Chapter 13 #2
I nod, handing them both charcoal. “That’s it. Give me that much.”
Jude looks at me long and hard, eyes searching mine for an ulterior motive. When he finds none, he leans back and says, “Okay.”
“What song?” I ask.
He huffs, running his tongue along his teeth in thought. “Can You Feel My Heart,” he says finally.
The title alone makes my chest ache. “Bring Me the Horizon?”
He nods once.
I find the song on my phone and hit play.
The first electronic pulse fills the room, and I immediately feel a shiver run down my spine.
I think back to when I walked in once while he was working out to this song at his home gym.
His parents weren’t home and he fucked me in the shower afterwards.
His muscles were still swollen from the workout. ..
I have to clear my throat to keep from vividly picturing the entire thing.
The sound hits like a savage punch. Jude’s shoulders tense, and his fingers curl around the charcoal stick.
Micah starts slower, sketching rough outlines with his.
Jude hesitates before dragging a streak of black across the canvas.
His movements are jagged at first. They’re angry, almost desperate, but slowly they find rhythm with the music.
I stand beside Heather, both of us quiet as we watch them.
Jude’s strokes darken, black bleeding into gray. The stick shakes in his hand. His breathing changes, becoming heavier. He wipes his wrist across his cheek, leaving a streak of charcoal there. Micah continues beside him, steadier. A hurricane next to calm water.
Heather whispers beside me, “This is...incredible.”
I nod, unable to look away. “It’s pain,” I murmur. “Translating itself.”
The chorus rises, raw and pulsing.
Micah’s work starts to take shape—a faceless figure standing in the heavy rain. Jude’s canvas, though, is chaos. Dark spirals devouring a center of light, like something beautiful being swallowed whole.
When the final line echoes, Jude drops the stick. It clatters against the table, leaving his hand stained in darkness. He stares down at his work like it’s something that’s betrayed him. His expression is one I almost recognize. Silence follows, highlighting their ragged and very human breathing.
Heather clears her throat quietly. “That was one hell of a song.”
Jude doesn’t respond. His gaze is still on the sketch, on the black void eating through the light. And in that moment, I see the smallest flicker of the boy who used to play guitar in his room and laugh between verses. The boy who told me he loved me like he wanted to spend forever with me.
Heather straightens, voice calm. “She cares for you, Jude.”
His gaze snaps to her, and she meets it head-on, unflinching.
Micah shifts beside him, uneasy. “Hey, man, maybe—”
But Jude cuts him off with a glare, then turns back to me. “You have no fucking idea who I am anymore. That boy who used to paint and talk about his feelings is fucking dead, Emma.” His voice is flat yet quietly venomous.
My throat tightens. “I don’t believe that.”
He laughs, and it’s a short, bitter sound. “You always see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it. And you know what?” He tilts his head. “It’s going to destroy you one day.”
“Shut the hell up, Jude,” I say quietly. “I’m no longer that weak girl you once knew.”
He flinches like the words hit him. For a moment, it’s all there in his eyes: grief, guilt, fury, loss.
Then he looks back at his work, jaw clenching.
I sigh and stare at it over his shoulder, seeing everything his soul poured out.
It’s our complicated past and all of the love we once felt for each other, shrouded in a darkness that won’t let him go.
It’s heartbreak and fear and so much love I have to turn away for a moment.
Heather’s eyes dart to me, watching as I take a moment to get my shit together. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.
She clears her throat and moves toward Micah. “Let’s go back to the couches,” she says gently.
Micah nods and follows her, still shooting worried looks at Jude. Heather says something to him, and he huffs in amusement. She glances up at him, smiling in a way that’s softer than I’ve ever seen from her. But my attention’s still on Jude.
“Your hour’s not up yet,” I say finally, voice steady.
He hesitates, staring at the floor, at the paint-stained tiles like he’s fighting with himself. Then, slowly, he follows. He sits beside Micah, shoulders tense, hands still shaking faintly.
