The Day the Jerk Started Falling (Jerk #2)

by Max Monroe

  I smile at the reaction I very much anticipated and tuck my phone back into my pocket until I make it through this line.

  It wraps a full bend back, the length of the side of the airport, and the thought of spending the half hour it’s sure to take me to get through it ignoring the yells of the bloodthirsty crowd of reporters is daunting.

  For once, though, I know following orders is in my best interest—and the best interest of this whole fucking thing ending in something other than disaster—so I do as I’m told and wait as airport security steps up and starts diverting the savage reporters away from the taxi line.

  But even with the reprieve from cameras in my face and personal questions being tossed into my ear, the taxi line is still long.

  So, I continue to wait.

  Impatiently.

  “Well, well, well,” Zoe answers as I settle into the cab, give the driver the address of my hotel, take a deep breath, and finally dial her number. Her voice is smug, and I am the scum on the bottom of her shoe.

  It should make me feel bad, but honestly, I can’t help but smile.

  I’ve been torturing the poor woman for years. It’s only just that she gets a little bit of revenge.

  “Yes,” I affirm. “It is I, Ollie, your servant in all things.”

  The shriek of her startled laugh makes me pull the phone away from my ear to prevent eardrum damage.

  “God, please. You’re an arse.”

  “I know. But I’m a desperate arse, and I don’t know a better gal Friday than you, doll.”

  She huffs. “You’re my gal Friday, if blimey anything.”

  “Yes,” I agree, ever the peace-keeper.

  She snorts. “You know, this version of you is actually alarming. I thought I’d like it, but I don’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I smile. “I’ll stop.”

  “Bloody hell. Quit it, arsehole.”

  “I’m just being pleasant, Zoe,” I say through a laugh.

  “It’s disturbing.”

  My chuckle is deep and lengthy as I wait for her to give in and tell me what to do. I know her well enough to know she won’t be able to wait on me to ask again.

  And after a mere ten seconds of pause, she proves me right.

  I smirk.

  “Ugh,” she moans. “In the interest of getting off of this Twilight Zone call, I’ve got a plan for you.”

  “I knew you would,” I say sweetly.

  “Go straight to the hotel, check in, and then do not leave for the night.”

  For the first time in this conversation, my conciliatory act takes a hike. “What? What do you mean, don’t bloody leave? What the hell kind of a plan is that? I have things to get done!”

  She laughs at my outburst, and just like that, all is right with the world and our balance of power again.

  I sigh, suddenly tired from the stress of it all.

  “Zoe.”

  She sighs then too, gentling her voice at the obvious tension in mine.

  “I’ve arranged for a car and security for tomorrow. They’ll escort you everywhere, usher you in through back doors, the whole nine yards. You’ll have plenty of time to get everything done and then some, and the only crowd you’ll have to deal with is the one you foolishly directed straight to the Eiffel Tower.”

  I laugh at the accuracy of her dig. “Thank you, Zoe. I know I don’t say it enough.”

  “Oh God. Not the sap again. Save us all.”

  “Zoe.”

  “Whatever, Oll. Whatever it is about this woman, I can tell she’s had a positive influence in at least some ways. I mean, I got the line of boards I’ve been pushing you to do for years, didn’t I?”

  I sigh.

  “I guess you listened to the whole thing, then.”

  “Bloody right. No way I was going to miss that shit.”

  I laugh.

  “Well, all right. I’ll try not to call you in a fit of desperation tomorrow—”

  “Oh, right!” she shouts into my ear again, and I grimace from the discomfort. “I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “You won’t call me tomorrow, and you won’t call anyone else,” she says, voice stern in all ways. “In fact, I want you to turn off your phone tomorrow before you leave the hotel.”

  “Why?” I grumble.

  “So the paps can’t track you through GPS,” she says casually. Casually. Like we’ve just found ourselves inside a blimey episode of CSI.

  I laugh. “I doubt the paps will be tracking my phone, Zoe.”

