Chapter 16. Jude
Things are different now. Not official, not defined, not anything we've put a name to.
But since the vestry, something shifted between us.
We text every day. Sometimes it's banter, sometimes it's him sending me a photo of Angel with food on her face, sometimes it's me sending him a song I think he'd hate just to watch him reply it’s ‘interesting’.
He calls me ‘kid’, and I call him ‘Mr. Dom’ and neither of us has mentioned what happened on that stone floor, but it's there in every message, every glance at practice.
We haven't discussed what we are. We haven't set terms or limits or rules.
But when I show up to choir practice now, he looks at me like I'm supposed to be there, and that's more than I've had from anyone in a very long time.
Choir practice starts like any other. Ford raises his baton. I'm standing with the tenors, right where he put me, behaving. For about four minutes.
The problem is that the alto section is dragging again on the Agnus Dei, and I can hear it, and Ford can hear it, and everyone can hear it except the altos, who seem blissfully convinced they're nailing it.
Ford stops the choir, corrects them gently, and we start again.
They drag again. He stops again. Corrects again. We start again.
The third time it happens, I sigh. Loudly.
Ford's eyes snap to me. I give him my most innocent face.
"Something to contribute, Jude?" he asks, his baton suspended mid-air.
"No, sir," I say sweetly. I’m the youngest there by far. "Just breathing. Isn't that what singers are supposed to do?"
A few tenors snicker. Mrs. Patterson gives me a look like she’s having loads of fun. She loves when I’m a brat and I can’t disappoint her. Ford's jaw tightens, but he says nothing and raises his baton again.
We resume. The altos drag. I don't sigh this time.
Instead, I start conducting along with Ford, tiny movements with my right hand at my side, mimicking his gestures with exaggerated precision.
The tenor beside me notices and has to look at the ceiling to keep from laughing.
Mrs. Patterson stops singing to laugh, loud.
Ford sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything.
"Jude. Hands at your sides."
"They are at my sides," I say, which is technically true.
"Still."
"Completely still," I agree, and stop. For about thirty seconds. Then I start tapping the rhythm on my thigh, just loud enough that the people near me can hear it but Ford can't quite prove it's me.
He powers through. We move to the Sanctus, and I behave for the first run-through because I actually love this part and I'm not about to sabotage good music.
My voice blends with the tenors, and I can feel Ford's surprise at my focus, the slight softening in his posture when he hears me hit the high phrase cleanly.
Then we run it again, and on the second pass, I harmonize because the altos got it wrong again and I can’t take it anymore. Not the tenor line. A completely different harmony, a third above, improvised, technically gorgeous, and absolutely not what's written on the page.
The choir falters. Several singers turn to look at me. The sound is beautiful but wrong, and Ford knows exactly what I'm doing.
He stops the choir with a sharp cut of his baton.
"Jude."
"Yes, Mr. Director?" I tilt my head, smiling.
"That's not the tenor line."
"It's better."
The silence in the room is spectacular. Mrs. Reyes covers her mouth. One of the basses lets out a low whistle. Mrs. Patterson is laughing again.
“You’re going to get yourself a whooping, young man,” she says, having fun. I almost say ‘I hope so’.
Ford sets his baton down on the music stand. He does it slowly. He walks toward me and the choir parts like the Red Sea. He stops about a foot from me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
"Outside," he says. One word. Quiet. "Now."
My stomach flips. Every nerve in my body fires at once. I hold his gaze for one more second, two, three, letting the room watch, letting them see that I'm not afraid, even though my heart is trying to escape through my ribs. Then I smile.
"Yes, sir," I say, and I walk toward the door, feeling every pair of eyes on my back and Ford's gaze burning hottest of all. Everybody looks amused, at least, and that only feeds on my show.
Outside, Ford scowls at me. "What are you doing, you little brat? Do you think this is funny?"
"The altos are getting everything wrong and it's sooooo boring," I say, leaning against the stone wall like I haven't just disrupted an entire rehearsal. "I was providing entertainment. A public service, really."
"You were undermining my authority in front of my choir."
"I was harmonizing. Beautifully, I might add."
"That's not the point and you know it." He steps closer, and I can see the vein in his temple that only appears when I've really gotten under his skin. I love that vein. I want to name it.