“I know it’s been years,” I say quietly. “But I still feel like I know you better than most people. And when I heard you were going to be here, I knew I wanted to see you. You don’t have to talk about us, okay?”
He looks up, and for a heartbeat, his eyes flicker—like a spark fighting to ignite again.
I swallow. “I assume Micah knows about us?”
Micah answers swiftly, lips curving. “Oh yes. I know all about Jude’s first and only love.”
My heart squeezes.
Jude sighs heavily, leaning back into a slouch, dragging a hand through his messy black hair. “You just don’t know what my life has looked like since you,” he mutters.
“I don’t,” I admit softly. “But I want to. If you’ll allow it.”
Heather stands from her spot beside me, brushing her hands on her scrubs. “Healing looks like this,” she says, nodding to the charcoal-covered canvases. “It’s messy and chaotic, but it speaks for the darker parts of you. That’s why I love what she does for people. It really works, guys.”
Micah smiles at her, a quiet, crooked grin. “You sound like you’ve worked with plenty of troubled people.”
Heather laughs under her breath. “I’m not really used to rockstars, I admit.” Their warm moment lingers before Jude’s low voice cuts through it.
His jaw flexes. “Paint and nostalgia isn’t going to save me. Do you think it could? Really?”
“No,” I say, combating the victim mentality he’s formed over the years. Oftentimes, when someone falls and struggles to get back up, they’ll start believing they don’t deserve to. “I think maybe you’ll save yourself if someone reminds you that you can.”
He stills, and I know the words land. Micah looks at him, quiet now, studying him like he’s trying to gauge how far gone Jude really is. Heather’s arms cross, her expression softening.
Then Jude exhales a shaky breath and drops his gaze. “I’m owned, Emma. And you have no idea what that’s like.”
“You’re right,” I say honestly, the reality of that stabbing me in my gut. Owned? “But I do know what it’s like to want to do anything to save someone. I feel it every single day in this job. And I feel it right now.”
The silence stretches. Micah shifts forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “She’s not wrong, man. Maybe this won’t fix shit, but...it’s better than pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. You and I both have wanted to fucking die for years.”
Jude’s eyes flick to his. They exchange a long, loaded look—years of friendship, shared damage, unspoken truths.
Heather breaks the tension with a small smile. “See? That’s progress.”
Micah grins at her, and she grins back.
But when I glance back at Jude, he’s watching me.
Not angry now. Just...lost. “I’m going to be very fucking honest here,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want you anywhere near this. Those people…
” He shakes his head. “They’re dangerous.
I left you years ago. And it was for a goddamn reason. ” The last word was a vicious hiss.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t care. You’re worth it. Both of you.”
Just then, Micah exhales and stands, brushing his palms against his jeans. “That’s an hour. If we were going by that.”
Heather smiles softly at him. “Thank you for coming. It was nice meeting you, Micah.”
Micah gives her a boyish smirk. “You, too, Heather Hardin.” He pats Jude on the shoulder before heading toward the door. He glances back once, his eyes flicking between Jude and me. Sympathy, maybe, or warning. I honestly can’t tell. Then he disappears through the door.
Jude stays. He doesn’t move for several beats. Just stands there. He looks down at me, his dead hazel eyes soften. “You shouldn’t be doing this, Em.” His voice cracks halfway through my name. “When I got here, I specifically hoped to avoid you. I don’t want you caught up in this shit.”
I shake my head. “Too late.”
His mouth twitches, something between a frown and a smile. “Still stubborn as hell, I see.”
“You always liked that about me.”
A soft laugh leaves him, and it nearly wrecks me. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I did.”
For a second, the world shrinks to just us and the ache between every heartbeat.
He takes a step closer, and I swear gravity shifts with him.
It hits me all at once—the memories. His mouth on my skin, the taste of cigarettes and rain, the sound of his voice when he used to whisper my name.
The sounds he used to make while he was on me. Inside of me.