  “Doubt all you want, but we’re not in the 1900s anymore. Turn off the goddamn phone and leave it off.”

  I sigh. And then I agree.

  I mean…I want this to go smoothly.

  What other choice do I have?

  But I can’t let it go without making one last comment just for fun.

  “Well, since I’ll be spending tomorrow without a phone, is the car you’ve gotten for me actually a horse and buggy?”

  She disconnects without comment as I pull up to the hotel, and I take a deep breath.

  I look at the time and date on my phone.

  10:00 p.m. August 31st.

  Less than twenty-four hours to go.

  Tonight, I sleep.

  Tomorrow, I find out if I’m worthy of love.

  * * *

  Lucky

  I’m on yet another international flight, but to France this time.

  Bordeaux, to be specific. It’s the closest airport to Nouvelle-Aquitaine, the next stop on the surfing tour. And as there are no direct flight options, it’s the shitty itinerary I’m stuck with.

  Fly through the night to Zurich.

  After a short layover, fly another ninety minutes to Bordeaux.

  Be in France by early afternoon and drive another hour or so to Nouvelle-Aquitaine.

  Yeah. Like I said, shitty itinerary.

  Normally, I’d be wearing a cute dress and heels with a face full of makeup and hair that was prepped and readied to face ten hours’ worth of travel.

  Normally being the operative word here because, right now, I’m far from my norm.

  My current situation? I’m on a flight to Europe, and I’m wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt that reads “Gosh, being a princess is exhausting.”

  My red locks are tossed up into a messy bun. And with just a hint of lip gloss, blush, mascara, and a light coating of foundation powder, my face is pretty much naked. Not to mention the stupid flip-flops that cover my otherwise bare feet.

  This is by far the least prepared I’ve ever been for a trip.

  I have no idea what I packed in my suitcases. I checked in with absolutely no time to spare, bumped and bruised my way through security, and it’s questionable if I really brushed my hair.

  And I’m most likely going to need to purchase a toothbrush somewhere along the way.

  I’m just happy I remembered my passport and managed to get myself on the damn flight.

  Ever since I pushed play on the first episode of Ollie’s podcast, I’ve been a wee bit preoccupied.

  While I packed? I listened to Ollie’s podcast.

  While I headed to the airport? I listened to Ollie’s podcast.

  While I ducked into the bathroom after security? You betcha. Ole Ollie Ollie Oxen Free and a pee.

  And while I boarded my plane? Still listening.

  Hours upon hours of Ollie’s voice in my ear.

  And each word, each long-winded ramble, each damn episode, I learn something new about him, about myself, about us.

  Now, five hours into my seven-hour flight to Zurich, Switzerland, I’m about to reach the second to last episode, and let’s just say, I’m a wreck.

  Episode 15, to be exact.

  Aptly titled The Explosion.

  He’s both swoony and ridiculous in the way I know him to be, and the combination of the two is potent. Listening is like pouring a potion, perfectly concocted with all the parts of him I didn’t know I was missing before, right
into my veins.

  Soul bared and vulnerable, he hasn’t hesitated even once to lay it all out there between us.

  The mistakes he made. The deceptive things he did. The remorse he most assuredly doesn’t feel for doing most of them.

  It’s unabashed and unashamed, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever heard from a man in my entire life.

  Perhaps the most startling detail of all is that he’s been pursuing me since the beginning. Actively.

  I’m on a roller coaster of emotions as I listen—up and down, high and low. Angry to the point of near tears and then so happy I’m laughing.

  I’m a one-woman sideshow, half of which has played out on this very flight, and it’s all because of Ollie.

  My Ollie. So candid and so raw, his podcast feels like a very personal love letter. To me.

  I’ve found out how I really make him feel.

  I’ve found out that our kisses felt just as intense for him as they had for me.

  I’ve found out that when we’d made love, I wasn’t the only one who was affected, who was changed.

