forty-three

There’s no obvious security preventing guests from snooping in the family’s private quarters, but the two guards are watching. Jude finds Roscoe posted at the back patio exit, ostensibly playing doorman while making sure guests don’t wander too far into the yard.

“I’m going to show Winter my room,” Jude says. “There are some books I said she could borrow.”

“Uh-huh.” Roscoe’s wink isn’t exactly discreet, but Jude is already heading back inside. Roscoe taps his arm and leans in to whisper, “Do you need anything?”

“What?”

Roscoe mouths, Protection? and Jude says, “No. We’re getting books.”

“Okay, but if you do, call, okay? Even if you just think you might. Better safe than sorry. And I’ll make sure no one bothers you up there.”

Jude sighs softly but says “Yes” and “Thank you.”

We step inside and see another guard on his Bluetooth. His gaze swings to Jude as we walk in and he gives us a subtle thumbs-up. Jude sighs again, and I can’t help smiling. It’s not that Jude is naive—he just didn’t stop to think that taking his date to his bedroom might lead to certain seemingly obvious conclusions. As always, his mind is completely focused on the matter at hand.

As we walk, my mind keeps wandering back to the man in the conservatory—the encounter still bothers me—but I tell myself I’m overreacting. Just a drunk, middle-aged creeper. It happens. Unfortunately.

Jude leads me up a flight of back stairs. We reach a section of closed doors. He opens the first, but not enough to let me see inside, and I stay where I am. He’s gone only a moment before he returns with a book. He said he was taking me to his room to get books, so that’s what he’s done. Because, honesty. Or as close to it as he can manage under the circumstances.

I stuff the book into my purse as he pauses at the next door and looks around, his hand on the knob. Then he opens it, motions me inside, and eases it shut behind us as he hits the light switch.

At first, I think maybe he heard someone coming and ducked into a different room to wait until they pass. There’s no bed in here, which would suggest it’s not Lennon’s room. Then I get a better look around and see that it’s not his bedroom—it’s part of his bedroom suite. This area looks like a teen’s dream entertainment center, beanbag chairs and four theater-style seats arranged in front of a projection TV screen with three different game consoles.

Jude opens one of two interior doors, and through it I see a bathroom. There’s a glassed-in shower with a head the size of a dinner plate and more jets on the walls and a touch screen to operate everything. I can’t even imagine what that would be like, with guaranteed hot water in unlimited amounts, no one banging on the door, and enough room to turn around in.

Jude sees me looking and says, “Yeah, ridiculous, huh?” and shakes his head and walks to the other door. He opens that, and I pull myself from the sight of shower nirvana and peek into the bedroom. It’s what I’d expect. A huge bed—king-size, I’m guessing. Dresser, nightstands—not a lot of variation in bedroom furnishings, at least not when you have an entertainment depot attached to it.

There’s a set of weights in one corner and a small desk in the other. Otherwise, it seems a place for sleeping only. Which is not to say I wouldn’t love a night in that bed. By myself, of course—just to clarify.

Jude heads to another door, presumably a closet, saying, “His secret spot’s in here.”

“Secret spot?”

“For stashing stuff he doesn’t want the maids to find. And, no, I don’t snoop through his things. He told me where he keeps it.”

I arch my brows. “He told you his secret hiding spot?”

“Yeah, long story. Basically, in sixth grade, he caught me passing notes to a girl. Just typical stuff at that age. Asking about the homework. Saying her hair looks nice today. You know.”

I never received any notes like that, but I nod as if I know exactly what he means.

“Lennon flipped because I was keeping a secret—that I liked this girl. So the next week, I caught him smoking…which was apparently payback.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, big fight, as I explained that liking a girl and smoking cigarettes are very different kinds of secrets, only one of which is likely to kill you. In the end, we agreed we wouldn’t keep secrets, so he showed me his hiding spot.”

“And you showed him yours?”

He shrugged. “Don’t have one. Well, not one where I stash secrets.”

Just the panic room, where he hides himself. Which doesn’t surprise me at all.

“So what about the girl?” I tease. “Did it work out?”

“Sure. I kept passing her mash notes until she asked if she could come over for homework help…and spent the whole evening trying to hang with Lennon.”

“Well, that was stupid of her.”

A wry smile. “Thanks. It happened now and then. I got used to it. And then girls had to get used to me being paranoid when they did like me, which didn’t help.” He makes a face. “But it’s not as if I had time for that anyway. Between school, lessons, sports, whatever.” He turns to the closet. “Dating was Lennon’s thing. No idea how he found the time. Probably because I’d do his homework so he wouldn’t catch hell.”

There’s no rancor in his words, not unlike me with Cadence, rolling my eyes at her social calendar, too caught up in my schoolwork to imagine having the time.

