The Sins That Bind Us

by Geneva Lee

  That’s how it’s always been, and one of the reasons I chose to carve out a life here.

  I will leave the storms to the sea and find peace on solid ground.

  An affirmation I’d written down so long ago that I can’t remember if it came from my own lips or another’s. It’s become my truth.

  So why do I hope each day that I’ll open this door and see him again? Jude is a storm—a tsunami—that I’m not prepared to face. If I could I would head to higher ground. I would head to the Olympics and climb until my lungs burned rather than be caught in his wake. But I can’t evacuate my life, so I open the door, comforted by the familiar creak it greets me with. Bypassing the sanctuary, I head to the hall.

  Max greets me at the door, a wide grin splitting his face. I don’t make it two steps inside before he’s tackled me. His thin arms wrap around my legs, but I know better than to pry him off. Instead I reach down and scoop him up. He settles into place on my hip as his teacher flies across the room, shouting edicts at the other children to clean up and gather their things. Max looks nothing like me except for the faint freckles that dust his nose. He didn’t get his unruly, dark hair from me. Mine is fine and light. It hangs straight down my back. His is the definition of a mop-top. My eyes are hazel, skewing toward green, and his are as bright blue as the sky. And still when I look at him he is the reflection of my perfect self.

  “He always knows when you’re here.” Miss Marie catches Max’s gaze, signing as she speaks. “He’s got a Spidey sense, right?”

  Max nods his head gleefully, pretending to shoot webs from his wrists, and I feel hot, wet prickle of tears smarting my eyes. I blink them back, but Marie strokes my shoulder soothingly.

  “Leaps and bounds,” she whispers.

  “Because of you.” I plant a kiss on my son’s forehead and snuggle him tightly. Miss Marie has been working on cued speech with my son for months, helping him to acquire lip reading skills along with his sign language.

  Marie snorts and shakes her head. “One of these days you’re going to have to accept how amazing you are, Faith.”

  I smile, because she doesn’t know that I’m anything but amazing. Because she doesn’t know that I’m twisted and broken and that this little boy is the only reason I hold myself together. I smile because I’ll never convince her of the truth, and I learned a long time ago to accept the things I cannot change.

  Red. It’s the first word that comes to mind when I look at my best friend. She’s dressed down today. Her unruly hair plated into two long braids that cascade over her shoulders. The brim of her newsboy cap casts a shadow over her gray eyes. But despite the casual ensemble, there’s nothing girlish about Amie.

  Our Thursday afternoon grocery trip is a weekly tradition. It had started out of necessity when my son proved to be a colicky baby. Now she comes to play I Spy with Max while I price frozen vegetables.

  I had met Amie at her tiny, waterfront bistro when I came in asking for a job. She took one look at Max, who was only nine months old, and hired me on the spot. We’d soon learned —after a number of embarrassing incidents with trays–that I worked better behind the scenes. Anyone else would have fired my clumsy ass, but she moved me to the desk to run numbers and order supplies. It worked out better than we expected, and she became the first person to help make Port Townsend a home. Now she was a permanent addition to my family.

  Max points to a tub of ice cream and his eyes widen into his angelic take-pity-on-me face. It might move me if we weren’t on a set income. I make enough working for Amie, but even with the tiny dispersal I get from the state each month, ice cream is clearly a luxury item.

  He turns his charm on Amie. She shoots me a rueful look and opens the freezer door.

  “I told him no,” I say softly. Not that it matters since my back is turned.

  “It’s for me.” She winks at him through the frosty, glass door and plucks his favorite from the shelf: chocolate peanut butter. “Maybe I’ll share.”

  “You spoil him. “It’s no use. Amie actually balances her desire to indulge Max with a healthy dose of reality. When Aunt Amie is around, his bed is made and his toys are off the floor. She runs a tight ship. But she’s also able to give the little extras that I can’t.