  And the pink surfboard? Fucking hell, I laughed and tears pricked my eyes when I discovered he’d had it made. Just for me. A fashionista’s surfboard, he said.

  The very pink surfboard that arrived at my apartment last night. The one he said belongs with me, just like his heart.

  And the episode prior? Episode 14: The Twist?

  Talk about making me feel stupid and guilty.

  It’s so clear that wasn’t his intention, but the result is the same. Perception can be cruel and twisted—the way I’d seen his relationship with Amelia—or it can be plain and just. It’s all in the way you approach it—the chance you give someone to show you the truth.

  And put plainly, I’d never given him the chance.

  The chance to show me he was the kind of friend he was—the kind of man he was—and that past experience doesn’t always apply to the present.

  Exes aren’t meant to be lumped. People aren’t meant to be lumped. We are individuals with our own minds, and every single one of us deserves a fair shot to make an impartial impression.

  And even then, some impressions are not at all what they seem.

  Fake engagements apparently exist in more than just books and movies. They exist in real life. Ollie’s life.

  His and Amelia’s relationship is deep-rooted in trust and admiration and love, but that love isn’t the same kind of love Ollie and I share. It’s different. It’s not all-consuming. And it’s purely based in friendship.

  All of the revelations are nearly too much to process, mostly because all the pain and anger I was harboring toward him feel pointless now.

  It’s hard to wrap my head around. To wrap my heart around.

  When a flight attendant stops at my seat, I have to pull my earbuds out to hear her ask if I need anything to drink. I politely decline and get right back to listening.

  I just…can’t stop.

  I feel like he’s right beside me, whispering in my ear, telling me things I shouldn’t be privy to, but for some reason, he wants to tell me.

  And when Episode 15 finishes up, I don’t hesitate to press play on the next episode.

  The last and final episode. Episode 16: Meet Me in Paris.

  My heart jumps into my throat at the title, and tears prick my eyes as I listen to his words.

  They feel like they’re my words. Not words I’m saying, but words meant only for me.

  Because, God, they are the most personal words anyone has ever shared with me.

  I keep listening, and Ollie tells me he doesn’t regret falling for me.

  He tells me he doesn’t even regret how everything went down between us.

  “But if I had, I wouldn’t know how empty I felt without all of it. Without you.

  I’d have missed the lessons.

  I’d have missed the journey.

  Hell, Lucky…I’d have missed the fall.”

  My tears slip past my lids and stream down my cheeks.

  And when he tells me he loves me and that we’re meant to be, I have to inhale a shaky breath just to stop a sob from bubbling up and out of my throat and drawing the attention of my fellow passengers.

  We are a whirlwind, he and I.

  We’ve both made mistakes. And we’ve both fucked up.

  But at the end of the day, at the end of it all, I still love him.

  I love him so freaking much it’s taking everything inside of me to stay put in my seat and not start running up and down the aisles of this plane.

  Despite all of the shit we’ve been through, I’m his and he is mine and I’ve never felt surer about anything in my life.

  I know I thought Ollie was the biggest fucking jerk I’d ever met in my life.

  But I don’t care.

  Even if he is a jerk, he’s my jerk.

  I can tell the episode is close to ending by the time bar, and I have to clutch the armrests of my seat as I listen to his final words.

  “Change your flight.

  Right now.

  Don’t go to Nouvelle-Aquitaine on September 1st.

  Tell me you love me, Lucky, and do it by meeting me in Paris instead. Under the Eiffel Tower, at dark. Come and capture the jerk…and do it under the lights.”

  My nails dig into the armrests, and my heart makes a bid to jump out of my chest.

  Oh. My. God. He wants me to meet him in Paris.

  The thought of it is so romantic, I swoon so fucking hard, I’m pretty sure squeals leave my lips.

  Ollie in Paris.

  Me in Paris.

  Us, together, in Paris.

  Yes! All the yeses!

