Page 88 of Jude

Jude sat shotgun for three practice runs, guiding me through the local road rules until I was comfortable behind the wheel.

After that, I started driving myself to The Sanctuary every morning.

A week later, Misty and I decided to skip our usual routine of eating at our desks.

We headed to a suburban mall to find a new lunch spot.

Walking toward the upstairs food hall, a jewelry store display caught my attention.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Inside the glass case sat a matte-black man’s titanium wedding ring, split down the center by a fine ten-karat yellow-gold inlay.

The eight-millimeter band was stunning, and it cost a few hundred dollars, nothing outrageous.

Since Jude took care of every household expense, my entire salary from The Sanctuary sat untouched in a new bank account.

I wore a diamond on my left hand, so why shouldn’t he?

He’d also bought me my ring.

I could buy him one too, I mused.

I went home that afternoon with the image of the ring burned into my mind.

I debated the choice for three days.

I wrestled with the doubt that I was overstepping an invisible boundary.

Until I made a decision; I drove back to the mall alone during my lunch break and purchased it.

That night, the humid Tennessee heat settled over the valley, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming honeysuckle.

We sat outside on the pool deck, the trill of crickets coming from the shadows between the trees.

Jude leaned back in his Adirondack chair, his long legs stretched out.

His shoulders sagged, and he rubbed his palms over his face, letting out a ragged breath.

‘Exhausted?’ I asked.

‘It’s just the final push for the album,’ he muttered, his timbre gravelly and rough from a drawn-out day in the studio. ‘We’re finalizing the last three songs, and they need a bunch of work. I was at the console by five this morning because Deacon and the producers wanted to capture a specific vocal from me. Then we hit a wall on the bridge of the second track and argued over a single bass line for four hours. My brain’s like scrambled eggs.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I commiserated, wanting to stroke his clenched jawline. ‘You’re carrying a lot on your mind right now.’

‘Comes with the territory,’ he said, squinting out into the dark yard, then leaning back on the rest to close his eyes. ‘Just need to get across the finish line. Then I can sleep for a week.’

Seeing him so drained made my chest ache, but it also sparked a sudden idea.

I thought about the velvet package hidden upstairs.

Perhaps this was what he needed to lift his mood.

Maybe a reminder that he had a home, a partner, and a life outside that chaotic studio would boost his spirits and give him a reason to smile tonight.

‘I’ve got a gift for you.’

‘Hmm?’ he rasped, cracking one eye open.