Emily
For the first few hours, I sleep.
I don’t realize how tired I am until I lie in Jude’s bed, safe from Patrick and Barry, without their voices just outside the doors, laughing and drinking and insulting late into the night. When I wake, my mouth is dry and I’m groggy. The curtains are open. Moonlight shines into the bedroom. I sit up with a groan, disoriented for a moment. Then I remember where I am, what happened. My first thought is of Mrs. M. I left her in the lurch. I take out my phone and text her. She texts back almost immediately. Everything’s okay, she tells me. One of the temporary staff came in. She asks if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine. But is that true?
Jude placed a bottle of water and some cereal bars on the bedside table when I was asleep. I munch on the bars and wash it down with an entire bottle of water.
Then, sitting up in this strange man’s bed, I think things through. Patrick has probably heard about what happened by now, I reason, and he’s probably mad as hell. Maybe he’s looking for me. I check my phone. I have ten missed calls from him. I place it down again, swallowing. Despite the water, my mouth is dry again. Fear lances through me. My mind moves from Patrick to what I want, which is something I rarely think about. Patrick bosses me around; Jude simply leads me here and there like a dog.
It was heroic, sure it was, heroic and brave and knight-like. But on top of that, it was presumptuous, charging to my rescue and turning a bad scene into a worse scene. Everybody saw this tattooed killer march in and slam Barry’s head. Everybody heard him proclaim that I belonged to him now. What about my wishes? He didn’t ask me if I wanted to be his. He just assumed, like every man has assumed my entire life.
I don’t want to go back to Patrick, but at the same time I don’t want to be the sort of woman who can be carried anywhere by anyone and doesn’t so much as let out a whimper of protest. Without giving it too much thought, I stand up, slip on my sneakers, grab my duffle bag, and go into the living room.
I’ll leave, I tell myself. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll just get away for a while. I know this is futile. Sooner or later, Patrick will find me. But I want to feel as though I have a say in my own life—even if that say is temporary.
The apartment is quiet. I’m sure Jude is not in. But when I open the door to the living room, I see him, sat on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The lights are off and he sits in moonlight; it glints off the rim of the bottle. In his other hand he holds a folded-up photograph.
I creep into the room. He’s asleep, snoring softly. I drop the bag and creep across the room to him. I know I should respect his privacy, but the temptation is too great. I lean down and look at the photograph. It’s a family portrait, a man who looks like an older, cleaner version of Jude, a beautiful red-haired woman, and two little kids. Softly, I take the photo from his hand, turn it over. The back reads: Family portrait, Jude, Moira, Mom and Dad. Gently, I place the photo back into his hand.
I look at his face, wondering. His lips twitch, his cheeks are red, and his eyes are only half-lidded. They’re watery. He’s not crying—I don’t think a man like Jude cries often, if ever—but the pain is clear on his face. They were his family. What happened to them? I think. How do you know something happened? Well, why would he just stare at a photograph all night if everything was fine?
I return to my bag. It would be easy now to walk out. Walk out onto the street and take my chances in the night alone. I’d be free, if only for a few hours. Eventually, Patrick would pull me back. The steady march of my life would go on.
I look again at Jude. He mutters in his sleep. I lean closer, listening. “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad,” he whispers, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll save you. Moira . . . I’ll save them. Forgive me. Forgive . . .”
His head snaps up, eyelids opening. He looks around in confusion and then his gaze settles on me. “Oh,” he says, quickly folding up the photo. He stuffs it into his pocket. Setting the bottle of whisky on the table, he glances at my bag. “Are you leaving?”
“What happened?” I ask, voice soft. A strong instinct rises inside of me, the urge to protect this man, to soothe him, growing stronger by the moment.
“Nothing.” He sniffs, wipes his eyes. “Just got shit-faced and fell asleep, is all.”
“The photo . . .”
“Maybe I’ll tell you all about it, but not now.” He gestures again at the bag. “Are you leaving?”
“I was going to,” I admit.
“Was? You’re not anymore?”
“No,” I say.
There’s more to this man than I first thought. Much more.
I surprise myself by walking across the living room and sitting next to him, so close our legs touch. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”