  I’m smiling so big, so fucking hard, my cheeks are stinging from the discomfort, but I don’t care.

  Ollie loves me. And of course, I love him too. It’s why I’ve been a shell of myself for the past several weeks. It’s why I could hardly sleep and eat and why the days felt a million hours long.

  And this huge mess I thought we’d made of things doesn’t seem so messy anymore.

  I see a future with this man. I see a life with him.

  For once, I see a forever.

  I’m as high as our plane is in the clouds, but eventually, realization starts to set in.

  He said September 1st.

  It’s currently three in the morning on September 1st, and I’m not on a plane to Paris.

  I’m on a goddamn flight to Bordeaux.

  Not to mention, my plane will be stopping in Zurich first.

  Oh. God. Oh. No.

  No. No. No!

  I need to be in Paris!

  I need to be with Ollie!

  Clearly overcome by hysteria, I hop up from my seat and rip my earbuds from my ears. “I need off this plane!” I shout toward the flight attendant. “Stop the plane!”

  Her eyes go wide. “Miss, you need to sit dow—”

  “We can’t go to Switzerland!” I cut her off. “We can’t go there!”

  “Miss.” Her voice gets firmer as she and another flight attendant step toward me. “You need to calm down.”

  “We can’t go to Zurich!” I yell out. “We can’t go there! We have to go to Paris! I have to be in Paris!”

  For the love of God, why didn’t I listen to his podcast sooner?

  I’m panicked. Internally freaking out. And yeah, I guess externally freaking out, too.

  But I can’t stop myself from being a raging lunatic.

  Because Ollie is in Paris. Waiting for me.

  I should be there. I should be with him.

  I need to be with him.

  * * *

  Lucky

  Apparently, standing up in the middle of your flight, shouting that you need to get off the plane is not a good thing.

  It’s really bad, actually.

  Some passengers started thinking there was some sort of threat. That I was some sort of threat. Other passengers thought it was a bad omen and convinced themselves the plane was going to crash
.

  And the flight attendants, well, it was pretty obvious I was their least favorite person on the plane.

  By the time we landed, passengers were crying—out of adrenaline-induced panic and joy that the flight did not crash—and the flight attendants were ready to strangle me.

  Yeah, my little “I need to get off the plane!” stunt did not go over well.

  By the time we landed in Zurich at nearly five in the morning, two male airport security officers were waiting for me. And they promptly took me to a room where we were joined by an additional two officers.

  Three male. One female. All stone-faced.

  Not to mention, the drug-sniffing dog they brought in to join our little party.

  It is safe to say no one in the Zurich airport is my friend. Not even the dog, and normally, dogs love me. But in my defense, I think he’s just angry I was another false alarm and his drug-sniffing skills weren’t put to good use.

  At this point, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be invited back to Switzerland.

  Which is saying a lot, considering their country is known for being neutral.

  After the female officer nearly strip-searches me with her latex-gloved hands and shoves some sort of metal detector wand between my thighs and down my legs, they settle me in a metal chair beside a table with my purse and carry-on set on top of it.

  And without delay, all four officers start firing questions at me.

  It feels like I’m the ball in a goddamn tennis match, my eyes bouncing back and forth across the room with each new question.

  “Do you have any illegal drugs with you, miss?” the female officer asks while the oldest male officer slides on a latex glove and proceeds to rifle through my purse and carry-on.

  “No,” I answer. “Of course not.”

  “What about weapons of any sort—guns, knives, bombs?”

  My eyes go wide. “Oh my God, no. I swear to God, I don’t have anything illegal with me. I just need to get to Paris.”

  The male officer by the computer looks over the screen and directly at me. “You created quite the commotion on your flight, miss.”

  So, I might have gone a little off the deep end…

  But in my defense, the man I love is waiting for me somewhere I wasn’t at all headed, and the pure adrenaline of not knowing what the fuck to do really isn’t something I’m equipped to handle.