her, and she started to sob.

She dampened the pillow, sure her mascara was smearing like crazy, just wishing she wouldn't have ever agreed to the dinner, agreed to coffee just the previous day. God, that stupid coffee—it had ruined everything. No, she corrected herself, he had ruined everything.

Then she felt a warm hand on her back, and she flipped over, sliding into a sitting position. "What the fuck, Tommy! I told you to leave!"

She was screaming now, belligerent almost, furious that he had the audacity to enter her bedroom, with the door shut, after saying those things to her, those things she would have amputated a leg to hear from him just a few years back, when she was lonely and miserable in London and he wouldn't even pick up his damn phone to listen to her voice mails.

"Jude—"

"No, Tommy, I mean it." She got very quiet. "I can't let you in like that anymore."

"I've grown up, Jude, I really have. Things are different now."

She looked at him for a long moment. He thought she was reassessing, reevaluating them, but really she was just choosing her words.

"I grew up, Tommy. I was the one who was sixteen years old when I met you. So six years later, yes, I have grown up, like I rightfully should have. But you, Tommy? You were grown up when I met you! You have been an adult every single day since I've known you! I was a child, Tommy, and I let you in so close, and over and over again, you just discarded me, just abandoned me, like—"

"Don't say it," he said swiftly. "Don't say it because I hate myself for what I did to you."

"You did it over and over again! You just kept leaving me and distancing yourself from me…I was a kid, Tommy. I was so young and you just messed with me so bad!"

"I know that, Jude. I know that now! Don't you think I look back at how happy we were, sometimes, just in the studio and messing around and doing whatever, and I think about how I fucked that all up with my stupid games? I know how wrong I was! And I know I can't give you everything you want, everything you deserve to have, but Jesus Christ, Jude, I look at you and I just can't help myself because I know that nobody gets me like you do, nobody can make me feel okay like you can…" He trailed off, knowing he was rambling and that it was probably futile at this point. He felt like an idiot for having barged in on her when he knew she was so upset and was only going to get more upset.

"I'm sorry," he said, earnestly, looking at her deeply. "I'll go now. I'm so sorry."

And in that moment, as she watched his back moving towards the door of her bedroom, Jude realized that she did not want him to leave.

She closed her eyes, wishing the situation could somehow uncomplicate itself, realizing it would not, and then rushed toward him, grabbing him by the shoulders, swiveling him around so her face was mere inches from his, and then she gave in and kissed him.

And God, that kiss felt like she was sixteen again, like she was playing guitar and singing her heart out and he was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her on the balcony and she was so young and it was so wrong but she had never felt that good before and as soon as it happened she wanted only for him to kiss her again. That was all she wanted, all she had ever wanted. For him to hold her and kiss her and tell her to try that chorus one more time, with less finger noise this time.