Don't Kiss the Bride

I reach across the truck and put my hand over his. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my own voice strained. “It’s just… horrible.”

I can’t believe a young girl could disappear like that. Where did she go? What happened to her? The unknowing and lack of closure would drive me insane. My dad basically disappeared from my life, but I know he’s somewhere living a new life—just without me. But with a situation like Jude’s, I’d need answers. I can’t imagine how he feels.

Jude nods, and spreads his fingers apart, inviting mine to interlock with his. The way he squeezes my thin fingers between his sends a cozy warmth through my limbs. It’s that subtle, unspoken connection—the hand hug.

We stay that way—hands locked together—until we get to the hardware store. While we’re shopping, I can’t stop thinking about his missing sister and the way my chest hurt hearing the pain in his voice. I like thinking that holding my hand was comforting to him. When I first met him, I wouldn’t have pegged him as the affectionate, vulnerable type, but I’m slowly seeing that under his rough exterior, hides a totally different animal.

It takes us hours to dry up the basement. Using the shop vac to suck up the water is oddly satisfying, though. Jude has been in a state of frustration, venting about old houses and the dangers of mold spores.

“I’m going to mop with a little bleach,” he says when we’ve dried up all the water. “Why don’t you go upstairs? The smell will give you a headache.”

“What about you?” I ask.

“I already have a headache. I have a mask to wear, it’s not a big deal.”

“If you’re sure?”

He gives me a tired grin. “I’m sure. You were a big help. I’ll be up in a bit.”

Reluctantly, I go upstairs to feed the pets and take a hot shower. I’ve felt sweaty and sticky all day, and my feet have been wet and cold for hours. Wrapped in a soft terry-cloth robe, I sit on the bed and scrub at my hair with a towel. My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t eat today—something I’m still struggling with.

Earlier, Jude stopped at a fast-food restaurant on the way back from the hardware store, and I froze up when it was time to order. I wanted a roll. All the pictures of food on the glowing menu in the drive-through overwhelmed and nauseated me. So much stuff oozing on burgers and salads. A row of cars accumulated behind us, pressuring me to decide fast, with no time for me to analyze ingredients.

Jude was frustrated and rightfully so. He was having a shitty day and was stressing about the house. He took a chance and ordered me French fries, but they were soggy and felt icky on my tongue. I gagged and spit it out, then refused his offer of half his hamburger bun. Because I wanted him to enjoy his entire burger and not ruin it by giving part of it to me.

He actually offered to give me the top of his burger bun, just so I’d eat. How sweet is that? And now I feel like an epic bitch because I said no. He probably thinks I’m an ungrateful brat.

Today was what I call a bad food day. I note this in my journal app so I can discuss it with my therapist and dietician this coming week.

“Hey.”

His voice startles me, and I almost drop my phone when I look up at my doorway. He’s holding a plate of cinnamon toast in his hand with that damn grin on his face.

Toast is still bread, but it’s what I think of as enhanced bread.

“I thought you might want something,” he says, which is his polite way of saying you should eat.

He tries. He really does.

“Lucky… you don’t have to feed me,” I say, taking the plate from him.

“You worked your butt off today helping me.”

“I live here. I should help when shit breaks. You don’t have to thank me or make me dinner.”

“It’s toast, not surf n’ turf.”

I take a bite and chew slowly. He continues to linger in my doorway. He never comes all the way inside unless he asks first, or if I tell him to. I sneeze and rub my nose. “Damn. I can smell the bleach on you. You should change or shower and clear your head so you don’t get sick.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go clean up.” He rubs his hands together. “It’s only eight o’clock; you want to Netflix and chill after I shower?”

I choke on my toast. “Um, I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

His face goes blank with confusion. “What? Watch a movie and unwind after a shitastic day?”

“That sounds great, but that’s not what Netflix and chill means.”

“Care to enlighten me?”