Robin did know. Jules and Sam had worked together frequently in the recent past, but Jules had always been the FBI agent-in-charge, and Sam had been part of a civilian team working for the feds.
“He insisted I be team leader today,” Jules continued. “In the most ridiculous way, but... This isn’t a very important case. I mean, we’re not saving the world here, but my read on Harper is that he doesn’t care much about the law, so... Emily’s rights need protecting.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” Robin said, gazing into the eyes of this man he loved more than life itself. “Lucky Wig-Milt hired you.”
Jules laughed again. “Yeah.” He kissed Robin sweetly. “Don’t look so worried. I’m okay.”
“I know,” Robin told him. He was just about to use this non-Sam time to tell Jules abouthismeeting. There were no wigs—at least that he could tell—and even though the show he’d been offered was a comedy, there was nothing funny or amusing in his story. In fact it was very un-funny—the conversation he wanted to have with his husband about maybe, just maybe, trying again to have a baby.
But right now Jules was looking at him with heat in his eyes—heat that had been missing for way too long. “Forty minutes,” he whispered to Robin with a smile that could only mean one thing, “before Sam brings us pizza...”
So yeah. They went upstairs.
And this time Jules didn’t trudge.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jules: Age Seventeen
Connecticut
Early Saturday morning, Jules headed out for a run, twenty dollar bill securely in his sock, sweatshirt tied around his waist. It was day three since he’d started running, a day which Harrison had advised, in not so many words, was going to absolutely suck.
Mr. H was not incorrect. Every muscle in his body was complaining and he hadn’t even started running yet.
His plan was to run over to Hobbit’s house—which was a ranch instead of a hole in the ground—see if he was awake and wanted to come with, then run all the way into town. They’d celebrate surviving day three with the truly spectacular pancakes from Daisy’s Cafe. It was unlikely Hobbit would pass that up.
Jules had just locked the door and tied his house key to his sneaker-lace, about to use the front steps of their house tostretch out his legs the way Mr. H had shown him. But movement caught his eye and he turned to see Tom McCall’s car pulling up.
“Hey.” Tom’s window was open, and he waved to Jules as he parked and got out.
“Hey,” Jules said, double checking his watch as he headed to meet Tom out in the driveway, because yes, it wasn’t even nine AM, and trips to the beach aside, Tom was not an early riser.
Especially since there’d been a party last night—someone he didn’t know’s parents had gone out of town and a keg had been procured.
Although Jules had let himself get talked into going by Hobbit and Sadie, they hadn’t stayed long. Instead, they’d gone back to Sadie’s and played Clue, which was more fun than watching strangers drink too much and throw up in the bushes.
Jules had been highly aware that it was date night for Belle and Tom, and for Shelly and Sandy, too—although Jules still hadn’t met Sandy yet. Date night translated to hit the party for a red Solo cup of beer (or two in Tom’s case) to get a low buzz on before driving off, alone, to some dark, deserted road to melt into one another. Assuming that Sandy, like Tom, had access to a car or truck.
Board-gaming with Sadie and Hobbit had felt a bit like sitting at the kids’ table, and Jules had gone home early from the game-playing, too—missing David enough to stupidly call his dorm room when he got home.
Of course David wasn’t there. His weekend had just started out in SoCal, and Jules was acutely aware that David’s Friday night would probably be more like Belle and Tom’s than Jules’s, which burned.
But now here was Tom, looking none-too-happy as heapproached, still wearing the clothes he’d had on last night when he and Belle had popped into the party—same worn out jeans with a belt loop that had disconnected on one end, and a green T-shirt that lookedreallygood on him, yes Jules had noticed, he wasn’t blind, also fuck-you-David.
“You okay?” Jules asked, a little too aware that his running shorts and barely-there tank top was the very outfit he’d worn last year when he’d rollerbladed with David at the Pride Parade, but Tom didn’t seem to notice or care. Which was... good?
Yes. It was good.
“I’m fine,” Tom said, but up closer he was clearly worse for wear, his eyes a little red, like he’d been crying or more likely smoking something that wasn’t grown out in the open fields here in Tobacco-Farm-Landia. “I could use a little help, but you’re, well... Maybe after you go for your jog, you could come over to the summer house and?—”
Jules was already making stop-it noises, already stashing his Walkman on the non-street side of the square lamppost that sat between the driveway and the brick path up to the house. “Believe me, the run can wait. I’m running, not jogging.” Okay, why was it so important he clarifythatright at this moment? “What’s going on? Is Belle okay?” His housekey was on his sneaker, so he was good to go and he pulled his sweatshirt on as he briskly led the way down to Tom’s car. “I’ll drive.” He made it a statement, an already done-deal, and easy-going Tom tossed over his keys.
“Belle’s okay,” Tom said as they both climbed into the giant clunker, “it’s not her—I mean, yeah she’sreallymad, like Clem-load-the-shotgun mad, but...” He sighed heavily. “It’s Shelly.”
Oh, no. Had Sandy broken up with her for good? “What happened?” Jules started the car with its rattling cough of aroar. “But wait, I’m not sure where we’re going. The summer house?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Head toward County Line Road, it’s up near the entrance to Petty Park. It’s a farm stand—one of Clark’s—but they don’t use it after the pond closes for the season. We kinda borrow it this time of year.”
