So much for showing him what he’d given up. The only thing I’d showed him was that I was nuts.
To make matters worse, I’d had to arrive early to start the lasagna. It was a Community Dinner favorite, but it took a lot longer to make than our other dishes. So I had that much more time to let my embarrassment marinate. When five o’clock arrived, I browned sausage meat while watching the door.
As always, I both dreaded and craved the moment that Jude would fill the doorway. Lately I was even worse than I’d been in high school, when I used to live for the day’s first glimpse of him. Later—my first year of college in Burlington—I used to wish away the week’s worth of classes so that I could duck into his car on Friday nights and spend the weekend in his bed.
Those were the days when I felt invincible. It had been Jude who finally convinced me to talk to my father about music school. “You can either keep doing what your parents want, or you can be a singer. At some point you have to choose,” he’d pointed out.
He wasn’t wrong. So I’d screwed up my courage and brought up Juilliard to my father. To my surprise, he’d made a deal with me: if I completed two years at the University of Vermont with excellent grades, he’d pay for Juilliard, as long as I saved up to help with my New York City rent.
And I was ecstatic. Suddenly, a life onstage seemed possible. The next few months were so thrilling that it took me a while to notice that Jude wasn’t doing so well. He’d seemed to retreat into himself. And eventually I’d figured out that the time he spent with his sketchy friends involved substances other than cheap beer and the occasional bong.
Once I even asked him point blank if his friends were into pills. I’d seen things passed from hand to hand. But I was still trying to give Jude the benefit of the doubt. He’d brushed aside my question. “There’s some recreational stuff. Nothing to worry about.”
So I didn’t.
My bag of crazy sneezes at yours, he’d said the other night. But my training in social work had taught me that anyone can be tested by life. Nobody is invincible. Jude hadn’t handled his pain in a very productive way, but he also hadn’t had any help.
Not even from me, who’d loved him best.
Jude was a convict now. That was never going away. It killed me to know his criminal record was a permanent mark against his character, because there was a lot of good in Jude.
He might tell you to your face that he wasn’t a nice guy, but I knew that was just a front. And here I was, making lasagna, thinking about Jude. Again. Gah.
At least now I was thinking about his character. I’d spent much of the last four days thinking about his naked body. Monday I’d caught myself staring into space at work, distracted by the memory of his strong arms bracing me against the dresser. When he’d taken off his shirt, I’d been stunned to see all that muscle. He looked like Super Jude. And in the mirror, I’d watched his expression as he’d teased me. He’d closed his eyes and turned his face to the side, the way you turn your eyes from a harsh light. But his beautiful mouth had fallen open with pleasure, and his chest rose and fell with each labored breath.
He was beautiful. And as much as I regretted acting like a crazy woman, I’d be savoring that image for a long time.
Denny showed up to help with the cooking, and that got me out of my head a little. He had taken most of the day off at the hospital to do school work. “How’s the thesis-writing going?”
“Good. How are you, anyway? You’ve been quiet this week.”
“I’m fine. Just busy.” Busy thinking about the sex I had with the man I’m not supposed to want. And busy feeling grumpy that my family forgot my birthday.
If I told Denny it was my birthday, he’d whip up some kind of impromptu celebration, probably involving a marching band and a pi?ata. But I didn’t want to be that girl, and a twenty-third birthday wasn’t all that important.
Still, the people who are supposed to love you ought to remember.
I’d spent the morning grinning at my phone, since my college friends all sent me funny pictures and jokes. My besties asked me when I was going to come and visit them in Philadelphia, Boston and L.A.
“Maybe after my graduation is official,” I’d replied. If I were jobless, I’d have the time for a trip, if not the cash.
My graduation would be another thing my parents would ignore. Since my brother never got his, it would be too painful for them to acknowledge mine.
Denny helped me with the cooking. He boiled the noodles while I finished browning the meat. Then we began opening giant cans of sauce.
“That’s a good look for you,” I teased Denny, pointing at the frilly apron he’d put on over his clothes.
“Sauce stains,” he complained. “It’s the only apron I could find.” Gamely, he layered the noodles into one giant pan while I did the same in another.
“What are we serving on the side?” he asked.