“Yeah, I’m fine.” He closed the door behind me, holding a finger up to his lips. The smell was even worse the further you moved into the living room. When I caught sight of his father slumped over on the recliner, vomit all around him on the floor, I felt a rush of relief knowing it wasn’t Jude who’d been sick. “Probably take a lot more than you talking to wake him, though.” There was no worry or concern in Jude’s words. It was this matter-of-fact tone he had when it came to his father.
This was just how things were with the two of them.
He drank. And Jude took care of him. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally.
And with his face drawn, his eyes tired, and shoulders slumped it was clear Jude was drained by it all. The bucket and half-used roll of paper towels on the floor made it clear he’d already been busy cleaning it up when I showed up.
I knew better than to offer to help. He would tell me no, anyway. So instead, I grabbed the bucket and emptied the used paper towels into the trash. After filling it with some warm water and bleach, I took a scrub brush out from under the sink and went to work. Silently, we made quick work of the floor. Jude sopped up the rest of the vomit, and I scrubbed the floor, ridding the small space of the smell.
Well, most of it. The rest of the throw up soaking his father’s shirt made some of the smell linger. “Maybe we should get him up and in his room.” My suggestion was met with a shrug and a weak “whatever,” showing me just how defeated Jude felt at the moment.
Taking control of the situation was my way of letting Jude breathe. There was no one else in his life he could rely on; his father hadn’t been that person for him in years. I took pride in knowing that I could be that person for him. So I looped my arm under his father’s, waiting no more than a second for Jude to follow my lead. Holding my breath did nothing to keep the stench out of my nose, but I tried my best not to react.
His father was pretty much dead weight, and it took far more energy to move him down the short hallway than it should have. Sadly, he barely woke up as we moved him. Even as we sat him up in his bed and changed his shirt, he didn’t say a word. “Are you sure he’s okay?” He was breathing so my fears that he wasn’t alive were calmed, but I’d never seen anyone, not even him, out cold like this.
“Yeah, he’s fine.” Disgust covered his words. “I mean he’s fucked up for letting himself get like this, but he’s just passed out. He’ll be good in the morning.” He scoffed with a mix of anger and sadness. Knowing what I’d come here to say, my heart hurt for him. Jude was more broken by his dad’s drinking than I’d ever seen him. I wanted nothing more than to make him smile, to take away his pain.
But all I could do was offer to get some food and hang out for a bit. And that was enough to put a small smile on his face. “I think I’ll grab a shower while you’re out.” There were wet spots on his shirt where the fresh throw up had splattered, and he was still in his running clothes from earlier.
Thinking about Jude in the shower was enough to make me race out the door, hoping he wouldn’t see my pupils widen, my body react. As I drove to the local burger joint, I tried to think of anything but Jude showering. But the more I tried not to think about the water gliding over his body, about his hands working over his chest and stomach, the more my own hands itched to join in the party.
By the time I made it back to his house, food in hand, my imagination had worked itself into such a frenzy, I actually had to stay in the car for a few minutes to calm myself down. “You’re being an ass,” I cursed to myself. And with a deep breath and a silent vote of confidence, I walked back into Jude’s house determined simply to hang out with my friend.
But when my eyes landed on Jude, naked save for the towel secured around his waist, my confidence left me high and fucking dry.
“Thank God.” Ignoring the fact that he was only half covered, he walked toward me, reaching for the bag in my hand. “I’m fucking starving.” His hand moved against mine as he took the bag, leaving me utterly speechless.
After closing the door behind me, and giving myself a mental pep talk, I walked into the kitchen where I found Jude reaching into a cabinet, pulling out plates, still wearing nothing more than that fucking towel.
“Go get dressed,” I barked out, grabbing the bag back from him. He turned around slowly, a strange, almost pained look on his face. But he didn’t say anything. He simply walked past me, to his room, where he quickly changed before returning to the kitchen.
By the time he’d come back to the table, he’d thrown on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. We went five minutes without saying anything. I could barely speak after fantasizing about him. And I assumed he was silent because of what happened with his father. Both occupied with stuffing our faces with food, we let the silence settle all around us.
It wasn’t until Jude grabbed my not quite empty plate from underneath me that I was made aware of his fucking foul mood. “I wasn’t done with those,” I barked, signaling the last handful of fries on the plate.
“Here you go,” he snipped, tossing the plate back where it was, letting the fries scatter all over the table.
Grabbing the few stray fries from my lap, I looked up at him with disgust in my eyes. “Thanks a lot, asshole. What the hell was that for?” I had no clue where his change of attitude came from, but I wasn’t a fan. That was for sure. As I stood from my seat, I gathered my napkin and plate, ignoring the fries I had wanted. “I don’t know what your fucking problem is,” I muttered under my breath as I dumped my garbage into the pail.
“Like hell you don’t,” Jude seethed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a near sinister look darkening his usually bright eyes. He checked me with his shoulder as he walked to the pail. As he dumped the last of his uneaten food into the pail, I could feel the anger radiating off him as if it were a force to be reckoned with.
More than annoyed with his abrupt change in attitude, I shoved him out of my personal space. “Listen,” I said, letting my voice ring out loud and clear, knowing it would take far more than me yelling to wake up his father. “I don’t know what the fuck your issue is, but you need to cut this shit out. Now.” Punctuating each curse with a finger to the chest, I loved how his face morphed from anger to shock.
“Why’s that?” he countered, matching my volume and tone. “The only reason you told me to put a shirt on is because . . .” His voice and attitude faded away. So did his fight. His body, weakened by his emotion, crumpled to the floor.
Shrinking down next to him, it took a minute for me to allow the fight to leave my body. “Jude,” I whispered, dropping a hand to his bare leg. My touch made him jump, but I refused to move my hand away. “You have no idea why I told you to put a shirt on. But I bet you think it’s because of what you told me earlier.”
“Isn’t it?” his voice was clipped and his thigh bunched under my fingers.
Shaking my head, I muttered a quiet, “No. Not at all.” Struggling with my own reasons, I didn’t even realize my fingers were flexing on his leg. As if drawn together by some kind of hidden magnetism, our eyes locked on my hand. When his hand covered mine, my mouth went dry, my pulse skyrocketed, and my brain stopped functioning on a logical level.
“Then why, Micah? Why did you come here?” There was something hidden in Jude’s whispered questions. Yet when I looked into his eyes, I saw anything but pain.
Need.
Desire.
A sea of rising emotions.
