Page 13 of This Might Hurt

JUDE

I pull down the front of my pajama pants and pee on the edge of Ramona’s gravel driveway, so I’ll have an excuse to watch the BMW’s tail lights shrink and disappear.

I can see the highway if I squint, a streak across the dark with the occasional lonely light rushing along it. They look so small, so lost. Like him.

Shit.

The coffee burns my tongue, and I have to spit it out in the grass because I can’t seem to swallow it around the knot in my throat.

I don’t get it. The inside of my head doesn’t make any sense to me, a ball of chaos that’s constantly changing, so I measure the good and bad things like a checklist that tells me how to feel.

Today’s all good. Lena’s wheelchair is covered, that man is alive and safe, I don’t have to sleep in a bush behind a truck stop, and I smelled something delicious coming from Ramona’s kitchen as I sprinted through to grab clothes.

But I feel so fucking miserable I can barely breathe.

Something keens in the distance, probably a coyote talking to the half-moon hanging over my head.

I carry the coffee up the creaky steps of the wraparound porch and look over my shoulder one more time, like he might have come back.

I tell myself that human-sized GI Joe will stop anyone from hurting him, but I know it’s not true.

The whole time he slept next to me on the way here, his breathing sounded scared.

The coffee in the mug sloshes back and forth as I study one side, then the other.

The smooth, flawless metal still holds heat from his hands.

I set it carefully on the peeling slats of the porch swing, taking my time to make sure it won’t fall over.

It looks very alone as I force myself to tear my eyes away and go inside.

If I ever cared about someone even half as much as Lena and lost them the way I lost her, I’d shatter.

There’d be no power in the world that could hold the shards of me together.

But it’s okay. I’m home, and there’s nothing wrong except for a little stainless steel cup out on the porch.

I lock the door behind me and stand in the entry for a minute, next to the neat row of white sneakers and pastel canvas slip ons and crocs, drinking in the warmth and the smell of spaghetti.

She made midnight spaghetti, just for me.

Sometimes I wish the people who find it so hard to love me could understand that all I need is a hug sometimes and some midnight spaghetti.

I would do anything for them if they could only give me that much. That would be more than enough.

Toeing off my sneakers, I prowl in my socks across glossy, chestnut-colored hardwood pitted with dark scars from a hundred years of use.

It’s kind of a maze to navigate through Ramona’s house; I used to get turned around in all the narrow halls stuffed with braided rugs, overflowing built-in bookshelves, and plants in every conceivable size and shape of pot.

Tonight, all I have to do is follow my nose and the gentle guitar of Joni Mitchell’s Blue.

Ramona’s kitchen is always a wonder to me, like something out of a folk tale.

Mint green shelving carries three or four generations of dishware and glossy copper pots.

Every book about food ever written can be found somewhere in this room—lined up on the vintage fridge, tucked under the fruit bowl, stacked on the windowsill.

It always smells like fresh herbs hung up to dry and one of the summery-scented candles she makes at the community center through some senior enrichment program with local artists.

I hesitate in the doorway with a sliver of fear as I try to remember what it means to be somewhere quiet and safe.

This is the only good place in the world for me, but coming back always makes me feel like I’m drowning, pushed headfirst into a world where everything moves slowly and everyone is fundamentally kind.

An elderly woman with dark brown skin and a fluffy cloud of natural gray hair turns around from her huge gas range, waving a spoon covered in marinara sauce.

“What was all that about?” Her warm, creaky voice wraps around my ribcage and tugs me into the room.

I grin tiredly at her blue bathrobe topped with a purple flowered apron. “Were you spying out the window?”

“Take a wild guess.” Grinning at me in her bright, uncomplicated way, like I’m not a problem to solve, she plops her spoon in the saucepan and holds out her arms. I close my eyes and try to let my head go empty as I hug her shoulders and feel how tight her frail arms squeeze my ribs.

“Welcome home, honey,” she murmurs into my shoulder.

“It’s good to be back.” I give her one last squeeze.

“Love you.” It’s probably crazy to tell some stranger you’ve only known for a year that you love them, but she said it was okay.

I think that’s why we work so well—the boy with too many I love you’s clogged up in his chest and the woman with no one in her life to tell her she’s loved.

