The Sins That Bind Us

by Geneva Lee

  “I know.”

  “Really?” I toss my wadded straw wrapper at him and try to ignore how it bounces off his chest. “It’s not easy for me to admit when I’m wrong.”

  “What did you want me to say?” He throws it back at me and it lands in my cleavage. Jude’s arms shoot into the air like he just landed a major goal.

  I dig it out and place it safely in front of me. “I don’t know. Maybe that you thought so or that you were guessing. That way I wouldn’t have to eat crow.”

  “I could say that, but I knew you were wrong.” He’s hardly containing laughter now and this time I don’t want to hear it. Mr. Arrogant has returned in all his glory.

  “You’re a cocky son of a bitch,” I inform him in a perfectly nice tone of voice.

  He continues to laugh as he pulls out his phone and begins to type something in. A moment later he hands it to me. I skim the lyrics and discover exactly what I’d already told him.

  “You’re terrible at being a gracious winner.” I hold it out to him, but he shakes his head.

  “Keep reading.”

  Scrolling to the end, I find the credits.

  Song written by Jude Mercer.

  “You forfeit your win,” I announce.

  “I never had a pony in the race, Sunshine.”

  Narrowing my eyes in the hope that I look annoyed and not humiliated, I lean against the table. “You could have told me how you knew.”

  “That would have been bragging,” he says pointedly, “and I didn’t want to come off as arrogant.”

  “How did you want to come off then?”

  He flashes me a wicked grin. “I can think of a couple ways.”

  “Shameless and arrogant,” I mutter, but I’m so glad he’s not sitting next to me right now. There’s a very real possibility that the look he just gave me caused a panty meltdown. I can only hope I’m not stuck to the vinyl covered bench.

  “I promise to never correct you again.” He waves a paper napkin in the air.

  I don’t like that idea any more. “No! You better tell me if I’m making a fool out of myself.”

  “Can I actually tell you you’re making a fool out of yourself?” he asks.

  “I’d choose your words more carefully than that,” I advise. Without thinking I reach out and trace etched arrows on the metal plate attached to his worn, leather bracelet. “This means something to you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I admit. “It looks like you wear it a lot.”

  “A friend gave it to me when I was feeling lost.” Jude pauses and stares down at it.

  “Does it show you the way?” I ask in a soft voice.

  “No, it reminds me that I choose my own direction.”

  “Why are there two arrows then?” The simple shapes cross one another, pointing in opposite directions.

  “Because there’s always a choice in which path you choose.”

  I understand the importance of this sentiment, even if I don’t exactly agree. Some of us don’t have the luxury of choices. I keep the thought to myself.

  By the time the food is delivered, I’m easing into the situation. Mostly due to finding Jude’s Wikipedia page and a list of every song that he’s composed. There’s a lot of them and I know them all by heart. At least, I think I do. It should embarrass me that I’m spending a date quoting a man’s words back to him, instead it relaxes me. Knowing those songs came from him finally gives us common ground I’m willing to tread on.

  “Oh!” I squeak forgetting I have a mouthful of egg roll. I swallow it quickly. “You wrote Rainy Day Girl?”

  “You really do know all of my songs.” He plops a fresh crab rangoon on my plate. I don’t bother protesting the fried offering. If we have a whole table of food I might as well dig in.

  “I’m pretty sure I do.” I crack it open and break off the excessive crunchy bits.

  “That’s the best part,” he objects as he scoops them off my plate and into his mouth.

  His mouth. I recall the kiss and I wonder what else he can do with those lips. I realize I’m staring too late.

  “Do you sing?” I ask the first thing that pops into my head.

  “I have to, but it’s not pretty,” he warns me.

  “I bet that’s not true.”

  “There’s a reason someone else gets paid to make the records, Sunshine.”

  “About that nickname,” I interject. “I can’t decide if you’re making fun of me.”

