Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Ella

Past

Jude leaves for school next week. It feels like an approaching storm on the horizon—visible and inevitable. Yet we refuse to prepare for it. We’ve been savoring our little bubble of make-believe, ignoring the reality of what’s to come. Losing him will feel like a part of me is missing, as if he’s become an inseparable piece of my life.

He seems too good to be true, like a dream man crafted to fit every wish I’ve ever had. He’s patient, caring, and wears his heart on his sleeve. In the afternoons, we take spontaneous drives, winding down side roads until we reach the ocean, where the waves stretch endlessly before us. We stroll along the beach, stopping to pick up every rock or shell that seems even remotely unique. In the evenings, we read dog-eared novels over dinner, side- by-side in comfortable silence, swapping books as soon as we’ve turned the last page. These ordinary moments are vivid and full of life. Doing absolutely nothing, yet it feels like everything.

Suddenly, the front door slams open with such force that it crashes into the wall behind it.

“I’m home, bitches!” Madi yells, her voice echoing through the small house.

Half of me is thrilled that my best friend is back from road-tripping across the country with her boyfriend, while the other half is filled with dread. She has no idea that my relationship with her brother has shifted from friendship to something romantic. I plan to tell her everything later tonight, but springing the news on her the moment she walks through the door feels like the worst kind of welcome: Surprise, I’ve been naked in your brother’s bed for the last three weeks!

I run to the entryway to greet her, and she jumps into my arms. We hug each other so tightly it’s as if we’re trying to crush each other’s ribs. A pang of guilt hits me square in the gut. She’s the sister I never had, and now I wonder if she can smell the betrayal all over me.

From her backpack, she whips out a miniature Statue of Liberty and a NYC shirt, thrusting them into my arms with the kind of excitement that makes it feel like she’s handing me a piece of New York itself. She’s been out there, thinking of me and picking up cheesy souvenirs she knows I’ll love. Meanwhile, I’ve been betraying her trust back at home, leaving her in the dark about my relationship with her sibling .

As if summoned by my anxious thoughts, Jude walks in and takes a seat on the small loveseat next to me. He looks effortlessly sexy with his perfectly tousled hair and a tight navy blue shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. Being around him instantly calms me, parting the clouds of disarray in my mind.

He fills up most of the loveseat with his broad shoulders, so it doesn’t seem odd that his arm is pressed against mine, while we listen to Madi recount her adventures of road-tripping from city to city, her hands gesturing wildly while she talks. Mid-story, her phone rings, and the strains of a classic Britney Spears song signal that it’s Delaney calling.

Seizing the moment, Jude leans in and whispers, “So, remember last night?”

I elbow him, trying to shut him up before his sister overhears, but it’s impossible to keep a straight face. I’m trying, and failing, to suppress a huge grin. Because of course I fucking remember the way he made me come—multiple times.

He leans in again, his smirk widening. “Did you like it? I mean, four times, so I’m guessing yes.”

I bump him again, harder this time, which only makes him huff a silent laugh. “Don’t get a big head about it, but duh, yes. I liked it a lot, obviously,” I whisper.

Finally, I meet his gaze, his boyish smile radiates with a hint of smugness.

Pretending to be deeply fascinated by my freshly painted pink fingernails, I ask, “Did you? Like it?”

“ Loved it,” he replies immediately .

My stomach flips at the word love, and it hits me.

I think I love Jude.

Shit.

It’s obvious that both of our minds are replaying snippets of last night as we lock eyes. His mouth on mine, my fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping along the contours of his back. Our lips tracing every inch of each other. Him taking me from behind, my hair wrapped around his fist, spanking me exactly like I’d confessed was my favorite during our twenty questions game weeks before.

His hand slides onto my bare leg, his palm warm against my cool skin. Madi’s words falter as she catches the movement out of the corner of her eye. She attempts to play it off, but I can tell we’re now officially on her radar.

To save the situation, I quickly move my leg away from his touch. I nod my head in her direction when she’s not looking, raising my brows at him so he understands what I’m saying. Your sister. My best friend. She’s onto us.

He nudges my knee with his own. “I don’t care if she sees.”

“I do.” The words slip out before I can stop them, harsher than I intend, and I feel his body tense beside me. Trying to backtrack, I quickly add, “I just mean I haven’t talked to her about it—about us—yet.”