"Okay, okay," I say, raising my hands in surrender. "I'll behave."
"You say that every time."
"And I mean it every time. For at least five minutes." I flash him my best smile. He doesn't smile back, but the vein retreats slightly, which I count as progress.
"Jude, I'm serious. This is my choir. These people trust me to lead them. When you act like that, it doesn't just reflect on you. It reflects on me."
That lands harder than I expect. The playfulness drains from my chest and something heavier replaces it.
He's right. I know he's right. These aren't club people who expect chaos.
These are church ladies and retired men who show up every morning because they love music and they love Ford's direction.
And I just turned their rehearsal into a circus.
"You're right," I say, and I mean it. No joke attached, no deflection. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
He studies me, searching for the punchline. When he doesn't find one, his posture relaxes a fraction.
"Here's what I think," I say, before he can respond.
"I think you're wrong about me being a problem in there.
Give me the rest of practice. I'll be so good you won't recognize me.
I'll follow every direction. I'll be the best tenor you've ever had.
And by the end, your choir will thank you for having me there. "
"That's a bold claim."
"I'm a bold person. But if I'm right, you have to admit that I’m right and then admit I belong in your choir."
Ford crosses his arms. "And if you're wrong?"
"Then you can kick me out. No hard feelings," I say it lightly, but my heart seizes at the thought. I don't want to lose this. Any of it.
He considers me for a long moment. "Deal," he says.
We walk back in. Every head turns. I ignore them all, take my place with the tenors, and I become invisible.
Not invisible like I don't exist. I blend into the tenor section so seamlessly that my voice becomes indistinguishable from the whole, supporting without dominating, lifting without drawing attention.
When Ford cues us, I follow his baton like it's the only thing in the room.
When he adjusts tempo, I adjust with him, half a breath ahead of the others because I'm watching his hands.
I don't improvise. I don't embellish. I don't sigh, tap, or conduct.
I just sing, exactly what's written, exactly when it's needed.
The Sanctus sounds different. Better. The tenors find a cohesion they didn't have before, because I'm quietly anchoring the pitch from the center of the section, giving the weaker singers something to lean into without realizing they're leaning.
Ford notices. I can tell because his left hand, the one that shapes dynamics, starts asking for more from us, drawing out phrases he normally rushes through because the tenors can't sustain them.
Today, we can. Today, I make sure we can.
When we move to the Agnus Dei, the same section the altos kept dragging, I do something subtle.
I breathe with the altos' timing instead of against it, and the tenors around me unconsciously follow.
The drag corrects itself, not because anyone told the altos to fix it, but because the support beneath them shifted.
Ford's eyebrows rise by a millimeter. He knows exactly what I've done.
The final run-through is the best the choir has sounded since I've been coming. I can feel it in the room, that electric stillness when music transcends rehearsal and becomes something real. Even Mrs. Patterson has her eyes closed, lost in it.
Ford lowers his baton. The silence after the last note holds for three full seconds before anyone moves.
"Well," he says. "That was exceptional. Thank you, everyone."
The choir exhales collectively. People start gathering their things, chatting, but something unusual happens. Mrs. Reyes approaches Ford first.
"Whatever you changed today, keep it," she says, glancing in my direction. "The tenors sounded wonderful."
Then Mrs. Patterson, the lead alto, stops beside me. "I don't know what you did, young man, but the Agnus Dei finally felt right. Thank you."
The bass who whistled earlier claps me on the shoulder. "You've got a hell of a voice."
One by one, they filter past, and I stand there collecting compliments I didn't ask for, feeling a welcome warmth in my chest.
Ford watches this from his music stand, organizing his sheets with care, not looking at me. But when the room has finally emptied and it's just us, he sets his portfolio down and turns.
I'm already grinning. I can't help it.
"Don't," he says.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
“Wow, Mr. Dom, reading minds now?” I ask. I’m having tons of fun. "I'm thinking many things. Mostly that I was right."
He exhales through his nose, the Ford equivalent of a dramatic eye roll. Then he looks at me, and there it is, the smallest crack in that composed exterior, the ghost of a smile he's trying very hard to suppress.
"You belong in my choir," he says, each word extracted from him like a tooth. "Are you happy now?"