  “I was the first time I said it, but I’m not anymore,” he admits.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. All week I look forward to seeing you. I’ve missed you like the sun these last two rainy weeks, because you’ve become my light. I tried to give you some space, but when you missed two weeks in a row, I couldn’t stay away.” His confession hangs in the air, bating me to admit that I was avoiding him. Then he gives me an out. “You were probably sick.”

  “I wasn’t. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent time with a man.” I might as well own my feelings, too. I don’t mention that it’s been a really long time.

  “Max’s father?” he guesses.

  I hesitate, not wanting to air that laundry on a first date.

  Jude senses my apprehension and changes the subject. He probably doesn’t want to hear about my past on a first date either. “So have you looked into cochlear implants for Max?”

  “That’s complicated,” I say slowly. There’s no way he wants to hear the four years of research I’ve done on the topic, so I fall back on my instant closer. “Insurance says it’s unnecessary and there’s no way I have the money.”

  “Do you wish he could hear?” His interest—his earnestness—radiates from him and for the first time in a long time, I know he’s just asking. Jude wants to listen not lecture. That’s not a luxury I’ve been given by most people.

  “I guess.” I have to consider this. No one’s ever asked me that exactly. “I think we all want our children to be perfect. You know what I mean. Not perfect. Just healthy and we have an expectation of what that is. It took me a while to realize he is healthy, and he’s got a great school that’s working with him on sign language and reading lips. So I suppose I’d love to hear his voice or sing to him, but that’s just me being selfish.”

  “I don’t think that’s selfish at all.” He reaches out and takes my hand, intertwining our fingers. “I suspect you’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met.”

  I start to roll my eyes but he squeezes my hand.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  “It’s a force of habit,” I whisper.

  “Then we’ll have to break that habit.” He makes it sound so simple. Why does the world feel easier around him? I want to believe he’s right and not selling me a beautiful lie, but experience has taught me otherwise.

  “I don’t think its like not chewing your fingernails.”

  “That’s harder than it sounds.” His thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand and I can hardly process what he’s saying. “This is how I’m going to stop you from underestimating yourself. First, I’m going to see to it that you know how amazing you are every day. Next, any time you bash yourself I’m going to call you out, because nobody’s allowed to talk to you that way. Not even yourself, Sunshine.”

  “That’s a pretty serious undertaking.” His plan leaves me breathless. I don’t know where this complicated, deep ocean of a man came from, but he’s pulling me under with his promises.

  “I’m serious about it. That boy is lucky to have you and I know he adores you. Anyone can see that, but maybe it’s time that someone takes care of you for a while.”

  The air around is charged by his offer and I want to gulp the energy in giant breaths until it burns away my reservations. “I don’t have a great track record with caregivers.”

  “Neither do I.” The sadness is back in his fathomless eyes and the urge to wrap my body around his to shield him from the pain is overwhelming. “We
don’t need to share our sad stories. We can both fill in the blanks. But that’s why we can take care of one another, because we can see what’s missing.”

  I bite my lip, torn between nodding and pulling my hand away. Jude makes the decision for me. He relinquishes my hand and reaches for the fortune cookies at the edge of the table.

  “Maybe we’re overthinking this,” he suggests, tossing me one.

  “Are we going to find the meaning of life in here?” I tear off the cellophane wrapper, but before I can break it open, Jude grabs my hand.

  “There’s a method,” he explains. “Break.”

  I crack it open and wait for the next step.

  “Now you pull off the first half and eat it while you read your fortune cookie in your head.”

  I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “I think there were less steps in the actual crafting of this cookie.”

  “Do you want your fortune to come true?” he challenges me.

  “That depends. I’ve had some shitty fortunes.”

  The corner of his mouth tugs up but he continues. “Then you eat the other half and exchange fortunes with me to read.”

  “Anything else? Is their footwork involved?” I tease.

