I think of Jude. I saw in slow motion the flicker of his eyes recognising me after the lights turned on. Then how they widened in horror and shock. The way he flinched away from me.
It broke my heart when I tried to end things. I can still hear the echo of his pleading voice.Please. Don’t leave me. Please. Please. Please reconsider. I’ll do anything you want.
Jude Seymour, who was unapproachable and untouchable at school, had begged me not to leave him. I hated hurting him. I didn’t want to leave him alone — instead, I wanted to embrace him, kiss him, protect him, and tell him that I wouldn’t go.
But I think of how he reacted when he realised who I was. When he saw I was Aaron Wynn. And at least I know that I tried to do the right thing.
This is what I wanted to prevent. This disaster that wounded both of us.
18
Jude: Swear
I wake up the following morning feeling half alive. I should keep busy to distract myself, but instead, I reread Aaron’s letters and emails.
The more I think about it, the more obvious it is that R is Aaron. Aaron, who sketched in the margins of his notebook. Aaron, who was kind enough to get me a job even when he didn’t know that I was F. Aaron, who started acting weird around me in maths class after he found out who I was. Easy-going, pleasant, polite Aaron. Aaron, with his broad shoulders and large hands and the familiar scent of his shampoo. I feel like an idiot.
I’m not angry R is Aaron. I’m mad that he lied to me — that he figured out who I was but didn’t say anything, and worse, broke up with me. I guess he lost all attraction to me as soon as he learned I was Jude Seymour.
If I found out who he was, I’d be shocked, but I’d still want to be with him. I wouldn’t lie to him. I wouldn’t get undressed and kiss him full well intending to break up with him in five minutes.
But now everything’s ruined.
It's almost midday when I finally drag myself into the kitchen for breakfast. I’m wearing a hoodie and sweats, so I feel like even more of a slob when I see Mum at the dining table wearing slacks and a blouse.
“It’s not like you to sleep in,” she comments, typing rapidly on her laptop.
I grunt in reply as I turn on the coffee machine and rummage in the pantry for some cereal. Mum looks up when I sit down at the table. She does a double take, and I wish she’d kept her attention on her emails, internet banking, or whatever else she was doing.
“Your eyes are puffy,” she says.
“Allergies.” I chug down a third of my cup of coffee.
“You’re my son, Jude. I know you don’t have allergies.”
“Hayfever, then.” I wave a hand dismissively.
“It’s not spring yet. You’ve been crying.”
That’s my mother. Blunt as ever.
“Yeah, well, life is not exactly fantastic in this town, which is in the middle of nowhere, and oh yeah, not to mention the fact that my sister ran away months ago, and we still don’t talk about it.”
Mum doesn’t visibly react. Now that I think about it, she’s probably where I get my own detachment from. Never betray any emotions — appearing detached and unsympathetic is always more advantageous.
Of course, I wasn’t that way with Aaron. I could tell him everything: secrets, dreams, the pathetic, vulnerable stuff.
I blink hard, then eat my cereal. It takes like soggy cardboard in my mouth.
“Did something happen at the party last night?” Mum asks. “I heard you come in. Did a friend drop you off?” She pauses. “Were they intoxicated? Remember, P-platers must have a blood alcohol level of zero —”
“I walked home,” I interrupt.
“I could’ve picked you up. Or you could have asked a sober friend to drive you.”
“I don’t have any friends, Mum.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why else were you invited to that party?”