He walks into the closet, climbs onto a stepladder, and lifts a ceiling tile.

“Still there?” I ask.

“Yep.”

He brings down a metal box and opens it on the bed. It’s overflowing with papers.

“Lots of secrets,” I say.

“Hmm.”

There’s a manila envelope on top. He shakes the contents onto the bed. A handful of Polaroids fall out. Shots of a girl in various states of undress.

Jude scoops up the photos, cursing under his breath. “I’ve told him not to do that.”

“He likes taking photos, does he?”

“Girls used to text them to him. I never understood that. What if he lets someone use his phone? Or if he was the kind of guy who’d pass the pics around?” Jude shakes his head. “I told him he shouldn’t keep them on his phone and should tell girls not to text them.”

I point at the pile of pictures. “Loophole.”

“Yeah, apparently I wasn’t specific enough.” He looks in the envelope and then passes it and the photos to me. “Can you check them? Just make sure none are Edie. Those top ones are an ex of his.”

I flip through. There’s only one other girl in the collection and when I show Jude her face, he shakes his head and says, “Another ex.”

I put the photos back and set the envelope aside. There are condoms in the box, including one in an odd package that makes Jude take a closer look. He sighs and tosses it aside. I pick it up.

“Strawberry flavored,” I say.

He takes a tube, reads it, and his sigh deepens. This time, he just passes it to me.

“Chocolate body paint,” I say. “I bet it goes well with the strawberry.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. There’s no hint of embarrassment that I’m seeing this stuff, no awkward jokes or excuses made. Refreshingly honest, as always.

There’s a dime bag of weed in there. It looks a few years old, as if it was shoved in and forgotten. Another bag holds two small yellow pills etched with happy faces. They’re chipped around the corners, as if they’ve also been in there a while.

“Ecstasy,” Jude says. “It wasn’t his thing, so he started saying he was allergic. Because ‘no thanks’ aren’t words in Lennon’s vocabulary.”

At the bottom there’s an envelope. It’s as big as the box and flattened into the base. Jude wedges it free and pulls out papers inside. The top one is a printout of an article about their parents’ car crash, with words and phrases highlighted. Jude picks it up, stone-faced, while I check the page beneath. It’s their parents’ wedding notice. Then the boys’ birth notices. Again, Lennon has highlighted information—names and dates and places.

“He’s looking for information on your birth parents,” I say. “Has he shown an interest in that before?”

“No.” Jude’s voice is flat and he’s still staring at that page.

“Did you know this?” I say softly. “How your parents—?”

“Yeah,” he cuts in. He abruptly puts down the paper. “We always knew we were adopted. We were about seven when someone mentioned how our birth parents died. Our mother explained it then. She said…” He trails off, that distant look again. “She told us…”

Anger flashes in his eyes. He squeezes them shut and when he looks again, that stone face has returned. He flips through the pages. I sit back and let him. From what I can see, it’s the same thing: Lennon gathering details about their birth family.

“He wants to know more,” I say. “That’s understandable—”

“No.” Jude snaps the word. Then he grabs the papers and shoves them back into the envelope. “He did not want to know more. He made that very, very clear and—”

He stops, and he’s breathing hard, his eyes shut again. I resist the urge to say something placating. I’m only making things worse.

Jude opens his eyes and the anger crackles there. “All he had to do was ask me. But no. He didn’t, and he told me not to look. Just relax, Jude. Chill, Jude. Stop making such a fuss, Jude. Christ, Jude, you can be such a damn drama queen.”

He takes deep, ragged breaths. Then he pushes up from the bed and strides across the room and stands there, staring out the window. I watch his shoulders shake with rage, and I remember in the motel room, when he walked to the window and I did nothing. I thought it was because I felt nothing. That’s a lie. I feel impotent. I’m watching him fall apart again, and I still have no idea how to react. No idea how to help him.

“I…,” I begin.

He wheels. “Do you want to know why I left, Winter? The real reason?”

I want to know anything you’ll tell me.

Anything that can help me understand might let me do something for him. But I only nod mutely.

“How much did you read about our adoption?” he says. “How it happened? Why we ended up with the Bishops?”

“The articles said you had grandparents. Maternal grandparents. But they weren’t able to care for you. Health issues, I think? You would have been put into foster care—”

“Lies.”

I hesitate. “Which part?”

He strides toward me. “All of it. There were no health issues. There would have been no foster care. Those articles only say that after we were adopted. Backfilling the story. Our grandparents were going to raise us. Then they changed their minds. Changed their minds and moved out of their trailer and into a nice home in a better town. Courtesy of the Bishops, who ‘just wanted to help.’ The Bishops felt so bad about the tragedy, about the fact our grandparents—sadly—could not raise us. Not bad enough to allow any contact with them, but that’s what our grandparents thought was best. Or that’s their story. The Bishops’ story.”