  Jude doesn’t answer. Instead he cracks open his cookie and begins the bizarre ritual. I find myself hurrying to keep up. As I chew I turn my fortune over:

  We write our own stories.

  So it’s more of a motivational poster than a fortune, but not bad. I pop the other half in my mouth and lock eyes with Jude. The trouble with these cookies is that it takes forever to break down the dry Styrofoam and I almost choke on it when I start to giggle. Everything about the moment is ludicrous and sweet.

  It’s perfect.

  We pass the tiny slips to each other and I read his, “A bird in the pan is better than two in the bush.”

  Laughter bursts out of me.

  “Worst fortune ever, right?” He joins in. “Yours is lovely.”

  “Oh c’mon. It’s cheesy.”

  “Only if you let it be.”

  He won’t let me chip in on the bill, but he agrees that I can get our next dinner. Watching as he packs up the leftovers, I let the idea of a next time sink in, and I can’t deny I want there to be one. I shouldn’t. It’s messy, especially given the pasts we’ve both avoided discussing. Can two people really leave their mistakes behind? I can’t decide if I want to—not if its memory keeps me from screwing up again. Jude doesn’t press me to talk as he drives me home. This time he drives carefully, allowing me to focus on my thoughts. When we reach my house, he walks me to the door.

  It’s an old-fashioned gesture, but it makes my heart race.

  “You’re the only guy who’s ever walked me to the door,” I tell him.

  “That is a tragedy.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers trail down my cheek and trace along my jaw.

  My lips part instinctively.

  Jude moves closer, his lips brushing against my ear. “I’m not going to kiss you again until you ask.”

  How could he shift from being sweet to totally infuriating so quickly? “You’re going to be waiting a very long time.”

  I try to ignore the fact that by taking this stance, I’ll be waiting along with him. Fumbling for the doorknob behind me, I clutch it and hope he gives in first.

  “Maybe I’ll make you kiss me, Sunshine.” His breath tickles my neck and his mouth is close enough that I know exactly what I’m missing.

  “Then you’re going to be waiting even longer.” I open the door and slip into the house. If he thinks I’m going to go easy on him, he’s got another thing coming. I want to believe all his sugar-coated promises, but it’s best he discovers now that I’m a tough pill to swallow.

  Chapter 10

  At group I’m met with concerned faces and hugs, both of which make me feel awkward. There’s no way to reassure everyone that I’m okay. I suppose it’s the natural tendency in this situation. A person disappears and you assume the worst, but for the first time in years I don’t feel like I’m hanging on to life from behind. I’m not being dragged along. I’m the one in charge. I don’t even need my cup of coffee.

  Stephanie stops me before I can take a seat. “If you need to talk.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But I might as well be speaking in Latin. “It’s important that we forgive ourselves and let go of our mistakes.”

  “Noted.” I sidle away from her and grab a seat as far from Jude as possible. Not because I’m avoiding him, but rather because I want to actually concentrate. He catches my eye and winks. We have our own, little secret. The shame and trepidation that plagued me when we met is giving way to the fluttering anticipation of new affection. No one knows about us here, which feels a bit dirty—and a lot amazing.

  “They were about to call out the FBI,” Sondra informs me as she parks her butt in the chair next to mine. “People were checking the restaurant and driving by your house.”

  “So much for anonymity. I was busy.”

  She uncaps a tube of glittery lip gloss and smears it over her mouth. “I hope by busy you mean nailing that.”

  Her gaze flickers to Jude, who’s engrossed in conversation with Bob. I force myself to shrug like I have no clue what she’s implying.

  “That’s what I thought.” She flashes me a gummy smile of approval.

  Silence falls over the group when Anne stands up and clears her throat. I wonder how many of them have heard that she fell off the wagon. I trust Jude not to gossip, but there were a lot of people in that bar that night. “I wanted to share that I’ve been sober for a week.”

  There’s a pause before the room erupts in cheers. Her head drops, not quite concealing her sad smile, and she raises a hand.

