Page 30 of This Might Hurt

ANDREW

I almost forget to go downstairs. I almost stand in that tiny bathroom the rest of my life, looking at the curtains.

They’re too thin to keep the light out properly, especially with the sun low in the sky.

The coarse white cloth has tiny green cats on it, prancing across the ruffly panels.

I can trace the path of every seam, sewn with some kind of zig-zag stitch that isn’t hidden at all.

The whole curtain rod is screwed into the wall slightly crooked.

I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

As humiliated as I feel wearing another man’s denim cutoffs, the fraying edges tickling my knees, these clothes do fit better than the ones he gave me last time.

Not sure where to put mine, I emerge into the hall and peer into a couple of rooms—one with a sewing machine and shelves under the windows overflowing with plants, another with a desk and about ten thousand books.

Finally, I locate a modest little bedroom with more bookshelves and Jude’s things thrown around on the twin-sized bed with its blue plaid comforter.

I hang my shirt and jeans over the chair by the window and slide my trainers neatly underneath.

I would much rather stay here and tidy Jude’s possessions than meet Ramona, but I force myself to descend the narrow stairs, listening for the sounds of voices.

The enormous gray and white cat Jude had out on a leash earlier jumpscares me from where he’s sitting next to the messy shoe rack.

“Hi,” I murmur, not sure if I should meet his wide green eyes or not.

I always wanted a house pet, but Mother insisted she was conveniently allergic to anything with fur, feathers, or scales.

Crouching down, I stretch out my hand and click my tongue like I do when I have treats for Sid.

The cat examines me judgmentally, then sprints deeper into the house with all his hair bristling.

I hear a throaty chuckle and look up to see Jude sitting at the kitchen table in a clean black tank top, watching me through the doorway. “Buckley’s a lot less friendly than Ramona.” He grins. The wild spikes of his dirty blond hair are just starting to dry. “So don’t worry.”

I’m not sure I can stand one more room in this house when they’re all so overstimulating and cramped and cozy and somehow heartbreaking, but I brace myself and enter the kitchen.

I’ve set foot in a kitchen before, of course.

When I was in elementary school, I would sit in the one at Carrick House all afternoon and do my homework.

Carla or the cook would give me a bite of lemon cake when I got a question right, and explain the answers I got wrong.

But I lived at home even through my university years, so I’ve never actually used a kitchen.

Jude leans his chair back on two legs and openly studies my wet hair, the damp spots around the collar of my t-shirt. “Feel better?”

“The shower curtain almost ate me alive, but I escaped eventually.”

If I had remembered how brilliant his smiles could be, a wild summer sun over places that have always been dark, I might have known better than to come back.

I jump guiltily at the creak of the screen door. “I’m home!” a time-worn but surprisingly loud voice calls.

Jude springs up and canters out of the room. “We’re in here. Need help carrying anything?”

Standing there in awkward silence, I struggle to figure out where to put my hands or what part of my extensive etiquette training covers trying to act like a normal person.

I’ve spent my life in quiet, dead rooms full of people who hate each other and never say what they mean.

The heartbeat of this place feels entirely wrong to me.

Jude reappears with paper sacks of groceries propped on each hip.

Before I can judge the way he dumps them all over the counter in a chaotic landslide, an elderly Black woman with coils of hair tied up in a yellow headscarf putters around the corner.

She moves with more energy than I’ve ever seen in someone her age, like she’s worked hard to stay fit.

Her kind eyes take in the sight of a strange man in the middle of the room.

I’m probably watching her with the unsure panic of a child holding the vase they just broke.

She glances at Jude, and her lips twist into a smile full of such softness and joy it takes my breath away. “Is this your friend, honey?”

“Mhmmm.” He’s too absorbed with constructing a teetering pile of meat and produce to turn around. “That’s Andrew.” He must know my last name by now, but I’m grateful he doesn’t say it.

Squaring my shoulders, I offer my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. You have a beautiful home. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Oh my.” The confused humor on her face feels painfully sharp here in this cluttered, inviting room.

My family turned me into some kind of half-finished, robotic thing that could never pass for normal and then left me this way.

To her credit, she doesn’t outright laugh at me.