  “It’s ice cream. Not a pony.” She rolls her eyes and I reach out and pull her cap down to her nose.

  She’s right, but it’s ice cream I can’t give him without putting the extra gallon of milk back. Ice cream can’t be breakfast or a quick tummy-filler before bed.

  “Stop,” she orders me, pushing her hat back up.

  “Stop what?”

  “Over-thinking.” She begins to sign so that Max understands the arrangement: Can we share?

  His wide grin hits infectious levels. No wonder she can’t deny his whims. If I had the capability, I’d give him the moon. Not that he will ever ask for it. Max doesn’t ask for much actually, just little things like ice cream. Normal stuff. I want to believe he’s too happy to want for anything, but part of me worries that I’ve trained him. I know the danger of wanting and how it lures you to the forbidden fruit.

  I turn so that only Amie can see my face. “I’ll get it. I don’t want to teach him that we’re poor.”

  “You aren’t.” Her mouth presses into a thin line. I’ve seen this face before. Usually she wears it when she’s reprimanding a server. “You are teaching him to be smart. Frugal. That boy has a warm bed and food and a helluva lot of love. Love is all anyone need to be rich in life. More than that is just glitter.”

  “That sounds like a motivational poster. You’ve been doing affirmations again, haven’t you?” I wish I believed that I could fix all my problems simply by being positive like she did.

  “Hell, yes.” She grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around. “You know, I have an awesome new affirmation that opens you to love.”

  “I’m rich enough,” I say flatly. I adore my best friend, often because she’s my exact opposite. When it comes to issues of love, we are on different planets. I accepted years ago that there was no such thing as true love or better halves. But I don’t tell her that. If anyone can still attract a better half, it’s her.

  “Don’t you want to meet a man?” she lowers her voice so that the woman walking by doesn’t hear. “Get some?”

  My thoughts immediately flash back to the man from this week’s meeting. Jude. He’d left an impression and I found him playing lead role in more than one fantasy this week. I planned to massage him out of my system.

  “Whoa.” Amie grabs the cart handle like she’s throwing on the emergency brake. “What was that?”

  I glance around, looking at everything but her. Frozen pizza has never been more mesmerizing. “Nothing.”

  “Spill! Where did you meet him?” She practically chirps with excitement.

  I pull my phone from my purse and hand it to Max. He navigates it better than I do and in a moment he’s brought up a game.

  “My NA meeting.” I really don’t need to say more than that.

  “So?”

  “So?” I repeat. “Have we met? That is not an option.”

  “You have less options than a Prix Fixe menu. Sooner or later you’re going to have to add a few more choices to the menu—or at least some tasty side dishes.”

  “Maybe,” I grant her the vague agreement begrudgingly. “But not this guy. He’s got tattoos and an attitude.”

  She rests her chin on her hand. “Tell me more.”

  “Isn’t that enough?” I swear she forgets I have a kid sometimes.

  “You’re a mom, but you aren’t dead. Stop acting like it. I mean, you have a kick-ass babysitter available.”

  “He’s in NA.” Obviously she missed that tidbit.

  “So are you. Look that’s a good thing. You meet some guy on the street or at a bar—”

  I glare at her.

  “Okay, not a bar. The library.”

  “Because those of us who don’t spend our nights with West’s Ten
nessee Whiskey are all at the library.”

  She continues, ignoring my interruption. “You don’t know those guys. They could be alcoholics or users. He came to the meeting. You should give him a chance.

  “I wish it were that simple, but...” I hold up a hand as her mouth opens. “He’s gorgeous and he knows it.”

  “More,” she urges. She obviously stopped listening after gorgeous.

  “Dark hair. Blue eyes.” Tattoos I want to trace with my tongue. I know to keep that bit to myself.

  “All I’m saying”—Amie lowers her voice conspiratorially—“is that you need to get laid.”

  I open the freezer door, allowing the glass to fog between us as I snatch a bag of frozen peas.

