He never left one.
Sitting on the balcony of my old room, I stared at the giant hedge looming below. For long minutes, maybe even hours, I wasn’t quite sure if I could trust myself to look at the balcony opposite mine.
I wasn’t sure I could trust this feeling that I’d once dived straight into without knowing if the water would catch me or stand back to watch me slam headfirst into hell.
I wasn’t sure if it was far too late to be worrying about any of that.
“You know, I thought I’d been in love.” My eyes finally darted to Jude’s balcony. “But then you stampeded into my life and showed me otherwise.”
I blinked as though that would help me figure out if this was real.
Taking his time, Jude stepped out from his room. He didn’t smile. Gripping the railing, he looked at me for the longest time, and I looked at him. “I knew you were probably still here, but I’d hoped you’d want to come home by now.”
“I wanted to,” I admitted. “I do want to.”
“But I’m an asshole, and just because I told you I love you doesn’t mean you’re going to believe it.” He grinned then and pushed off the railing to retrieve something from the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. “Well, then you leave me no choice.”
My mouth fell open as he dropped to one knee.
His smile slipped, his playful tone earning itself a firm edge. “Fern, my Red, my sweetest, most deadliest threat…”
My lungs shrank. My hands trembled. The sun wasn’t able to dry the water stinging my eyes.
He presented a red velvet box, and it opened to reveal a silver ring. The sun bounced off the small band of inlaid diamonds. “Will you marry me for real?”
I laughed, unbidden and uncaring of the blubbering that followed. “You’re serious?”
“Tasteful ring, and I’ll make a shrine of you and write a million diary entries about you if I have to serious.”
“Jude,” I croaked.
He waited, ring poised in the air, unmoving, and I laughed again. “Yes,” I said, wiping at my cheeks. It was pointless for the tears didn’t stop. “Yes, I’ll marry you for real.”
He was over the hedge and climbing up the steps of my balcony within seconds, and I didn’t wait. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself at him.
He caught me, the ring falling to the deck, and kissed away my tears. “I guess that means you’re in love with me, too?”
“Yeah,” I said, and smooshed my nose into his. “I’m in love with you, too.”
Fern
Twelve months later
The church was tiny and in need of repair, but it didn’t matter.
Daisies of every color and size had infiltrated the wood and brick building on Old Isle.
The doors had been left open, allowing the sea breeze and sunlight to climb across the pews to the gentlemen waiting at the dais.
Dressed in all black, even the dress shirt underneath, with a red daisy pinned to the lapel of his tux, Jude stood with his hands tucked behind his back.
The priest stood behind him, no doubt confused by our antics but not unhappy. We’d made a handsome donation to have the place to ourselves.
No one else was here. No one knew we were here—only us.
Just the way we’d planned it.
We were renewing vows already made. Only this time, we meant every word exchanged when Jude took my hand, and I stood before him and the rotund middle-aged man with a warm smile.
“I do,” I said at last.
Jude’s grin was so wide that I almost laughed, tempted to kiss his face off.
Luckily for me, I got to do just that. Not just in my dreams, in the wild imaginings of my mind, but right now, and until death did we part.
My husband gathered me around the waist. As instructed, the priest took photo after photo of us kissing, and we only stopped to smile against one another’s mouths.
Before we left, we had him take our photo in front of the church doors, the wooden arched entryway lit up from the outside and bathing us in a cocoon of sunlight.
We ran out of there as though we’d be caught at any moment, which was stupid, considering we weren’t doing anything wrong. Our contracts stated we could divorce, but they said nothing about remarrying.
We didn’t make it home.
We made it to an old, dilapidated barn behind the ferry station, my poor lace gown mauled by Jude’s hungry hands. “I got to wear white, after all,” I said between kisses. My dress was an exact replica of the one I’d worn to our first wedding; only it was white instead of black.
“What do you mean?” He unzipped his pants, then got back to work on peeling the flowing sea of silk and lace up to my stomach. “Tits out.”
I slipped my arms free of the sleeves, and Jude groaned, tugging the fabric until my strapless bra and wedding dress were bunched around my middle. Picking me up, he dropped his mouth to my breasts, sucking and kissing. “You dreamed of marrying me in a white dress, did you?”
I nodded, my voice fleeing. The damp wooden wall behind me scratched at my back, and coupled with the swiping heat of Jude’s tongue on my skin, I tensed my thighs around his waist. “Fuck me,” I whispered. “Now.”
“Always so impatient for me,” he muttered, grinning around my nipple.
I growled and pulled his cheeks, forcing our lips together while he reached between us. With his eyes hard on mine, I saw every trace of humor leave. “I love you.”
He impaled me, cursing when my eyes fluttered. He licked at my lips until I gathered my bearings and whispered on a harsh breath, “I love you, too.”
“Tell me, Red.” He moved hard and fast. “Do I measure up to your dream Jude, yet?”
A breathless laugh suffocated on his lips, my fingers sinking into his hair. “You’re my favorite type of nightmare.”
He paused and pouted.
Smiling, I gently bit the tip of his nose, then his lower lip. “And I don’t ever want to wake up.”
Jude
Seven years later
“Hands! You can’t play soccer with your hands, Mil,” I hollered between my own.
Parents surrounding the field laughed while others stepped back as I ran, still in my suit pants and dress shirt from a business meeting, down the field.
“Millie,” I said, followed by, “Shit,” when I nearly went face-first onto someone’s picnic blanket.
Finally, the little thing with bouncing dark brown curls stopped, hands on her hips as she glared my way. “Daddy, leave me—”
“Behind you, oh, bloody…” I couldn’t help it. It just happened.
“Daddy, why?” Millie cried when I kicked the ball toward the goal. And scored. “Not again.”
“What have I told you about attending games?” my wife said ten minutes later in the car, handing Millie her juice box, but only after she’d downed half her water bottle.
She’d ushered us off the field, apologizing profusely to the other parents, and straight to the car. I didn’t know why she cared. They wouldn’t say a word even if they wanted to. It was more comical than annoying.
Okay, so the coach was a little pissed—but even she wouldn’t dare say too much.