“Call me Ramona.” Both of her soft brown hands wrap around one of mine.

“Jude texted me that you’re vegan, so we’ll make a nice salad with vinaigrette.

But does it bother you to be around meat?

We can put the steak away for another day. ”

Jude frowns over his shoulder at me when I don’t quite stifle a laugh.

Our staff has always provided me with excellent vegan meals, but between my mother’s eye rolls and Archie’s game of trying to hide meat in my food when I’m not looking, I forgot there was such a thing as respecting someone’s choices simply because you want to.

“It’s absolutely fine if you eat steak,” I fumble out.

“Thank you. Can I help get things ready?” That’s a sentence I’ve never said before, but it sounds correct.

It must be, because Ramona looks pleased. “If you chop the veggies for the salad, Jude can make the dressing. He knows the recipe.”

She props open the back door, where a huge, exceptionally clean grill sits next to a weathered metal table. I expect Jude to manage it, but Ramona takes the raw meat out on a plate and starts energetically scrubbing a wire brush against the inside of the grill.

When I realize I’m gawking, I turn around and find Jude barely a foot behind me with a fond smirk on his face.

“She’s a mean grill master. I don’t go near it.

” I resent him so much right now—how he fits effortlessly into this picture with his bare feet and the sun freckles across his nose, how he forced me to slow down and stay here all evening.

And every time he moves or breathes or blinks, my fucking brain melts down with the need for him to look at me, talk to me, touch me, only me, because I took the trouble to come all the way out here for him.

“Where are the knives?” I snap. “Show me what to cut.”

He digs around until I have two very large knives with silver handles, a wooden chopping board, and some bell peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes lined up along the brown stone countertop. “Have fun.”

Slow and unsure, I pick up one of the knives and wrap my long fingers around the handle.

It doesn’t feel right, but I don’t know a better way to hold it.

I can intuit how a cucumber should be cut, and a tomato, but the weird ridges and curves of the bell peppers don’t match the neat pieces I’m used to seeing on my plate.

Four years of the best prep school in the eastern US, followed by two Ivy league degrees and three years of work experience, and I’m most confounded by this single vegetable.

As Jude wanders around banging cabinets and whistling something under his breath, Ramona bustles in and out.

I get distracted watching the way they grin at each other as they pass, the way Jude touches her shoulder with an eager softness in his strange eyes I haven’t seen before.

Like the worshipful way a dog brings their owner a dead squirrel, except his dead squirrel is a septic tank full of concrete.

Cradling the pepper in my palm, I drag the tip of the knife along it, trying to split the skin so I can see what it looks like inside. Shit. The empty space and bundles of seeds just confuse me more.

“Cut the top off and get the middle out.” A warm body hops up to sit on the counter next to me. Jude cradles a metal bowl in his lap, oil and vinegar swirling gently inside without mixing. He taps the handle of his whisk lightly against my wrist. “And never cut toward your hand.”

“I know,” I lie. I set the pepper down on its side and chop off the top half inch with unnecessary violence. “How the hell do you get the middle out?”

He stops whisking and reaches for the knife. “Here. I’ll trade you.”

“No.” I slap his arm away, harder than I meant to. His eyebrows go up as our eyes meet. “Sorry. Just—” I exhale slowly. “Just tell me how. I want to do it.”

Shaking his head with a small smile, he folds one leg up on the counter. His long finger points lazily to each part of the pepper, while the bowl of dressing sits forgotten on his other knee. “Cut down through all the little ribs, then rip it out. Flatten the outside and slice it into strips.”

He watches as I try my best, grunting encouragingly when I pull the center free in a scattering of seeds. “There you go.” His dangling leg hooks around behind my ass and rests there lightly while I cut clumsy strips of pepper and try not to come apart at the sensation.

Before I know it, he’s gone, leaving me to handle the simpler vegetables as he asks Ramona where she keeps the “pouring thingy” for the salad dressing.

I want to relax into the work and learn something about my capacity to evolve into someone new.

In reality I find it messy and annoying, my fingers disgusting with vegetable juice and my brain begging me to get on a plane to New York right now, even if it means finding someone else to marry.