Page 44 of Steadfast
When he returned, I thanked him profusely for the cake. “You just kill me sometimes,” I added. “This week has been rough, and…”
He held up a hand. “My dear, I would happily take credit. But I’m not the one who remembered your birthday, and I’m not the one who brought you a cake. But I do hope you have a happy birthday and a wonderful year.”
For a second I could only blink at his watery blue eyes. “It wasn’t you?”
He shook his head. “I can’t be trusted to remember everyone’s dates. It’s Mrs. Charles who sends out the parish birthday cards.”
“So… who did this?” I looked down at the bakery box in my hands.
Father Peters smiled. “It seems that he prefers to remain anonymous.”
He. It wasn’t Denny—he’d given me a “why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” speech. And Denny just wasn’t that good of an actor.
That only left Jude.
“Good night, Father Peters,” I said slowly.
“Good night, love. And happy birthday.”
I left my car behind the church, and I walked to Nickel’s Auto Body. For the second time in a week, I climbed the wooden stairs behind the building. I knocked on the door and then held my breath.
A few beats later I heard a ragged voice say, “Yeah?”
After a moment’s hesitation I tried the knob, and the door gave way. Except for a single lamp burning in the corner, it was dark inside. I heard the low pulse of a song by Citizen Cope. But I didn’t see the man I was looking for. “Jude?”
“Right here.” I looked down and found him on the floor, shirtless, his feet tucked under the rail of the bed, his hands behind his head. My eyes got a little stuck on the unfamiliar six-pack he was sporting these days. Jude tightened his abs and sat up, and I realized that a set of sit-ups was responsible for this mouthwatering moment. “Something wrong?” he said, tilting his head and considering me.
It took another second until I could drag my gaze away from him and back to the box in my arms. “Um, did you get me a birthday cake?”
He let out half a chuckle and got to his feet. “I plead the fifth.”
“Why? I mean… you didn’t even stay for a piece of cake?” I stepped all the way in and closed the door behind me.
Jude sat on the edge of his bed, his chest still expanding rapidly from the workout I’d interrupted. “I don’t know. I wanted you to have something nice, but I didn’t need the credit.”
“Why?” I asked again. I put the box on the dresser. (Thedresser. I was never going to look at that piece of furniture the same way again.) Then, uninvited, I went to sit beside him on the edge of his bed.
A pair of serious eyes studied me. “It was just a little thing, Sophie. If I got you a cake every day for the next thirty years, I still couldn’t make it right between us.”
“I really liked it, though.”
His eyes softened. “I’m glad.”
“Do you want a piece? There’s plenty.”
For a second his face remained unchanged, and I panicked.I shouldn’t have come here. He’s going to ask me to leave. I am a fool. But his chin tilted upward and he smiled. I felt it like sunshine on my face. A full-on Jude smile, just for me. “Sure, baby. I’d love a piece.”
Sure, baby. He used to say that all the time in the same voice—rough and smooth all at once, like whiskey. I got up to get the cake box so that he couldn’t see my face.Dying here, I thought, flipping open the top. To be in this room with Jude was to have memories crash over my head at intervals like waves. And just when I managed to push one out of my mind, a new one would sneak up and clobber me.
There was a pile of plastic forks and napkins on the bookshelf in the corner of his room, so I swiped one of each before I brought the cake back to his bed and set it down. He looked in the box. “That’s too big to be just one piece,” he said.
I handed him the fork. “Just do your best. I don’t really feel like taking it home to my parents’ house.”
Jude stuck the fork into the end of the piece, a naughty glint in his eye. He took a bite. A second later he let his eyes roll back in his head.
“I know,” I said. “It’s awesome.”
“They called it Black Forest,” he said, licking his lips.
