Chapter 5. Ford
The leather steering wheel warms beneath my grip as I guide my Mercedes S-Class through empty streets. The sun matches the headache building in my head. My thoughts are all blurred together with the image of a young man who has no business occupying any space in my mind.
"Stop it," I say aloud to the empty car, and I make a mental note of changing the subject to the choir practice every time I think about Jude. I can do that. I can control my own thoughts. I am a controlled man. God dammit!
Why am I thinking about him? He's everything I avoid. Too young, at least twenty years my junior. Too chaotic with a different drink in hand each time I've seen him, his laugh too loud, his movements too expansive. Too unpredictable, the antithesis of me.
Yet, that’s appealing, compelling, and I can’t think about those honey eyes that looked at me so naturally with such fealty.
Something tightens low in my stomach, and I grip the steering wheel harder.
My body hasn't reacted to anyone like this in years. I resent it. He’s hypnotic, magnetic, a demon.
It makes my mouth water, and I hate my body for it.
I have responsibilities. Angel needs stability.
My investments require management. The foundation board expects my quarterly attendance.
The church choir depends on my direction.
I can't afford distractions. And he is nothing if not distracting.
I realize I'm still driving five miles over my usual speed. I ease off the accelerator, forcing my thoughts back to tenors who need to fix their third act entrance.
"This is absurd," I mutter. I’m not some lovesick teenager.
The church is always imposing, with its brown stone exterior and its stained-glass windows.
The bell tower reaches upward, inspired by gothic and imposing structures.
I park in my usual spot and check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I look exactly as I should: composed, professional, controlled, my hair getting too gray, reminding me of my age, and of Jude’s age for what it’s worth.
At least my blue eyes are the same, the same ones I see staring back at me from childhood.
No one would guess that my thoughts have been contaminated.
I gather my leather portfolio containing the music sheets and exit the car.
The heavy wooden doors of the church open with resistance.
Inside, the air is cooler with reverence.
I look at the cross, it looks back at me.
I silently ask for forgiveness. I’m not sure from what. Forgiveness from everything.
The empty choir room waits for me. Sheet music rests in neat stacks on the side table where I left them. The piano gleams in the corner. I set my portfolio on the music stand and begin my preparation ritual.
By the time the first choir members arrive, I am fully composed again, my mask firmly in place. No one would guess what is behind that mask. Here, I am simply Mr. Ridden, choir director. Exactly as it should be.
?
"From the top of page seventeen, please.
" My voice echoes against the ceiling. I like how I sound. Commanding. Respectful. Dominant. Are you sure you’re a Dom?
Ugh. Twenty-four pairs of eyes focus on me as I raise my baton.
The sopranos enter with precision, the altos providing support beneath.
I guide them with minimal gestures; my right hand maintaining tempo while my left shapes them.
"Basses, you're dragging in measure twenty-one.
" I stop the momentum with a horizontal slash of my baton.
"Remember, this isn't a funeral march. Feel the forward motion.
" I sing their line, demonstrating, then gesture for them to repeat it. They comply, the sound now flowing. I nod once with satisfaction. That’s more like it.
"Again, from the tenor entrance."
The tenors respond obediently. The piece builds toward its first climax, and I lean forward slightly, drawing more volume. The sound swells, filling the church's acoustic space. It’s beautiful. Control. Precision. Each voice contributing exactly what is needed, when it is needed.
Mrs. Patterson, our lead alto for fifteen years, an elderly woman with white hair and big glasses, nods in a serious way.
“Good job. You sound angelic,” I praise them. "Let's take the entire movement now, without stopping. Focus on the phrasing we've worked on." I raise my baton, waiting for their complete attention before beginning. The music starts flowing. It’s rich, complex, incredible.
And then it happens.
The heavy doors at the back of the church creak open. My baton freezes mid-air, suspended between beats. The sopranos hold their high note a beat too long, creating an unintended fermata before dissolving. They look at me, confused, but I don’t look at them.
Jude stands in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun streaming through the outer doors.
The golden light catches in his buzzed blond hair, creating an ironic halo effect that is completely at odds with everything I know about him.
Beside him stands a lean man I don't recognize, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses.
But it's Jude who captures and holds my gaze. He’s wearing a black Adidas sweatshirt and his jeans have large rips that reveal his knees and thighs.
He’s wearing expensive white and fashionable sneakers that probably have a name among young people, but I don’t know it.
His eyes scan the room for a split second, and his face lights up when he finds me.
My mouth goes dry. It's involuntary, physical, the kind of response I haven't had to manage in a very long time. I swallow it down like medicine.
Our eyes lock, and I feel a physical sensation like stepping off an unexpected curb.
His smile is half triumph, half challenge.
The choir members turn, following my frozen gaze, and I want to scream at them to look back at me.
Like watching a car crash I can't stop. But there’s nothing I can do to stop them from looking at the boy.
My fingers tighten around the baton. I swallow hard.
Jude takes a single step forward, ignoring everybody who’s staring at him, and he sits in the back, on one of the wooden benches, his friend following him, as if nothing is happening. He lifts his chin slightly, his posture saying what words don't need to: I found you.