He’dcall me, not text, and talk about music or make jokes about his messed-up family. The kid who never spoke to anyone else talked to me all the time …
Until he didn’t.
I knew he went back and forth between his divorced parents, so it didn’t surprise me not to hear from him over Christmas break. I hated to lose touch, but if he went back to live with his mom, he could be in a different school and possibly have a different phone. I’ve been in that situation, moving without much warning, so I didn’t overthink it when I couldn’t reach him.
Then one day a man called, asking me vague, cryptic questions. He didn’t say the words for several minutes, but somehow, I knew almost instantly that Danny was gone. His dad found my phone number in our notes and wanted to know anything I could tell him. He assumed we must’ve been close since he’d kept them. I wish I could say we were, but I hadn’t heard from Danny in months, and nothing from our conversations ever clued me in to the pain he was hiding.
The anguish in his dad’s voice gutted me, but I had no insight as to why my quiet, gentle friend would take his own life.
I know now that his calm temperament was the eye of a storm. Hedidtell me he had family problems, but we were teenagers. Who isn’t angsty at that age?
My dad’s impulsive job moves took me away from a lot of people I cared about, and it sucked, but Danny tookhimselfaway. Three months. If I remember correctly, I only had him for three months before he was gone.
I still remember the small, penciled letters of his handwriting. Always pencil, never ink. He’s why I can’t call JudeDanny. Maybe he’s why I can’t trust myself to read people when they don’t tell me exactly what they’re feeling. Or maybe he’s why I’m so afraid to need someone more than they needme.
I’ve learned to be resilient through all kinds of craptastic circumstances, but wishing to keep Jude felt unattainable and a little dangerous. At least in my sleepy haze, I could allow myself to ask. If life has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not allowed to want shiny things.
If I wear my favorite baseball player’s jersey, a career-ending injury is sure to follow. Fabulous authors stop publishing new books right when I discover them. My car, the one I was so excited to buy on my own, breaks down more than a ’90s hip-hop song. Maybe worst of all, Taco Bell routinely discontinues my favorite menu items when I have raging PMS.
I’m quite accustomed to not getting what I want. I’ve reached a superstitious level of discipline against wantinganything.
As the oldest of four kids with one highly explosive parent and the other constantly smoothing things over, I gave my siblings whatever they wanted to keep them quiet. You want the last bowl of Froot Loops? All yours. Do. Not. Cry.
Our dad once slashed my sister’s playground ball with a pocketknife because she was making too much noise. When I asked for onions to be left off my hamburger at a drive-through, he drove away and got me nothing.
His tactics wereshockandawe.
I learned not to make a fuss over anything. Let other people have their preferences and I’ll be fine. Some might call that people-pleasing, but it’s the only way to get what I truly want: peace.
Jude Daniel Crawford is living, breathing peace, and he’s always willing to share it with me. So maybe sleeping in his bed was wrong, but I don’t regret taking one night and soaking up as much peace as I could get.
Waking up in Jude’s bed should’ve been awkward. It should’ve shifted the atmosphere between us, but it didn’t. He acted like my presence was completely normal, tucking the blanket snugly around me and slipping out to the bathroom and kitchen before I was fully awake. He brought me an energy drink and more ibuprofen, assuming I’d have a massive crying headache as soon as I opened my eyes—which I did.
He looked like a slightly dangerous angel with the sunlight peeking through the blinds behind him. Then he dropped his full weight on the edge of the bed, propelling me into him with a devilish grin. “Morning roomie. Sleep well? I sure did.”
He caught me against his side, halting my momentum.Ugh, morning people.
“Seriously, though. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for … being here.” I pulled the neck of my shirt over my mouth to cover my horrific morning breath.
“Anytime. I love sleepovers. Want me to clean out a drawer for you?”
I hid my reddened face against him. “Stop it.”
He ruffled my wild bedhead and stood up, turning to lean against his desk. His playful expression softened to something unreadable as he looked me over.
“What?” I asked, attempting to tame my hair with my hands.
“You could’ve worn any band T-shirt in that drawer and played it off as your own, but you picked the one thing that would tell on you.” I looked down at the shirt puddled around me, finally noticing what it said.C.F. Martin & Co. Est 1833in vintage gold letters on faded black. A Martin guitar shirt he wears so often, it might as well have his own name on the front. This would be hard to explain.
“It looks better on you, but if you keep it, there will be questions.” There was a challenge in his eyes, almost like he was daring me.
I wish. I gave him ayou know I can’tsmirk and pointed at the ceiling. Jace will eventually find out I stayed here, but I’ll never convince him nothing happened if he ever sees me inthatshirt. Jude nodded once and tossed me a Braves shirt nearly identical to one of my own, and I changed in the bathroom.
I hugged him extra tight, thanked him for putting up with me, and went home.
He’s teased me about my walk of shame, but no one was awake. No drama. No awkwardness. He just … reset me. Like turning a laptop off and back on when it freezes. The problem with a reset is that the original problem never gets solved.
