Clash

“A month?” he gasped, punching the floor again.

“I don’t know, Jude. I just don’t damn well know right now,” I said, hanging from the verge of losing it again. “I’m sorry.”

And I was. Despite whatever had or hadn’t happened in Jude’s bedroom Thursday night into Friday morning, I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to be the one responsible for the pain in his voice or the agony on his face.

He studied me, silently watched me. For what felt like five minutes. His eyes didn’t miss one detail.

Crawling across the floor to me, his hands folded over mine in my lap, where they still shook.

“Okay,” he said, his voice tight. “Take your time. Take as much time as you need.” Sucking in a breath, he let it out slowly. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. No matter how long it takes. I’ll always be here, Luce. I’m yours,” he breathed, squeezing my hands, “forever.”

He stood up, looking down at where I sat, just keeping it together by a thread, and stared at me. Like the idea of turning and walking out that door was crippling. Leaning down, he kissed the top of my head.

“Love ya, Luce,” he said, turning and heading for the door. “And I’m sorry me being in your life has made it so difficult. And I’m sorry I’m a piece of shit trying to feel his way out of being such a piece of shit.” Opening the door, he paused before closing it behind him. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, my eyes flitted towards it, wishing I could take back everything. But I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. It wasn’t healthy feeling these kinds of searing emotions on a regular basis.

I sat there in the same position, telling myself I’d made a huge mistake, only to remind myself I’d done the right thing two seconds later. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been playing devil’s advocate with myself when a tapping sounded outside the door.

“Come in.” My throat ached and my voice was hoarse.

India stuck her head in, frowning when she saw me on the floor. “Did that bastard just break your heart?” she asked, stepping inside and kneeling beside me.

I shook my head. “No,” I said, “but I think I might have just broke his.”

“You two,” she said, hanging her head. “When are you going to get your shit together, huh?”

My hands had stopped shaking, but they were numb. Dead.

“Maybe never,” I answered. “Maybe we were never meant to be together in the first place.” Saying those words hurt my throat worse than the sobs had.

“Lucy, lord knows I love you and you’re my vanilla bean sister, but you can be daft some times.”

My head whipped up. What I needed from India was compassion and a shoulder to cry my eyes out on. Not another voice telling me I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.

“When are you going to stop looking at all the reasons you shouldn’t be together and start focusing on the reasons you should be?” she asked, her eyebrow ring bouncing with her eyebrows.

“India,” I said, “for all intents and purposes, he screwed my arch nemesis. Any reasons we had to be together kind of flew south with his boxers.”

“Is that what Jude admitted to?” she asked, plopping down beside me. “Making your arch nemesis pant?”

“Of course he didn’t admit to that,” I snapped, glaring at the half eaten chocolate bar on the floor. “He said he didn’t do it.”

“Then shame on you,” India said, her eyes narrowing at the same time her arm roped over my shoulder. “If you say you’re going to trust your man, then trust your man. Don’t revoke that privilege when he needs it most.”

“Oh, come on, Indie,” I said, so tired of arguing. “Not you too.”

“I’ve said my piece,” she said, holding her hand over her chest. “You are free to make just as many mistakes as the rest of us are. I just think this one is the one you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I said, giving her a thumbs up. “Friend,” I added, to drive the dagger a little deeper.

She wasn’t impressed. “Speaking of Mr. Biggest Regret of Your Life,” she said, smiling sweetly at me, “where is the arch nemesis screwer?”

I lifted a shoulder. “Heading back to school,” I guessed.

“How?” she asked, looking over at me like I was making a joke.

“With his P.O.S. truck that gets two miles to the gallon and has an impressive array of fists dents dotting the bed.” And she had the nerve to call me daft.

“That P.O.S. was towed three nights ago after he showed up,” she said, standing up and walking towards the window. “One of the guys who hung around all weekend said he drove that truck right up to the front door and left it there while he searched every floor and room for you. I guess Juilliard decided a truck blocking the front entrance of one of their dorms was a parking violation.”

“So how’s he getting back?”

“Unless there’s a bus line that runs from New York to Syracuse late on a Sunday night, I’d say he’s hoofing it,” India replied, peering out the window.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, knowing she was right. Jude was just crazy enough to attempt it. Or he’d wind up hitching, and the thought of the kind of person that might pick him up made my stomach jump into my throat.