“I’m not-”
“Ready,” he finishes for me. “I know that, too, but I need you to understand something. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere. And one day I will carry you into that bad and make love to you all night.”
An uninvited tear slips down my cheek. “And in the morning?”
“I’ll sneak out of bed and watch cartoons with Max while you recover.” A grin that’s far too boyish curves across his face.
“When you put it like that.” I smile even as more tears escape. I can’t wait.
“Someday,” he says softly.
It’s more than I can hope for and more than I deserve, but as he finally releases me to my feet, I can’t help picturing it. Jude hands me my clothing and buttons my jeans, stealing kisses the whole time. He doesn’t say anything else when he kisses me goodnight and climbs into his Jeep, so I crawl into bed and stare into the night, dreaming of someday.
Chapter 17
The post office is uncommonly quiet for a weekday. Of all the perks of living in small town America, access to government services is not always a highlight. Usually I spend well over an hour waiting in line to grab stamps, pick up packages, and mail out the numerous checks that keep the World’s End running.
Today, it takes less than ten minutes, which leaves me an hour for my lunch break. I pull out my phone and spend five minutes of that hour debating whether to send Jude a text.
“You are not in high school,” I lecture aloud.
The old lady bustling past me in the parking lot stares quizzically as though this is the first time she’s ever seen someone engage themselves in conversation.
I congratulate myself when I find the courage to hit send. Jude rewards me with an immediate response.
His house is only a few minutes away, but the drive is gorgeous today. The sun has broken free of spring’s gloomy prison, and as my car climbs the cliff, the wind whips against it, rattling my windows.
The front door is open when I arrive, and I take a tentative step inside before I call out, “Jude.”
“In here.” I follow his voice to the kitchen where he’s perched on a barstool. Before I can truly appreciate the faded pair of jeans he’s wearing, I spot the bottle sitting on the counter in front of him.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a quiet voice.
“Facing my enemy,” he says. “It always thinks it’s going to win.”
I force myself to take a few steps closer. It sounds like his enemy’s already won, judging from the crazy talk. “Have you been drinking?” I blurt out. Tact is not my strong suit. I’ve spent too long living with Amie, who considers it a character flaw.
“No, Sunshine.” He holds up a pencil, revealing a notebook and sheet music in front of him. “Estate Studios, in their infinite wisdom, wants to contract a new song for an upcoming country pop star.”
“Country pop?” I gag dramatically. “Is that actually a thing?”
“Yeah, it’s huge.” Judging from his tone, I’m better off not investigating.
“So, why the enemy then?” I study the bottle but I don’t pick it up. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to the south’s finest—West’s Tennessee Whiskey. But I note a few things: the bottle is full, the amber liquid inside hasn’t been diluted by water, and the wax seal at the neck is intact.
“What is your investigation finding?” he asks.
“That you aren’t guilty,” I say, “of anything other than being reckless. Do you think it’s a good idea to have this here?”
One of the first rules of staying clean is to keep away from temptation. Jude, however, seems to have his own take on the twelve steps.
“I have owned this particular bottle of whiskey since the day I turned twenty-one.” He waves the pencil in the air like a wand. “Feel that? Somewhere, a connoisseur of bourbon just felt an inexplicable wave of sadness.”
“So the bottle’s nearly ten years old?”
“Nine,” he corrects me. “Don’t age me, Sunshine.”
I take the barstool farthest away from it and glance over at what he’s working on only to discover the sheets are entirely blank. “So you’re sitting with an unopened bottle of booze and blank pieces of paper. Why?” “Estate’s new country pop star, Jensen Nichols, needs a song that will put him on the map, or so they say.” He pushes the bottle a few inches farther away from us, scraping its glass bottom across the granite. The vibrating screech hurts my ears.
“About whiskey?”
“They’d like an upbeat song about a boy setting his abusive, alcoholic dad’s house on fire.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Remind me not to listen to any country pop music.”
“Exactly,” Jude says dryly. “But I told them I’d write it.”
That I don’t understand. Reaching out, I entwine our hands. “Do you want to tell me why?”