  “I know that’s supposed to be an accomplishment, but it doesn’t really feel like it when I threw away five years of sobriety.”

  “It is an accomplishment,” Sondra jumps in. “Honey, we’ve all been there. We’re all human. One day at a time.”

  The trouble is that it’s easy to take it one day at a time in the beginning. It feels productive to make it through twenty-four hours, but eventually you start keeping track of those days. You build a collection, but it’s actually a house of cards. It doesn’t take much to scatter those days into oblivion. Yeah, we’d all been there. That fact isn’t comforting when it’s your world that’s crumbled around you.

  “I’m telling myself that, and I’m starting at the beginning. Obviously I’m not as in control as I thought I was,” she admits. Anne wrings her hands as she looks to Jude. “I also put you in a terrible position, and I’m sorry. Thank you for dragging me away from that bottle.”

  Jude nods in acknowledgment of her apology. “No need to be sorry.”

  “There is,” she corrects him. “Maybe you’re stronger than I am. I’m pretty certain you are. But forcing you to enter a bar was terrible. That is damaging whether you realize it or not. I’m sorry that I hurt you with my actions.”

  It’s one of the steps. She really is starting over, but I’m startled when she turns to me. “The same goes for you, Faith. I know a lot of people here think…”

  That explains it. Anne wasn’t the only one spotted in the bar that night. Apparently, unlike Jude, my presence hadn’t been equated with salvation.

  “You have to understand, honey,” Sondra says under her breath, “you didn’t come back to group. Jude was the only one here and his lips were sealed.”

  Because he’s above the petty gossip of a small town. Despite the best intentions of this congregation of broken souls, people will talk.

  “I don’t really care what people think,” I pipe up in response to Anne’s apology. “I’m just glad you’re doing better, and I’m proud of you.”

  Considering the last time I saw her she accused me of screwing Jude, I think this qualifies as taking the higher ground in every way. Particularly since her apology places me at the scene with him. So much for our littl
e secret.

  The rest of the meeting follows the usual routine. A few people share and Stephanie volunteers others. When I first came here I hung off every story, hoping for the words that would heal me. Now I know we come here because we need to remember our sins. What do they teach you about history? When we forget the past, we’re doomed to repeat it. This isn’t support group, it’s our weekly penance. We’ll pay for the rest of our lives. I guess that’s why we hold it in church. Some of us come seeking reassurances that we can change and absolution for the other six days of the week. Others need to wallow in the guilt in an effort to feed their fanaticism. We don’t escape our addictions, they simply become our religions.

  “Can I speak with you?” Stephanie asks in a clipped tone. I tug my jacket on as I follow her into the darkened hallway. Jude shoots me a bemused grin.

  “Are we being called into the principal’s office?” I ask.

  Only one of them laughs.

  “This isn’t a joke. I don’t think I need to tell you how dangerous it is to start hauling people off bar stools.” Anger vibrates from her. It rolls off her body.

  She’s right, which is another reason I wish Anne hadn’t said anything. It’s one thing to take a phone call and totally different to stroll into hell itself.

  “When did it become alright to turn our backs on people who need us?” Jude cuts in.

  “There are boundaries,” Stephanie begins.

  “Fuck your boundaries.” He doesn’t wait around to see her reaction. Even though I know she has a point I can’t help but enjoy how she fumbles for a response.

  I run after him and catch him unlocking his Jeep.

  “This is one of those times when your motorcycle would really add some dramatic effect,” I inform him.

  But he’s not in the mood to laugh now. “Do you agree with her?”

  I choose my words with care. “You can’t save everyone.”

  “So we shouldn’t try?” he roars.

  So much for my caution. “It’s not that. People have to want help. We can’t fix them by force.”

  “Anne wanted help,” he interrupts me, “and you’ll be happy to know that I got out of the business of saving people a long time ago. Christ, I thought you would understand.”