by Brea Brown
Even though it’s obvious she doesn’t believe me, she rushes through an explanation about yesterday’s constant meetings, all of which were attended by Jude, Gary, and the really big bigwigs. “Rumor has it that the company is opening another branch, but there’s no word on location yet. In the rumor mill, that is. I’m sure the people in that meeting know exactly where it’ll be.” She scoots closer to me. “So? What’d Jude say to you about it last night?”
I shake my head and whisper, “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I mean, I know he was in a meeting yesterday, but I only talked to him on the phone, and he never said what it was about. We mostly just talked about my budding relationship with my toilet.”
“Eww! TMI! You talk to your boyfriend about that stuff?”
I give her a look that conveys “Big deal,” and she says, “Gosh, I don’t think Steve knew I even had bodily functions until after we were married!”
“Then you’re deranged,” I declare. “Anyway, now that you mention it, Jude was really distracted when I talked to him. It was like he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.”
“Well, with the conversation you were having, I don’t blame him,” she states. “Ick. But didn’t he come over to at least bring you soup or something? That’s kind of cold.”
I go back to cleaning out my emails. “I didn’t want any soup. And let’s not talk about food in general. Hey, did you help Brandon with this permit application yesterday?”
“Yes.” She leans against the cubicle wall. “I wonder where the new office will be. Do you think they’re asking Jude to transfer, head it up? What will you do if he has to move to another city?”
My finger freezes on my mouse button, and I get vertigo again. “Uh… do you really think that’s what’s going on?”
“Why else would he be in that meeting?”
“Minutes transcription?” I offer weakly.
Lisa snorts at me. “Nice try. He’s been in charge of or a part of every single major account in this department since he joined the company. They’ve been grooming him.”
“If they have, he doesn’t know anything about it,” I say. “He’s never mentioned that before. As a matter of fact, he always calls himself ‘a cog on the wheel.’”
“He’s just being modest. Brandon, Heath, Jake—they’re cogs. Jude’s his own wheel, especially ever since he nailed that Art Museum design.”
Mr. Modesty himself walks by, slowing down when he sees us.
“Blimey, I didn’t expect to find you here today,” he says, looking pleasantly surprised. He steps in and kisses the top of my head. “You sounded like Death yesterday when we spoke.”
Lisa says, “’Morning, Jude. You look chipper today. Although you might want to put some cukes on those eyes tonight. Having trouble sleeping?”
He smiles at her. “Not really.” Then he looks down at me, “Well, maybe I was a bit worried last night about you, but I know you’re tough. A little food poisoning wouldn’t keep you down for long.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess I should get to work,” Lisa murmurs, slipping out.
Although I know she’s standing right on the other side listening to everything we say, I quietly ask Jude, “What’s going on?” in a bemused tone.
He shakes his head, still smiling. “What?”
“You know… the meetings yesterday. Mingling with the corporate muckety-mucks.” I keep my tone light, a verbal elbow nudge.
He transfers his coat to his other arm and avoids my eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Jude!” I pull on his pants leg so he has to come closer.
“Libby…” For a second, I think he’s going to tell me something, but then he pauses, obviously thinking better of it.
“Are the rumors true?” I ask, regretting the dry toast I ate for breakfast.
He shrugs. “I haven’t heard any rumors, so I wouldn’t know.”
I look up at him disbelievingly. After an informal staring contest, I stand, my eyes still locked on his. “Can we go into your office and talk for a second?”
“Uh… Well…” He backs away from me. “I don’t really have time. And I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on from yesterday. Wanna go to lunch later? Grab a burger?”
My stomach buckles. I edge closer to my trashcan and nudge it towards me with my toe, just in case.
“Ooh,” he winces. “I guess not. Still have a case of the collywobbles? I’ll come back to check on you in a bit.” He turns and walks quickly into his office, where he closes the door and shuts the blinds.
Lisa pops up. “Oh, my gosh!” she gasps.
“What the fuck?” I agree.
Jude Weatherington is keeping secrets! From me!
21
Jude manages to “work late” or attend off-site meetings the rest of the week, effectively avoiding me. I haven’t seen this little of him since before our first lunch together. When he’s in his office, the door and blinds are closed. He answers my IMs politely but shortly, then logs off so that he shows up “unavailable.” Sometimes, he’ll call me when he’s on his way home from work in the evenings, but he never talks about work, and if I try to bring it up, he says, “I thought you detested talking shop.” The closest I’ve ever come to getting him to admit something’s going on is when he told me, “I really can’t discuss it; I could get sacked. You understand, right?”
What can the girl with unshared secrets galore say about that to her extremely understanding boyfriend? I have no choice but to accept it and try to learn to live with not sleeping until all can be revealed.
But the weekend is here, and he has nowhere to hide. I heard Gary saying today on his way out of Jude’s office (after yet another closed-door meeting), “Get some time away from here this weekend, rest, and think about it.”
“Think about what?” I wanted to shout at the V.P. from across the hall. “It’s not nice to make guys keep secrets from their girlfriends!”