“Are you…Are you suggesting…a payoff?”

“Payoff?” He gives a bitter laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

He’s furious, and he’s warned me about his temper. I don’t want to spark it in my direction. But I need to say this. He needs to hear it.

“It might look like that,” I say. “But…raising two boys wouldn’t be easy. It’s…well, it’s possible they did have health issues, minor ones, and they may have exag—emphasized them as an excu—rationalization for finding better homes for you and Lennon. Better than they could provide. And the Bishops may have bought them that house in gratitude, understanding how difficult a decision—”

“I overheard my mother last year,” he says. “She was talking to our biological grandmother on the phone. Our grandmother needed money. Our grandfather had died—not that anyone let us know. Our mother said they’d paid enough. They kept arguing, and I heard the whole story. The Bishops asked to adopt us. They read about the accident, and they saw the perfect way to circumvent the adoption system while looking like heroes for saving two po’ white trash babies.”

“I…” I swallow. “I don’t know what to…”

“They bought us, Winter. The Bishops bought us like they bought this damned bed.” He thumps it. “Like they bought that fancy shower. Nothing but the best, and that’s what Lennon and I were to them. Healthy, white, American boys. Not easy to get a pair of those, you know, especially brothers, both still young enough for the damage of poverty to be undone. You buy them and then you raise them to be model sons. Media-ready sons. You give them tutors and trainers and teachers and make sure they know they damn well better put in the effort after you’ve given them all these amazing opportunities. You push them until they fall asleep exhausted from work and from stress because they know if they don’t do well enough, their parents will be disappointed. And that’s all they have. Their parents’ approval. Their father is a busy, busy man, and they may not get to see him much, but they need to know how disappointed he’ll be if they don’t do well. He won’t show it, but she’ll tell those boys all about it. As for her? Well done, boys. Now run along and get some ice cream from the kitchen. Don’t actually run, though—you might knock something over. And don’t make a mess in the kitchen or you’ll upset the cook. And once you’re done, it’s time for more lessons. Now run along. Quickly, please. I have things to do.”

He stops to catch his breath. I can’t move. I can only think of what it would be like to discover you’ve been bought and paid for, and you’d damned well better be worth the price paid and the effort invested.

“I told Lennon what I heard,” Jude says, his voice so low it’s almost inaudible. “I told him everything. Do you know what he said? That I was making too big a fuss. So what if they paid for us? We got a good life. I should just…” He heaves a breath. “I should drop it. Be happy for what I had. But he never…It wasn’t…”

“It wasn’t the same for Lennon,” I say. “He didn’t push himself the way you did. He didn’t worry the way you did. Didn’t stress about his grades the way you did. If he wanted to hang with his friends, he would. And then he made you do his homework.”

He shakes his head. “He never asked. He’d give me shit for doing it. But I didn’t want him to get in trouble. I wanted them to be proud of both of us. With the piano…Lennon didn’t have anything like that, and he acted like it was fine, but I worried.”

“Worried you’d pull too far ahead. That your parents would be prouder of you, and he’d resent you for it.”

He nods. “And then…This…Finding out…It was huge. Unbelievably huge. Everything was a lie. Everything. And he told me to chill. Just chill. I couldn’t handle that. So I left.”

He looks away and silence falls, and when he glances back, tears are streaming down my face. I want to wipe them away, before he sees, but it’s too late and I can’t do it. I can’t do anything but sit here and feel…so many things. Too many things.

I’m imagining what that must have been like. To hear such a horrible truth, and share it with the only person you really trust, the only person who really cares…and have him tell you that you’re overreacting. Your world has crashed, and the only person who’s ever given a shit brushes it off.

I don’t think Lennon meant to be cruel. He just doesn’t feel things the way Jude does. Like Mr. Bishop said, like even the man in the conservatory said. Jude runs deeper. Feels deeper.

In that moment, when Lennon must have been trying to make Jude feel better—come on, it’s not that bad—he betrayed his brother in the most painful way.

I can see Jude through my tears. He stands there, watching me, his head tilted, as if trying to figure out what I’m doing.

I wipe my cheeks. “Sorry. I cry easily. I don’t know why. I’m not really the type.”

“The type?” he says, and his voice is soft, and he’s still watching me.

I rub my bare arm over my face. “I’m sorry. I just…It…” I swallow. Then I lift my gaze to his. “I don’t know what to say. I should. I know that. Nothing seems…enough.” I shake my head sharply. “I’m making this worse. Can we…walk outside? Or something? I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m just not very good at…”

I have my head down, gaze lowered. I hear paper rustle, as if he’s taking the envelope. He’s standing by the bed, his hand out. When I don’t move, he takes my hand and says, “Come with me,” and leads me from the room.