His gaze drops to my lips before he blinks it away, clenching his jaw. “You deserve better than this,” he says. “Better than me. After all this time...I don’t understand what’s left for you.”
My throat tightens. “Everything is.”
That makes him flinch. He exhales, and he closes his eyes, just for a moment, like the words wound him. Then he steps back. “I can’t promise I’ll be okay,” he admits, voice breaking around the truth.
I nod, unable to breathe. And before I can even think about what I’m doing, the words leave my lips. “I’ll always be here.”
His expression twists into pain, and I immediately regret reciting the lyrics from our song. But just when I thought he wouldn’t respond, he clears his throat. “I’ll wait right here.”
I swallow hard, tears burning my eyes. I bite my lip to keep them at bay.
He hesitates a moment longer, then turns and walks toward the door. I watch him get into the driver’s seat and start up the car. He doesn’t look back.
When they drive off, I stay there in silence, my heart pounding, my body aching with everything I didn’t say. Heather stands beside me, quiet, watching the taillights disappear into the night.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I nod, even though I’m not. “I just saw a ghost.” And as I attempt to hold myself together, the following lyric rips through my mind.
Escaping...
~ A memory ~
The dock creaks beneath our weight as the sun sinks low, bleeding orange and gold across the ocean. The water is like glass tonight. I spread my paints out between us, even as my chest feels tight.
Jude sits beside me, knees drawn up, forearms resting loosely on them. He hasn’t said much since he picked me up. He hasn’t said much all week. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired in a devastating way sleep can’t fix.
It’s been a week since his brother’s funeral.
He stood so straight that day. Shoulder to shoulder with his father. He held his mother when her legs gave out and whispered something in her ear that made her cling to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright. I watched him be strong for everyone else, and I knew that it was costing him.
That’s why I brought the paints.
“You should try,” I say softly, nudging a brush toward him.
He shrugs, barely there. “Sure.”
When he starts painting, it’s uncertain at first. Broad strokes. Dark blues and grays. His hand shakes enough that I notice, though he pretends it doesn’t. I keep my eyes on my own canvas, giving him space, pretending not to see the way his shoulders tense.
Then his breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I catch it.
So I glance over. Tears slip down his face silently, tracking through the faint smudges of paint on his fingers when he wipes at them without thinking.
They drip off his jaw and onto the dock.
He doesn’t stop painting. If anything, his movements get more frantic, like if he keeps his hand moving, he won’t fall apart.
I don’t say anything.
I just sit there and let him break.
The brush slips from his fingers eventually, clattering softly against the wood. He stares at the canvas, at what his soul is expressing.
And then his chest caves.
A raw sound tears out of him, and suddenly, he’s turning, tugging me into his body. His arms wrap around me hard, almost painfully, and I don’t hesitate. I fold into him, my knees sliding against his, my face pressed to his neck.
He sobs.
They’re not quiet or controlled tears. This is ugly and deep and desperate, like something ripped straight from his soul. His fingers clutch the back of my shirt, and his whole body shakes against mine.
“I couldn’t save him,” he chokes, the words muffled against my shoulder. “I wasn’t even awake. What if he looked to me? Reached for me? I should’ve—”
I hold him. I just hold him. Rocking slightly. My hand in his hair. My mouth pressed to his temple. “You were injured, too, Jude. You could have died, too,” I whisper. “You loved him, and he knew it.”
He cries harder, like that hurts to hear.
“I’ll always be here,” I murmur.
We stay like that until the sky darkens and the lake turns black and the world feels very far away. Until his breathing slows, uneven and exhausted, his forehead resting against mine.
~*~
The memory collapses. I’m standing in the studio again, my heart pounding, my hands cold. The echo of his sobs lingers in my chest. I swallow hard, and glance at his charcoal painting.
Darkness devouring light.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that the pain he carries must be deeper than I could ever fathom. And I am determined to dig through all of it to find the light that lives inside him.