But at least I know Jude won’t be “working” this weekend (unless it’s on his back; I’m feeling much better, and I’m sick of being ignored).
When he stops by my desk at the end of the day, like old times, pulling on his coat, gloves, and knit hat, and says, “Let’s get cracking,” I can’t resist giving him a hard time.
I turn to face him and point at my chest in a “Who me?” gesture. I look behind me, as if I think he may be talking to someone else, then I say, “Surely you’re not talking to me, are you?”
He holds my coat out for me. “No need to be cheeky.”
Going to him, I spin so I can slip my arms into my coat. “Thank you. I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m having a hard time remembering your name. I think it starts with a ‘J’…”
“Ah, clever,” he remarks resignedly, offering his arm for me to take.
“I don’t normally go home with strangers, but since you’re so cute, I guess I can make an exception. Just don’t tell my boyfriend. He’s been a little neglectful lately, but I know he still cares.” In response to his cheerless expression, I nudge him with my hip while we walk to the elevators. “I’m just kidding, by the way.”
He tries to smile. “I know. You’re very funny. But I’m knackered.”
I kiss his rough cheek as we get into the elevator with several other people. On the way down to the parking garage, we’re both silent, neither one of us caring to have the rest of the occupants listen in on our conversation.
Brandon and Heath exchange glances and smirk at one another. Brandon looks over his shoulder at us; Heath nudges him. “What?”
Heath mutters something I can’t hear, but it makes Brandon laugh and say, “Right?”
Jamie from Accounting and Bruce from the mailroom snicker at what’s being said at the front of the elevator.
Ours is the last stop, and we hang back to let three others out before us. As they walk in front of us a few feet, Jude mumbles, “Bunch of nosy parkers.”
I laugh. “I thought I was being paranoid; I’m glad it wasn’
t just me.”
“No, they were saying something about us. Or me, more like.”
We’ve arrived at my car. It’s frigid down here. I scrunch my shoulders up around my ears to try to keep them warm with my scarf. “Who cares?” I ask, even though I’m wondering the same things they are. Squinting at him, I posit, “My place or yours?”
Once inside his warm apartment, in the blinking glow of the tiny Christmas tree down the hall in the living room, we start the arduous task of taking off our wrappings.
“I hate winter,” I grouse.
“Then you made a crap decision about where to work and live,” he points out, helping me unwind my scarf.
“Stop being so logical.”
He laughs, and I realize with a pang that it’s the first time I’ve heard that sound in days.
When we’re standing sock-footed in the kitchen, looking through his collection of take-out menus, I move a piece of his hair behind his ear and kiss his earlobe. “Your hair’s getting long,” I whisper, making him shiver.
He brings his shoulder up to his ear but keeps his eyes on the menus. “I know. I can’t faff around with haircuts lately. Barely have time to use the gents most days.”
“Poor baby,” I say semi-sincerely. If he wants me to be truly sympathetic, he’ll tell me exactly what’s going on. I don’t complain to him when my hip hurts. Or when I miss my parents. I know I don’t have that right until he knows everything.
Finally, he holds up a flyer for the sandwich shop around the corner. “Does this sound okay for your delicate constitution?”
Oh, food.
“Whatever.” I take the paper from his hand and give it a cursory scan. “I’ll take the number seven with no onions, add pickles, olives, and banana peppers.”
He gives me an amused glance. “That’s a lot of salty, sour garnish.”
“I like salty, sour stuff,” I say. “Oh, that reminds me: add mustard.”
After he puts in our order, I sit on the couch, gesturing for him to sit on the floor in front of me so I can rub his shoulders. While I’m rubbing and he’s moaning, I wonder how long I’m going to have to wait before he tells me what’s going on at work. Is this how he feels every day and week that passes that I don’t tell him my secret? If so, then I’ve been torturing him for months. He hasn’t seemed tortured, but he’s not the easiest person to read. Maybe it’s been killing him. Maybe that’s the reason for the dark circles under his eyes.
And maybe he’s going to take a job in a different city to get away from me, just like he did his ex-wife.
I stop rubbing. “Hey.”
“Huh?” He flops his head back and looks up at me. I can see the Christmas tree reflected in his eyes.
“I have to tell you something.”
The tone of my voice gets his attention right away. He twists so that he’s sitting perpendicular to me but still on the floor. “What is it?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out for a long time how to tell you this… And I was going to wait another few days, but… but I don’t think it’s fair of me to keep it from you anymore, even if I haven’t come up with the best way to say it.” Oh, gosh. I’m really going to tell him. Right now. Not on The Anniversary. Not after meticulously planning every action, word, and moment.
“Oh, fuck,” he mutters.
This reaction puzzles me, but a lot of what he says confuses me, so I continue, “I love you, and I want you to know I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you or… or even so much as inconvenience you. Well, that’s not really the right word, but you know what I mean. So, right off the bat, I need to say that I’m sorry.”
He rubs his face, his hand swishing against his five o’clock shadow. “I can’t bloody believe this. This is just sod’s law, isn’t it?”
“What’s ‘sod’s law’?”
He misinterprets my question and says, “Well, this, of course.”
