When he spies me watching him, he pauses mid-sentence, jaw tightening. But he resumes his pacing conversation a moment later. Letting him see my exaggerated eye roll, I angle myself toward the ocean again in time to find Jude limping—only slightly now—out of the surf, slicking the hair back from his face and grinning. My smile blooms automatically.
“When did he get here?” Jude asks, holding his hand out for a towel.
I toss him the bundle of blue terrycloth embroidered with an anchor. “He’s been here on and off all night. That’s him. On and off. Hot and cold.”
“What happened between you two in the parking lot last night?”
Even in the cool breeze, I’m suddenly swamped in heat, bombarded by images. The moving memories that caused me to toss and turn all night, only to finally fall asleep, wake up and find the sheets sweaty. Myles ripping open the packaging of my Thumper. Spitting on it. How his upper lip curled in a snarl every time he thrust the toy inside of me. His possessive kisses. The way he moaned when I peaked. Am I just supposed to carry on with my normal life after that frenzied public encounter? I don’t see how that’s possible. My clothes feel different, nerve endings on high alert, buzzing all the way to my hair follicles. I’ve been fired into a heightened state of awareness, then dropped from the mountain peak.
“In the parking lot?” It isn’t the first time Jude has asked me. It’s obvious that something happened. I took three wrong turns on the way home. I’ve been responding in one-word sentences, but now that I’ve processed—mostly—what happened, I need someone to confide in. “First there was some kissing.” No need to go into detail. I’m not even sure I could say what happened without sweating through my yoga pants, anyway. “Then we broke up even though we were never dating in the first place. We’ve been ending our non-existent relationship since we met, actually. It’s kind of our thing.”
“Huh.” Jude turns briefly and gives Myles a wry salute. “He just doesn’t want to try the long-distance thing, or…”
I snort. “Oh, we are nowhere near dealing with practicalities like driving distance, whether or not our political views align or if he’ll let me put up my Christmas tree in November. He claims I’m a distraction from the case. He…” It feels weird, talking about Myles’s past out loud with someone else, but I remind myself this is Jude. “Before he turned to a life of nomadic bounty hunting, he sort of mishandled a kidnapping case in Boston. This is the first time he’s investigated a crime since it happened and…”
“He doesn’t want to mess it up.”
“Yes.” I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my sweatshirt-covered arms around them tightly. “He’s punishing himself. And I have no choice but to let him. It’s not like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend or something. We’ve never even been in the same place at the same time without an argument breaking out.”
“And yet he spent the night camped outside your window. And he’s pacing at the top of the staircase wanting precious Taylor back inside where it’s safe.”
“Yes. Knowing Myles, he probably hasn’t eliminated the ocean as a suspect.”
Jude chuckles. Scoots closer to me in the sand and puts an arm across my shoulders. “Every once in a while, a guy comes along that throws you off balance, but you’ll find your footing again.”
“Has that happened to you?”
He scoffs, turns his face toward the far end of the beach. “Nope. I was just generalizing.”
I hum in my throat. “Are you sure about that?” I ask, gently poking him in the ribcage. “I’ve always tried not to interfere in your relationships. I’ve never really had to, because you don’t settle into them long enough to warrant a conversation. But…” His muscles are already tensing. He knows where this is going. “Do you want to talk about Dante?”
“God no.” Water droplets fly in every direction when he shakes his head. “No. I definitely don’t want to talk about Dante.”
“Has he been calling you since we arrived?”
“Before we arrived. During. After. He won’t give up.”
“Give up on what? I thought you two were just friends?”
“We are,” Jude rushes to say, slicing a hand through the wind. “Friends. Nothing more. He’s straight, Taylor.”
“I know…”
When they were younger, that seemed to be a concrete truth.