Chapter 17
Jude
Three days into my self-imposed exile from the world, and I’d officially lost my mind.
The moon boot around my ankle was like a monument to my stupidity, mocking me every time I shifted position.
Just.
As if that made it better. As if losing the rest of Scream Scene was some minor inconvenience instead of watching everything I’d built crumble while I sat here doing nothing but marinating in my own failure.
The moon boot was bad and awkward enough, but I hated the crutches.
They were leaning up against the arm of the couch, always within reach because I couldn’t fucking go anywhere without them.
I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom to piss without the bloody things.
I hated them so much. I hated the rubber grips that dug into my palms, hated the clumsy shuffle they forced me into, hated how they turned the simple act of crossing my apartment into an exhausting production.
Mostly, I hated how useless and weak they made me feel.
I’d tried to manage without them yesterday. Made it exactly four steps before my ankle reminded me why that was a spectacularly bad idea. I’d almost broken my coffee table with how fast and hard I’d gone down. After that, I’d opted to follow the doctor’s advice a bit more.
Stay off it, he’d said. Rest. Elevate. Ice. He’d spoken to me like I was some delicate thing that needed careful handling instead of someone who’d spent three years throwing himself off platforms and scaffolding without so much as a pulled muscle.
Until now, and oh how spectacularly I’d fallen.
It hadn’t even been something dramatic like falling from the scaffolding, or getting trampled by enthusiastic park-goers. It was just a tiny fucking crack in the pavement that shattered my world.
My phone sat face-up on the coffee table, screen dark.
I knew what awaited there if I unlocked it.
Messages from Riley asking how I was holding up.
Probably another text from Parker with information about worker’s comp and medical leave paperwork.
At least he’d been supportive and helpful, signing off on insurance without asking too many questions, or trying to deflect the blame.
I shouldn’t have been running through there, and we all knew it. I had only myself to blame, and that was a bitter pill to swallow. I should have known better and been more professional and not let myself get caught up in the thrill of the stupid game I’d made for myself.
And I shouldn’t have dragged Ash into my bullshit, either.
It wasn’t just Parker and Riley and the other crew who’d reached out. Honestly, I would have been shocked if Ash hadn’t made an attempt to check in. He was considerate like that. Far too nice a person for someone like me.
I wished I could say the same about myself, because it was his messages that I’d been actively avoiding. Messages. Plural.
Are you alright?
I’m so sorry you got hurt.
Do you need anything?
Jude, please let me know if you’re okay.
I’m sorry, Jude. Can we talk?
They made me feel like someone had reached inside my chest and squeezed; ripped my heart out and then filled the cavity with lead. I’d read them maybe fifty times, repeated them out loud until I knew them word for word and could hear them in Ash’s voice.
But I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
What was there to say? That I wasn’t all right? That I was sorry too? That I’d fucked everything up, my body included, because I was too scared to admit what I actually wanted? That watching him walk away after our fight had felt like losing something I never really had in the first place?
None of it mattered now, anyway. The season was over for me. Done and dusted. Life at Ridgeway just kept rolling forward like I’d never existed, and if Ash came back next year, then we’d be little more than strangers with a patchy history.
Boredom and self-pity were a toxic mix, and I reached for the phone, opening Instagram even though I knew I shouldn’t.
My feed was a minefield of well-meaning concern and casual cruelty packaged in pixels and hashtags.
Hundreds of people had tagged me in posts, some even tagging me in the video of my fall.
That was sick, so I ignored those and tried to focus on the good.
Get well soon, Jude! Healing vibes! Hope you’re back next year!
Next.Fucking.Year.
Of course, buried among the kindness were the other comments. The ones that cut deeper because, for good or bad, they were honest about what I actually meant to them. Some cared, but most just wanted their voices to be heard over the chaos.
@needmoremocchi Where is Jude? If I’d known he wasn’t performing, I wouldn’t have bothered buying tickets.
@Stacy33 Is he coming back or what? The replacement isn’t nearly as good.
@HomewithJess RIP to the hottest Hunter. Scream Scene just isn’t the same without him.
Past tense. Like I was already dead.
I scrolled past them, jaw tight, looking for the thing I absolutely should not be looking for. It didn’t take long to find.
Video footage from last night’s show. Someone had captured the fight sequence in the main zone, all dramatic lighting, and theatrical violence, and of course it featured Ash. Front and center. Still performing as if nothing had changed.
He even had a new partner. Simon.
Fucking Simon.
That was cruel of me to think, and I felt bad the moment I did, but I was in pain and dosed up on meds, so I gave myself a free pass.