Tipping his head toward the kitchen, he gestures for me to follow. The dim light from the overhead fixture casts warm hues across the room, highlighting the well-worn wooden cabinets and the small vase of sunflowers on the counter. Once we’re out of earshot from Madi, he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist as we step together. He leans back against the cool granite counter, our hips pressed together. The firm push of his body against mine is grounding, a silent reassurance.

He rests his chin on top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. His large hand slowly traces up and down my back, the motion both soothing and electric. “What do you want us to tell her?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Should we tell her? You’re leaving soon. I’m not exactly sure what will happen next.” My voice comes out strained, and I feel him flinch, like I’ve hit him with the harsh truth. My words sound more detached than I’d like them to be, but I don’t know how to do this—how to tell him that I want this, that I want him. That I think I love him.

I’ve spent my entire life hoping to be loved. And with him, I think I’ve found that. But a restless, insecure piece of myself is too scared to reach for it. Doubt hangs heavy in my chest that this has all only been some fling to him. How exactly do you fight for something when a lifetime of cold shoulders taught you to never expect more?

“Whatever you feel comfortable with, El.” His body grows stiff in my arms, like I’m hugging a handsome tree rooted in place. “I’m yours though, no matter the distance.”

I inhale deeply, trying to memorize every last detail before he leaves. His clean, crisp scent, comforting and familiar. His towering, broad-shouldered frame, like he could be a professional bodyguard or an NFL quarterback. The way his hands are constantly drawn to me, as if I’m his personal addiction. The look of sheer concentration and fascination on his face when he listens to those dull TED Talks he loves. And the way he looks at me, as if every silly, irrelevant thing I say truly matters to him.

I bury my face deeper into his body. “I like you, Jude.”

He breaks our embrace, cradling my face in his hands and tipping my chin up so our eyes lock. “I like you too. A whole fucking lot.”

Mesmerized, I watch as his thumb grazes my lips, a spark burning a trail beneath his touch. Then, slowly, he dips his head down, capturing my mouth with his. This kiss is different—deliberate, intense, as if he’s savoring every second, every breath. When I part my lips, he deepens it, his tongue meeting mine with a slow, all-consuming need. Each touch, each taste, sends a wave of wanting more through me, drawing us impossibly closer, as if the world could disappear and we’d still be here, lost in each other.

The sound of Madi’s voice on the phone grows closer, and reality crashes right back down on us. I quickly pull away from him as we exchange amused glances. His hair is a mess, my lips are puffy from kissing, and we’re both panting like we’ve run a marathon. We’re undoubtedly the most obvious secret.

He steps forward, calm and completely unfazed by the fact that his sister nearly caught us. “Do you want me to stay and we tell her together, or should I give you two some space?”

“I think it’s best if I talk to her alone. ”

“Okay.” He kisses me softly on the lips. Simple, sweet, and perfect. “Good night, love.”

“Good night,” is all I manage to say, as the word “love” burns into my brain.

As they pass each other in the hall, Madi shoots her brother major side-eye as he ruffles her hair in response.

It’s better for our friendship that I tell her one-on-one. Of course it would be easier to let him do all the work and tell her the truth. But Madi has been my friend for years, and I owe it to her to come clean alone, without making it seem like I’m solely relying on her brother now.

Marching into the kitchen, she hops up onto the counter, crossing her arms like she’s bracing herself for the truth. “Care to tell me anything?”

“Actually, yeah. Although, I’m guessing you already have your suspicions.”

“I do, but I want to hear it from you.” She’s impossible to read. While she’s easygoing and sunny, she has a temper like a sudden summer storm, unpredictable and intense, that you don’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of.

“Your brother and I are…I don’t know what to even call it. But we’re together.”

“Is it only a fling or what?”

“To be honest, I have no idea.”

She’s quiet, and that silence immediately concerns me. My stomach drops, and a wave of guilt washes over me. Maybe I needed to ease her into this.

Trying to backtrack, I go with a half-truth. “It’s nothing serious. We’re having fun.” My heart pounds with the hope that what I’m saying isn’t true. I want it to be more. I want this to be serious between him and I, but we’ve never outright said anything to make this official. It’s technically not a total lie.

“Nothing more?” she asks, crossing and recrossing her arms, her face in full lie detector mode, searching for any hint of bullshit.

“Yes, nothing more.” I try to reassure her, but internally I’m screaming at myself to tell her the truth, to stop with the panicked lies. I should be telling her that I’m absolutely in love with her brother. That I can see a future with him, can picture what our life together would look like, and how effortless our love story could be.