My head is throbbing like hell, and my ribs ache when I move. Groaning, I collapse into one of the chairs around the old-fashioned oak dining table and rest my face on the cool wood. My stomach growls loudly. “It wasn’t anything interesting. Some guy gave me a ride, then he met up with his friend.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound impressed. I hear dishes clattering, the fridge opening and closing. “If you’re going to tell me stories, at least make them interesting.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her plonk down a mug of steaming coffee and a bag of value brand frozen peas.

“It’s the truth.” I drag the bag of peas toward me with two fingers so I can prop it under my eye like a cold, lumpy pillow without lifting my head.

“I’m not even going to remember who he is tomorrow.

More importantly, how are you?” Usually, I’m only on the road for two weeks or so before I visit; this time, it’s been at least three.

Her gentle hand rests between my shoulder blades for a minute before she goes back to the stove. “Well, Edward Miller finally bought the old homestead.”

“No, what?” Holding the peas to my face, I drag my head upright. “That bitch. Fuck him.” Everyone in town knew she’d been saving for the abandoned property behind hers for years, and she was almost there.

She smiles wistfully as she pulls a blue ceramic bowl off the shelf and starts filling it to the brim with sauce, noodles, and meatballs. “I’m inclined to agree. But I spoke to the realtors and there’s nothing to be done. He’s already under contract with the seller.”

“I’m really sorry.” My leg bounces restlessly as I nuzzle deeper into the melting bag of peas, which is dripping down my arm. That shitty, sour buzz in the back of my brain, where I should feel satisfied, is getting louder again. In such a quiet place, I can hear it too clearly.

“I was thinking of walking up there in the morning to harvest the rest of the wild rhubarb. How about you sleep in and then come with me? You can choose what we make with it.”

“I have to go into town first thing,” I explain, picturing the rack of prepaid cards in the grocery store thirty minutes away.

Ramona slides the bowl over to me and settles down in the seat next to mine with her own mug of tea.

I should cut up the meatballs with my spoon, pretending I have an ounce of manners, but I’ve been hungry for three weeks straight.

I start inhaling them too fast, barely chewing, coughing a little as the sauce burns my tongue.

When Ramona sighs, I hesitate and glance up at her soft face, with its deep wrinkles and gentle dark eyes.

“Take one day to sleep in, Jude. Your body needs it.” She hates that I disappear into nowhere and leave her worrying for weeks at a time, but she’s too cool to nag me about it.

I’d cause her so much less pain if I got a normal job here in town, but I’ve been fired from five jobs since I left home.

I don’t know how to try again when I barely understand what I did wrong or why.

The paperwork says I was showing up late and making tons of mistakes, but I can’t remember deciding to do those things.

Sometimes I feel better, like I could manage, but it always goes hazy again.

“I can’t sleep.” I cut up my pasta and chew the edge of my thumb as I try to remember how early the store opens. “Give me a list of whatever groceries you need, and I’ll pick those up too. Oh, and what needs fixing? Is the gutter still hanging in the back? I’ll hit up the hardware store.”

“Jude.” Her voice hardens, and my eyes jerk up to hers. “You show up at one in the morning in a strange car, all beat up. I don’t ask questions, but I’m going to make you rest if you won’t do it yourself. You need to just be for a minute.”

I put down my spoon and stare at her. Everything hurts. I miss my sister. I miss Andrew. Of course I want to sleep and make pies, of course I want to belong in this quiet place that’s always full of sun and smells like books. “What am I supposed to be, Ramona?”

Her stubborn eyebrows furrow. “You haven’t stopped moving since the day I met you. What are you afraid is going to happen if you stop running yourself ragged for even a second?”

“My little sister gets thrown seventeen feet onto her head by a Ford F-150.”

She flinches. God, I didn’t mean to say that. It’s that damn boy I met today, finally giving me someone to care for and then ripping it away again. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, propping my aching head on my arm. “Damn it.”

“Me too.” She can’t reach high enough to put her hand in my hair, but I duck my head to meet her halfway before I remember I haven’t showered in two days.

“That reminds me,” she muses hesitantly, stroking my gross hair back a couple of times before letting go so she can dig in her bathrobe.

“I found this in your jeans pocket today when I went to do some of your laundry.”