I knew Simon—liked him, even. He’d been with the Hunters program since last season, and he was a solid performer with good instincts and the kind of physical presence that made him perfect for the more aggressive characters.
It didn’t matter that he was one of the kindest, most genuine people; he just looked the part.
He was bigger than Ash, with way more bulk.
Simon was the kind of guy who looked like he could actually break someone in half if he wanted to.
Which, apparently, was exactly what the fans wanted.
The comments section was a cesspool of thirsty observations that made my teeth grind.
@fun_alone96 Simon could fold Ash like a lawn chair and I’d pay to watch.
@KPDH Forget Jude, THIS is the pairing we needed all along.
@45845154 The chemistry between these two is INSANE. More Simon/Ash content please!
@ShipYaArt #Simash #SmutArt.
Great. They even had a ship name.
I watched the clip three more times. Watched Simon grab Ash around the waist and haul him backward.
Watched as Ash struggled and twisted in his grip, all controlled aggression and theatrical fury.
I watched them grapple on the platform before the lights cut to red and they disappeared into the smoke, vowing to find each other again before midnight.
My hand tightened around the phone until the case creaked.
That’s mine.
The thought was immediate and visceral and completely irrational.
Ash wasn’t mine. He’d never been mine, no matter how many times I’d claimed otherwise in dark corners and empty rooms. I’d made damn sure of that.
I’d pushed him away every time he tried to make it something more than just physical.
I’d told him it didn’t mean anything and then called it nothing more than a good time.
He would have given himself to me if I hadn’t been such a dick.
And so now I had to sit here watching someone else put their hands on him while strangers online fantasized about what they’d like to see happen next.
I threw the phone down hard enough that it bounced off the cushion and fell on the floor.
Pain flared in my ankle from the jarring movement, sharp and immediate, and I guessed it was karma’s way of reminding me to stay still.
Stay calm. Stay the fuck out of everyone’s way while they moved on without me.
The apartment pressed in from all sides—walls too close, silence too heavy. It was just me trapped with thoughts that wouldn’t shut up and hours that stretched ahead with nothing to fill them but the weight of everything I’d fucked up.
Riley had stopped by yesterday with groceries and concern written all over her face.
She’d tried to be upbeat about everything as she told me everyone missed me and wanted to come and see me.
She said the show felt wrong without me out there and asked if I needed anything else before heading off to work.
What I needed was to go back in time and not be such a fucking coward.
What I needed was to have grabbed Ash by the shoulders in that storage closet and told him the truth instead of deflecting with cruelty.
I needed to not be sitting here alone while he moved on with someone who wouldn’t make him feel shit for being good at his job.
So of course, I’d been rude to her and snappy when she was just trying to help. I still felt like shit about it, but she’d told me it was fine when I called to apologize after. She said she understood, which, honestly, just made me feel like snapping at her again.
How could she possibly understand?
I grabbed the crutches and hauled myself upright, ignoring the way my body protested.
The kitchen was only a few steps away, but it felt like miles.
I managed to get there, bracing myself against the counter while I peered into the fridge for food that I knew I wouldn’t eat.
I gave up a few minutes later and got myself a glass of water instead.
Through the window above the sink, I could see the street below. Cars passing and people walking their dogs. Normal people with their normal lives continuing while mine had come to a screaming halt.
My phone buzzed on the floor by the couch. It was probably another video notification or another post tagging me in speculation about when I’d return or commentary on how much better things were without me. I didn’t check.
Instead, I thought about Ash’s last message and those six words that I still didn’t know how to answer.
I’m sorry, Jude. Can we talk?
What would I even say? That I was sorry too? That I’d spent the last three days replaying every conversation we’d ever had and wishing I could rewrite all of them? That seeing him with Simon made me want to smash things even though I had no right to feel that way?
Would I tell him I missed him?
God, I missed him. I missed the way he pushed back when I got too controlling and how his eyes went dark right before he decided to stop letting me lead.
I missed the heat of him pressed against me in stolen moments between performances, all desperate hands and bitten-off sounds that made my pulse race.
I missed the version of myself I became around him. The one who actually felt something inside the hollow time between performances.
I’d ruined it. All of it. And now I was stuck in this goddamn boot watching him build something new with someone else while I tried to convince myself it was for the best.
My ankle throbbed, reminding me I’d been standing too long. Overall, the pain had settled into a dull, persistent ache that medication only barely touched, which made things even worse.
I made my way back to the couch and collapsed onto it with less grace than I cared to admit. When I picked up my phone, I ignored the social media notifications and instead stared at the string of Ash’s messages.
I should just—
I put the phone back down without responding and reached for the TV remote.
Coward.