  “I do not need to get laid,” I grumble as I throw them in the cart, ignoring Max’s attempt to catch them.

  “No one has ever needed to get laid as much as you do.” Her voice pitches up a notch earning a withering glance from a woman across the aisle. “He’s the only proof you’ve ever gone to bed with a man.”

  “Proof enough, don’t you think?” I bypass her and head toward the cereal aisle to grab the Cheerios I forgot.

  Amie shakes her head with a laugh as she follows me. In the cart, Max begins to sign:

  What is l-a-i-d?

  “Good job, Aunt Amie.” I groan, shooting her a dirty look.

  “He is getting really good at lip reading.” She grabs a box of the sugary crap I never buy my son and signs back to him.

  He nods eagerly, bribed too easily by the promise of marshmallows for breakfast to remember his question.

  “My bad,” she whispers as he studies the box.

  “Not a big deal. I forget, too.” The lip reading is new, courtesy of the amazing new special education teacher that began with the school district this year. “Three months and she’s already made more progress than I ever have.”

  “With his communication,” Amie tacks on. “No one can replace you.”

  It’s not the first time she’s told me this. I’m pretty certain she made it her personal mission to praise me daily since the moment we met.

  “Thanks,” I say softly.

  “For what?” She shrugs as if she has no clue.

  “For sticking with me through the neurotic, single mothering experiment I’ve found myself in for all these years.”

  “Thank you for letting me stick by you.”

  I don’t miss the emphasis in her words. “I can’t let everyone in.”

  “Agreed, and you have done an admirable job filtering out the rotten ones. But, honey, having a dick doesn’t automatically disqualify a person for friendship.”

  I stare at her. “I can’t wait to explain Max’s colorful new vocabulary at preschool.”

  “What? Max wasn’t looking.” She throws her hands up in surrender.

  “I’m not going out with this guy. I don’t even know why I told you about him.” Whatever had possessed me to share had abandoned me now.

  “You were attracted to him,” she informs me, “and you’ve forgotten what that was like, so naturally you’re confused.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  But she’s not paying attention, instead she’s grabbed a cucumber from the cart and is holding it up suggestively. At this time, she’s circled to the back of the cart so Max can’t see. “I can give you a quick sex ed briefing.”

  Despite myself, I laugh as she runs her fingers seductively down its length. “I think I remember the gist.”

  “Are you sure?” Her eyes widen with mischief.

  “I’m not sure the manager will look favorably on vegetable abuse,” a husky voice interrupts from behind me.

  I spin toward it, careful to keep one hand on the shopping cart. All the clever comebacks and curt denials I’ve developed over five years of being single desert me when I see him.

  He must have bought stock in a fitted t-shirt company. Where does he work that allows him to dress so casually? Or maybe his boss is just a woman who doesn’t mind the show?

  Amie appears at my side, holding the cucumber out in surrender.

  “I’m not the manager,” he reassures her and gestures to his cart, which holds a few brown paper wrapped packages from the meat department and a lonely crown of broccoli. “I’d be game for a demonstration though.”

  “Not in front of the kid,” Amie says apologetically but she’s looking between us now. No doubt she’s already remembering the description I gave of my mystery man.

  “That’s a shame.” He’s not looking at her as he speaks. His eyes study me then look to Max who is now hugging the cereal box.

  At least I won’t have to worry about giving in to my curiosity. Max’s existence has just nailed that coffin shut for me.

  “Faith, right?” Jude asks, his attention still riveted on Max. “And who’s this?”

  Max doesn’t look up, and before I can explain Jude crosses to him, crouching down to make eye contact with my son.

  I want to ignore how the gesture squeezes at my heart. Before I can tell him that Max doesn’t speak, Max reaches and touches his lips.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry!” I fly to Jude’s side, shaking my head at Max. “We don’t touch strangers, baby.”

  His bright eyes focus on my lips as I speak and he frowns as he reads them, beginning to sign.