I know Madi, and she’d be cool with it—eventually. After the knife I’ve selfishly stuck in her back healed, of course.

“This whole thing just feels too weird. What if you end on horrible terms? I love you both too much, I don’t want to have to choose sides.” Her eyes well with tears.

While I feel defensive about my relationship with him, I also hate that I’ve made her feel this way. She’s one of the few people I trust with my life. The one that took me in when my living situation with my parents became too suffocating. She’s been a constant for the last several years, and it feels like I’m dangerously close to losing it all.

“Madi, listen to me. I’m sure it’s over, okay? He’s leaving. We’re on good terms, but it could never be anything more.”

The sound of his footsteps padding along the floor right outside the room send a wave of panic over me, cold and sudden as a bucket of ice water.

He had to have heard everything.

And suddenly I have that premonition that this is the beginning of the end.

After spewing all those worried lies to Madi, I go down the hall to speak with Jude. To repair whatever damage I’ve caused.

His door is closed, and cracking the door open, I find the light off and complete silence.

More than anything, I want to go sit on his bed and tell him everything he heard wasn’t true. That this summer meant everything to me. That I can’t imagine a day going by without talking with him. Hearing his thoughts on the new novel he read. Or the key points of the TED Talks that I find boringly fascinating.

Also, that I’m completely, and stupidly, in love with him.

I decide the best course of action is to let him sleep. That in the morning we’ll talk it out. Maybe time will lessen the hurt that my words inflicted. If I had been the one hearing that we were ‘nothing’ I would be destroyed. That word feels like a stab in the gut, when you know what you have isn’t nothing—it’s everything .

It takes me hours to fall asleep, and when I finally do, the pit in the hollow of my stomach grows even heavier. Until I awake a few hours later, with a sixth sense that something has gone from bad to worse.

Opening my door, I find his own wide open. The house is quiet besides the creaking of the floorboards as I tiptoe across the hall, right into his room.

His empty room.

Half of his clothes are gone. His backpack and laptop are gone. The Whitman book is gone.

He’s fucking gone.

My legs don’t feel like my own, but they carry me towards the front porch to see if his car is still here. Deep down, I know it’s not, but I need to see it for myself.

Barefoot on the cool cement, I step outside and find the driveway empty. He’s disappeared like some sort of cruel magic trick.

The realization seeps in like a receding tide, slowly pulling away everything we had built together. Without a word, without an explanation, without a goodbye.

Maybe I was right all along.

Maybe we are nothing, because to him, we never mattered enough to even talk this through.

The hours tick by, and I’m sitting in the front room like a sick little puppy waiting for their owner to return. I despise myself for it, but every minute I’m beginning to hate him more and more.

He wasn’t supposed to leave for another six days, and then he went and ran away before the sun rose.

I can admit I fucked up by saying those hurtful things, and for not telling the truth to my best friend when asked point blank. When I saw the betrayed look on her face, I panicked. Then in an effort to lessen the hurt I had dealt her, I couldn’t stop the spew of lies.

What I also know is that I didn’t deserve this . I have no idea if I’m more hurt or pissed off that everything, this entire summer, built up and then boiled down to this mess.

With him, I felt like I belonged. I felt like I wasn’t alone, for once in my messed up life. Now, here I am, by myself—again.

After hours of feeling sick and pretending to watch some trashy reality dating show, I come to the conclusion that one text is okay. One text can be an olive branch of showing that at least I’m trying here.

I erase and type out what to say at least one hundred and twelve different times. Nothing truly seems to capture everything I want to convey, feel, or ask.

In the end, I realize that there is no easy thing to say because we need to talk—in person or over the phone—about a lot of things we were too stupid to not talk about before.

Holding my breath, I close my eyes and tap send, feeling an awful lot like I pressed a nuclear launch button.

Ella:

Hey, I saw you’re not here. Can you call me?

With no response, the brightness of day fades into the darkness of night, mirroring my dwindling resolve to make things work with him .

The Jude I thought I knew wouldn’t leave without a goodbye. He wouldn’t ignore my text.

Now I realize I didn’t know him at all. This entire thing between us has turned out to be one big, fucked-up miscommunication trope I used to laugh about in books. Except for in a novel, he’d show up by sundown, like a Prince Charming on a white stallion, with an armful of flowers, ready to confess his love.

But this is real life, not make-believe. In the real world, good things end, people don’t always say or do the right things, and the sting of rejection cuts deeper than I ever imagined.