Crush (Crash 3)

Those words were like a slap to my face. I reminded myself yet again that this house was Jude’s way of showing his love for me, but my temper had taken off and I couldn’t pull it back. “Here’s a tip. If you’re looking to make someone happy, maybe you should think about what they’d want, not what you want them to want.”

Wrapping his hands behind his neck, Jude spun away from me. “And here’s a tip for you. You have to be willing to let happiness in when it comes your way.”

His words made me flinch.

“How is you buying a house for us in Southern California without asking me first supposed to equate with happiness? I live in New York, Jude. New. York.”

“You live in New York for another year,” he said, staring at the nearest wall like he wanted to bang his head against it. “Once you’re done with school you can leave and move in with me.”

This wasn’t a slap. This was a punch. A sucker punch to the gut. “I can leave New York and move in with you here? In California? In a Playboy-size mansion?” How had there been such a disconnect between us? Where did he get off assuming he could just map my life out for me without checking with me first? “Who said I wanted to pick up and move across the country to live with you here in the land of fake tits and phony smiles?”

From the look on his face, you would have thought I’d just socked him in the stomach. “When you agreed to marry me. When you let me put that ring on your finger.” His words were slow and controlled. So much so they were scary-sounding.

“So what you heard when I said yes to marrying you is that I’d willingly—no, gladly—give up my dreams, future plans, et cetera, et cetera, so you could live yours?” I shouted. “Because I guess I missed the fine print.”

Jude closed his eyes. “What do you want, Lucy?” I cringed internally. He called me Lucy only if he was really pissed or hurt. “Because apparently I don’t have a damn clue. So tell me. What. The. Hell. Do. You. Want?”

“I want to finish school. I’m going to school for dance, so I know it might seem crazy, but I’d actually like to dance after I graduate.” I could barely look at him right now. Not because of what he was saying, but because of what I was saying to him. I didn’t want to hurt him; in fact, I wanted the opposite. So when I hurt him, I hated myself.

“Okay, you want to dance.” He extended his arms at his sides. “Good news, Luce. You can dance here in San Diego. Problem solved.”

I snorted. “Problem not solved. If I want to dance in some crummy community theater rendition of Swan Lake once a year, I can dance here. I did not work my butt off dancing the past fifteen years of my life to perform half-assed dances in front of snoring seniors who paid ten dollars a ticket.”

Jude’s forehead lined. Well, it lined deeper. “So what are you saying? You want to stay in New York when you’re done with school?”

How had we not worked this out before? Maybe because we’d been so busy living in the moment, or stumbling over our pasts, we’d forgotten to look ahead. We’d missed the future part of our relationship.

“New York. Paris. London,” I said, shrugging. “Those are the cities where dancers who want to dance go.”

I could see Jude’s internal battle. The same WTF one I was experiencing. Why had it taken us so long to figure out that what I wanted and what he wanted might not align? “Well, shit, Luce. I didn’t get drafted by the Jets. Or the Giants. Or some European league,” he said, shaking his head. “I got drafted by the Chargers. I’m going to be in San Diego for a while.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You know what?”

“I know you’re in San Diego. I know I’m in New York.”

I wanted—I needed—a break from this conversation. A few hours to figure out what was happening, what had been said, and where to go from here. I knew my priorities, and Jude was one notch above dance, but did Jude place me one notch below football in his mind?

I didn’t think so. He’d proven I came first over and over again, but this—the house, the truck, the expectations, the assumptions—all of this was starting to worry me. I needed to sort some serious shit out, and I couldn’t do it with him staring at me the way he was now. And I certainly couldn’t do it inside this mansion-on-steroids.

“Where does that leave us then, Luce?” he said, his voice quiet and his face tired. He looked like he needed time to work things out as badly as I did.

Where did that leave us? San Diego? New York? Somewhere smack in the middle?

“At a crossroads,” I said with a shrug.

“A crossroads?” he repeated, coming toward me. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re telling me we’re at a crossroads when I’ve got a ring on your finger and all our dreams are finally coming true?”

I took a deep breath before replying. “No. All your dreams are coming true. I’m still working on mine, so yes, we’re at a crossroads.”

The veins in his neck were coming to the surface. He was pissed, and I was only making it worse. “We are not at a crossroads,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Oh, yes, we damn well are at a crossroads!” I yelled back.

His face went a little red. “No. We’re. Not.”