"Extremely," I say, beaming. "Was that so hard?"
"Excruciating," he says, but the ghost smile wins, just barely, and for a second Ford looks like someone who just lost a bet he's secretly glad he lost.
I text him as soon as I get home, immediately cracking a beer open and jumping on the couch. “1 for me, 0 for you. I told you: I always have my way.”
He replies almost instantly. For someone who claims to be busy, he really is attached to his phone.
“This will change.”
I let out an excited giggle.
“Oh?!”
“At least during choir practice, you'll straighten up, I'll make sure of it, boy.”
"That sounds ridiculously domineering for someone who claims that he wants nothing to do with being a Dom," I type back.
"It seems things have changed quite a bit since I said that, doesn't it, Jude? I told you already."
I smile at my phone like a ridiculous clown. Good thing I'm into being a ridiculous clown.
"Hmmm, how so?" I ask.
"Why don't you tell me? You're smart, aren't you, kid?"
"Telling me what to do already. You know I'm into that. Let me guess... It changed since a certain cute and smart brat entered your life?"
“That's right. Told you that you're smart. Good job."
I can't believe how worked up I'm getting with his words and how happy it makes me when he banters back.
"I know I am. Angel agrees with me. And so does your mom!"
“I love my poor mother, but her mental capacity seems to be decreasing lately. And Angel is a literal baby. Do you know why you're so good with her? I was giving this a thought, and I found out why.”
Oh, wow, burn for Martha. I made a mental note to use this as blackmail if I ever needed to.
“Oh, so you were thinking about me? That's sweet, darling. What conclusion did you reach?” I type back, knowing he's going to be flustered as fuck with it. I'm delighted imagining his expression.
“Because you're a baby yourself. You two understand each other. And don't call me darling.”
I giggle again.
“Good one. What am I supposed to call you, then? Fordy-bear?”
“Call me that again, and you'll win a trip over my knees, boy. You'll call me Daddy. Do you understand?”
DADDY! He told me to call him DADDY!!! I could scream.
“Sure, Fordy-Bear.”
I know he's going to go crazy with that. He takes a second to answer, typing and re-typing, and I see how Noa is staring at me, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He had stopped on his way to his room just to look at me. I was still feeling a guilty conscience, but he had forgiven me already. That was Noa. He was a much better person than me. He forgives easily, he always think the best of people, even if they didn’t deserve, like me.
“What?” I ask, looking up at him. I realize I'm giddy with excitement.
“Nothing.” He says, but it doesn't sound like nothing. “It's just… it's just…”
“Say what you must, don't leave it there,” I say, singing, quoting one sentence from Les Mis, and wink.
Noa and I indulge in watching musicals, especially Hamilton, sometimes Mamma Mia, sometimes more than once a week.
He sings out of tune and almost kills me; I sing perfectly well and almost kill him. It's our thing.
“I haven't seen you smiling like that since… well, since before. Are you seeing someone?” he asks. I know what before means. Emmett. But I shake this thought away from my head. Not now.
“Not exactly. We're just bantering,” I tell him. His big black eyes grow; he lets his mouth fall open. It doesn't seem like he's going to let that slide.
“WHO?” he asks, coming to me in a hurry. “Jude Cole Piaf. How dare you not tell me?”
“I told you everything!” I exclaim. “It's nothing, I just met him that night I went to BratWorld to drink my sorrows away! And today I went to church and…”
“WHAT?! TO CHURCH?” he's basically screaming now.
Noa says he's a sub, but he's dominant as fuck in all of the other areas of his life.
If he finds out that I'm keeping any type of information from him, he punishes me with this whole drama.
You don't love me anymore. Am I not your best friend?
Jesus. Not to mention what happens when I don't do my chores around the house.
“You told me you were an atheist. Did you lie about that, too? Is your name even Jude?”
“I am! He just goes there. The song I was rehearsing, I wanted to sing it to him. And he has a daughter. A baby. She loves me.”
“So. Much. Information. And you didn't tell me anything. I see,” he says, pretending to be mortally wounded, but I roll my eyes. I know he's playing. Mostly. He's such a drama queen.
I look back at my phone. The words on the screen almost undo me.
“I see. You made your choice, remember that. I'm coming over to spank that little bottom of yours.”
FUCK!