  I bite back a smile, not quite able to flatten the curving corners of my mouth. He already has my attitude.

  “It’s okay,” Jude intervenes. “He reads lips?”

  I’m grateful that he doesn’t ask the obvious question. Max is young enough that strangers sometimes assume he’s being shy. But Jude, Mr. Arrogant himself, has noticed the precision to his tiny fingers as they move. I don’t have to tell him my son is deaf or explain why or answer the slightly personal questions most people are too oblivious to resist asking.

  “Mostly.” I shoot a dirty look at Amie. “It seems he’s getting better at it. I’m sorry that he—”

  “It’s really not an issue.” Jude ruffles Max’s hair, and instead of the usual twinge of panic I have when a stranger moves to touch my son, my heart skips. I feel it lurch to a halt and then instantly take up its rhythm again. “He was trying to show me that he needed to see them.”

  And just like that he’s made me grateful to him. He’s put me in his debt.

  I step forward and try to casually push the cart away. Jude takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets. It’s a sign of surrender but I don’t miss the vein tensing in his neck.

  Not as casual as I’d hoped.

  “Um, can I introduce you to my roommate?” And amateur sex ed teacher, I add silently. I gesture back to my friend who is pretending to study her braid. “Amie, this is…”

  I pretend to falter. No need for him to know that I was just talking about him. He doesn’t need the satisfaction of knowing his name and his face and his body are all seared into my memory.

  “Jude Mercer,” he offers.

  Jude Mercer. I hate myself for taking note of his full name.

  Amie darts toward him, hand outstretched. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  We were going to have to work on her enthusiasm. He probably thinks I’ve been talking about him for days from the way Amie is eyeing the two of us. I make a mental note to never, ever mention another man to her.

  “Visiting our little tourist trap of a town?” she continues.

  Oh my God. Of course, she’s going to strike up a conversation with him. Jude shakes his head, his attention riveted on the screen Max is showing him.

  “I like that game, too. Maybe we can play sometime.” He speaks clearly, carefully shaping his lips. But he doesn’t shout or slow down. Jude doesn’t condescend to him like most people. None of that makes up for the empty proposal he just made to my son, who glows with excitement at the attention.

  “Will you be leaving town soon?” I don’t phrase my question kindly like Amie nor do I try to hide the chill coating my words.

  “No.
” He straightens up as if he senses my challenge, and smirks. “Bought a little house near the water.”

  I can only process a single word: fuck.

  “Then we’ll be neighbors.” Amie is oblivious to the tension. She throws an arm around my shoulder. “Faith and I run a little bistro near the waterfront. The World’s End. You should come by. I’ll make you something special on the house.”

  “Maybe I will.” His response ripples across my skin. He speaks to her but he doesn’t look away from me.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” Jude says meaningfully. He high fives Max and disappears from the aisle. Next to me Amie gushes, but I don’t hear her.

  A familiar pull tugs at the knot in my stomach: the desire to run. I’ve never been one to stay and fight. My survival instinct always forces me to take flight, but I can’t run away this time. I spent the last four years setting up roadblocks so I never would again. With the ocean at my back, I thought I’d be able to see danger coming before my barricades were threatened.

  I never saw Jude coming.

  Chapter 3

  Before

  Nana went to bed at eight. When the girls had first come to live with her after the accident, neither had questioned this fact. If they weren’t tired when she announced it was time to go to sleep, they’d use flashlights to play dolls and read books in the dark. By their thirteenth birthday, Faith had graduated to romance novels while Grace had figured out how to climb out the window. At first Faith would lie awake and imagine what would happen if her sister didn’t come back before dawn, but she always did. It took her a year to get up the courage to ask where she was going and another year to decide she wanted to sneak out with her. Now they looked almost exactly the same - wavy dark blonde hair that fell to their shoulder blades, a nose that tipped up at the end. Grace’s eyes were more green than hazel even though Faith knew she was the jealous one.