Page 71 of His Holy Chaos

"Clarice…"

"I'm just saying thank you. Whatever you've done, whatever this is… thank you. All I ever want is to see him smile. All I want is to see him safe and happy. You’re a father yourself, I’m sure you understand."

“I do,” I say and I feel tears threatening to warm my eyes. I cough before I let it show, but I’m certain she sees it anyway.

Inside, the piano erupts into something that sounds like a duel, Jude playing louder, Erwin matching him, both of them laughing. Something crashes, a book off the piano top, probably, and Jude yells "that doesn't count!"

Clarice shakes her head fondly. I look at the yard, the geraniums, the basketball hoop, the picnic table still covered in the remnants of dinner, and I realize I don't feel like a guest. I feel like someone who's supposed to be here.

"Thank you for having me," I say to Clarice.

She waves a hand dismissively. "Next Sunday. Bring Angel. And bring that wine again. Erwin drank the whole bottle and won't admit it. I wanted seconds!"

☐

On the drive home, Jude falls asleep. He’s so beautiful.

The car turns onto my street. The house appears. I pull into the driveway. Turn off the engine. The silence descends, completely. I don't move immediately. I sit in the dark car in my own driveway and look at him. I lift my hand and brush his cheek. He stirs.

"Jude." I say, softly.

His eyes open, gradually, and he smiles when he sees me, as if he’s remembering I’m there.

"Mm… Daddy…." His voice is gravel and sleep. "Are we home?"

Home. Not your house. Not your place. Home.

"We're home," I say.

Chapter 31. Jude

The evening is one of those where you believe nothing bad can ever happen. Angel is asleep upstairs. Ford is beside me on the couch with a first edition of something leather-bound, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his free hand resting on my ankle where my feet have invaded his lap. The house smells like the risotto we made for dinner. Ford stirred, I narrated, we argued about the wine-to-broth ratio. Everything is perfect.

And perfect never lasts.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I glance at the screen expecting a meme from Alfie. But it's not a text. It's a call. And Alfie doesn't call. Alfie texts, Alfie emails, Alfie sends voice memos, but Alfie does not call.

I pick up. "Alf."

The first thing I hear is breathing. Then his voice is wrong.

"Carlos is back." Two words. He says them the way you'd say the building is on fire. "He's been calling. He showed up at my office yesterday. And tonight he… Jude, I think he's coming here."

My feet are off Ford's lap. I'm standing before the sentence finishes.

"I'm coming," I say. "Don't open your door. Don't answer if he knocks. I'm coming right now."

Ford has put down his book. His reading glasses are off, and his eyes are already sharp. I hold up one finger. Wait.

I end the call and grab my jacket from the back of the dining chair where I threw it hours ago. I'm feeling sick.

"Alfie's ex," I say. "Carlos. His old Dom. He's dangerous." I shove my arms into the jacket. The denim catches on my elbow, and I yank it through. "It took me six months to get Alfie to leave him, and another year to get him to stop flinching when someone raised their voice. He's back. He's threatening Alfie. I need to go."

Ford is on his feet. "I'm driving you."

"No. Angel's asleep. Martha's not here. You stay. I'll be fine. I'll text you the address."

"Jude…"