“Yes. We. Are!” God, were we really doing this? Fighting by repeating each other’s words, like a couple of middle school kids?

words were like a slap to my face. I reminded myself yet again that this house was Jude’s way of showing his love for me, but my temper had taken off and I couldn’t pull it back. “Here’s a tip. If you’re looking to make someone happy, maybe you should think about what they’d want, not what you want them to want.”

Wrapping his hands behind his neck, Jude spun away from me. “And here’s a tip for you. You have to be willing to let happiness in when it comes your way.”

His words made me flinch.

“How is you buying a house for us in Southern California without asking me first supposed to equate with happiness? I live in New York, Jude. New. York.”

“You live in New York for another year,” he said, staring at the nearest wall like he wanted to bang his head against it. “Once you’re done with school you can leave and move in with me.”

This wasn’t a slap. This was a punch. A sucker punch to the gut. “I can leave New York and move in with you here? In California? In a Playboy-size mansion?” How had there been such a disconnect between us? Where did he get off assuming he could just map my life out for me without checking with me first? “Who said I wanted to pick up and move across the country to live with you here in the land of fake tits and phony smiles?”

From the look on his face, you would have thought I’d just socked him in the stomach. “When you agreed to marry me. When you let me put that ring on your finger.” His words were slow and controlled. So much so they were scary-sounding.

“So what you heard when I said yes to marrying you is that I’d willingly—no, gladly—give up my dreams, future plans, et cetera, et cetera, so you could live yours?” I shouted. “Because I guess I missed the fine print.”

Jude closed his eyes. “What do you want, Lucy?” I cringed internally. He called me Lucy only if he was really pissed or hurt. “Because apparently I don’t have a damn clue. So tell me. What. The. Hell. Do. You. Want?”

“I want to finish school. I’m going to school for dance, so I know it might seem crazy, but I’d actually like to dance after I graduate.” I could barely look at him right now. Not because of what he was saying, but because of what I was saying to him. I didn’t want to hurt him; in fact, I wanted the opposite. So when I hurt him, I hated myself.

“Okay, you want to dance.” He extended his arms at his sides. “Good news, Luce. You can dance here in San Diego. Problem solved.”

I snorted. “Problem not solved. If I want to dance in some crummy community theater rendition of Swan Lake once a year, I can dance here. I did not work my butt off dancing the past fifteen years of my life to perform half-assed dances in front of snoring seniors who paid ten dollars a ticket.”

Jude’s forehead lined. Well, it lined deeper. “So what are you saying? You want to stay in New York when you’re done with school?”

How had we not worked this out before? Maybe because we’d been so busy living in the moment, or stumbling over our pasts, we’d forgotten to look ahead. We’d missed the future part of our relationship.

“New York. Paris. London,” I said, shrugging. “Those are the cities where dancers who want to dance go.”

I could see Jude’s internal battle. The same WTF one I was experiencing. Why had it taken us so long to figure out that what I wanted and what he wanted might not align? “Well, shit, Luce. I didn’t get drafted by the Jets. Or the Giants. Or some European league,” he said, shaking his head. “I got drafted by the Chargers. I’m going to be in San Diego for a while.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You know what?”

“I know you’re in San Diego. I know I’m in New York.”

I wanted—I needed—a break from this conversation. A few hours to figure out what was happening, what had been said, and where to go from here. I knew my priorities, and Jude was one notch above dance, but did Jude place me one notch below football in his mind?

I didn’t think so. He’d proven I came first over and over again, but this—the house, the truck, the expectations, the assumptions—all of this was starting to worry me. I needed to sort some serious shit out, and I couldn’t do it with him staring at me the way he was now. And I certainly couldn’t do it inside this mansion-on-steroids.

“Where does that leave us then, Luce?” he said, his voice quiet and his face tired. He looked like he needed time to work things out as badly as I did.

Where did that leave us? San Diego? New York? Somewhere smack in the middle?

“At a crossroads,” I said with a shrug.

“A crossroads?” he repeated, coming toward me. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re telling me we’re at a crossroads when I’ve got a ring on your finger and all our dreams are finally coming true?”

I took a deep breath before replying. “No. All your dreams are coming true. I’m still working on mine, so yes, we’re at a crossroads.”

The veins in his neck were coming to the surface. He was pissed, and I was only making it worse. “We are not at a crossroads,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Oh, yes, we damn well are at a crossroads!” I yelled back.

His face went a little red. “No. We’re. Not.”

“Yes. We. Are!” God, were we really doing this? Fighting by repeating each other’s words, like a couple of middle school kids?