“I haven’t even told you what I need to tell you yet.”
Standing, he paces in front of me. “You don’t have to. I know this talk.”
“You do?” Suddenly, I wonder if he’s done some research about me. A simple Internet search would probably bring up some old articles about what happened. Or he could have been talking behind my back with Hank.
“Yes. Oh, God!” He puts his hands on his head, really despairing.
His reaction is not at all what I expected in any of the 5,000 scenarios I’ve dreamt up over the past few weeks. “Okay… But how did you find out?”
Taking his hands away from his face, where they were squishing his cheeks into his mouth, he says, “I had no idea, until just now. No clue. This is a real kick in the dangly bits. And now, of all times!”
I’m about to suggest that we’re not talking about the same thing when he takes a look at me, seemingly for the first time in the conversation and says, “I’m so sorry, Libby. I know I’m acting like a right git. But this is a real blow. And I know it’s not your fault, and I want to be supportive, but I just need to wrap my head round it. Please, don’t think me an insensitive bastard.” He sits next to me on the couch. “We’ll figure this out.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I finally interject.
He seems a little less sure of himself when he says, “I’m talking about what you’re telling me.”
“No, you’re not,” I say confidently. “I haven’t told you anything.”
“You don’t have to. As a matter of fact, please don’t say it out loud. I don’t know if I can bear hearing the actual words. But I know. I know.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You know that my parents are dead?”
He temporarily loses the anguished expression he’s been wearing for the past five minutes. “Wha…? W-When did that happen? Oh, crikey! And whilst you were estranged from them?”
“No, six years ago. Almost exactly.”
“I’m terribly confused.”
“Me too!” I cry. “What are you babbling about?”
He jabs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “Oh! Thank God!”
“Excuse me?”
“No! Not about your parents!” He quickly grabs my hands, which I immediately pull away from him. Then he lets loose a hysterical giggle and stifles the rest of his laughter. “Not that. Sorry. That’s tragic!”
And there it is: the face.
“Spare me,” I spit, before he can say anything else. I jump up and away from him. “What did you think I was telling you?”
He laughs at himself. “I thought you were going to say you were… you know, up the duff.”
“Up the what?”
“Duff. You know… pregnant!”
“What?”
“I know! Imagine how I felt! I’m so worried about work, and everything, and then you tell me that, or what I thought was that, and I just started having kittens!”
I stare at him while he jabbers on for a good three or four minutes non-stop about how great it is that I’m not pregnant and that he’s so glad I was telling him my parents are dead, not that I was pregnant, and that he’s so relieved I’m not pregnant and that it’s just that my parents are dead.
Thankfully, the sandwich delivery person interrupts his nonsensical monologue. He pays for the food and tosses the bag on the kitchen counter, pointing to it, as if it contains a dead mouse. “And your sandwich! All those pickles and peppers and things! It all just started making sense. You’ve been to the doctor recently… You were sick earlier this week…”
“I had food poisoning!”
“So you said, but you could have been covering with that until you could get up the nerve to tell me. Oh!” He puts his hand on his forehead. “I can’t even begin to tell you how relieved I am!”
“I think the past ten minutes have been a good start.” I cross to the coat rack and begin re-draping myself.
His forehead wrinkles in consternation. “What are you doing? Where are you going? The food’s here.”
“I’m so not
hungry right now, Jude.” With shaking fingers, I button my coat.
He rushes to me. “Wait! Why are you angry?”
Hot tears form in my eyes, dripping unchecked down my cheeks as I jam my fingers into my gloves and tie my scarf. I can barely speak coherently, but I manage to say (although how much of it he can understand is another story), “I can’t believe you! I try to tell you about how my parents died and how it nearly destroyed my life, so much so that I can hardly bring myself to tell anyone, and you…”
I can’t finish. I don’t even know where I was going with it, honestly. “Just… eat your fucking sandwich and enjoy the fact that you’re not going to be a father and that I’m not having your baby and that my parents are gone forever.”
I might as well have smacked him across the face.
“But… I… That’s not at all how I feel!” he stutters.
“I don’t want to hear another word about how you feel,” I declare. “I’ve heard enough for one night.”
He stands with his hands hanging limply at his sides while I grab my messenger bag and unclip my keys from its strap. “I’m sorry. Really. I merely got caught up in the moment. And… and… it’s really rather funny, when you think about how I cocked it up so badly.”
I open the door. “Hilarious. I’m sure I’ll be laughing all the way home.”
22
Of all the things Jude gave me to think about on the way home, I spent the majority of the trip worrying about leaving him stranded at his apartment without a car. But by the time I crossed my own threshold (darkened it, more accurately) I was done worrying about anything having to do with the problems he’d brought on himself with his behavior. I collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, still in my winter wear, and really let myself cry.
If Sandberg were a dog, he would have been all over me, trying to figure out what was wrong, licking me and nudging me with his nose. But that’s why I like cats. I didn’t want to be bothered, touched, or even looked at. Sandberg may have done the latter for a second or two, but I must not have been entertaining enough, because he soon curled his body away from me, tucked his face under his back legs, and resumed his nap.
