Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Luck on Loan

wednesday afternoon. with the girl whose heart he broke.

Everything sharp and hard in the world is breaking, is coming undone at their rigid ends and spilling out into the ends of something else, but that's an awful thing, because the ends what rip and tear and dissolve like they're not supposed to start trying to piece themselves back together, but now they've got parts what don't belong to them, and the parts what do have wandered so far away there's no getting them back.

Jude was supposed to propose. He was supposed to walk up to your papa and say, "Sir, I'm affixin' to marry your daughter. Would you be so kind as to give us your blessin'?"

And Papa, who'd be sitting in his study reading over the paper he'd picked out the articles for, would pause his reading, pull his paper down just enough so he could look out over the top of it, squint hard at Jude and then say, in that soft, easy way of his, "Well, if she loves you, then I suppose I might as well."

Then, he'd rent a suit and tie, and you and him would get married at the church, and it'd be so pretty and nice, and you'd kiss him and love him and be with him for all the rest of your life. All he had to do was propose. All he had to say was, "Will you marry me?" or even, "I got a place we could live, the two of us, if'n you ain't got other plans."

Any which way he spun it, the answer would've been a categorical yes. Absolutely and unequivocally yes, Jude. But he didn't say that. He didn't say nothing like that. What'd he say? What'd he tell you when you asked—you asked, set the pitch up for him and everything, and all he had to do was swing—if he was thinking about ever settling down, if he was thinking about marrying somebody? He ripped up that pretty little beginning you'd started wrapping, tore off its lovely red bow and broke its nice box in two.

You stare hard at your shoes, try to see them past all the tears filling your eyes, and you bunch up your handkerchief and curl your fingers tight, but your lips are trembling and snot's running down your nose. Your head starts rising, and your gaze catches on your vanity and the pictures what you've got pasted on either side of the mirror, but Jude's is up there, and his hazel eyes are staring back at you.

You frown at the picture, glare like it can see you, and something hot starts rising up your throat.

If he didn't want you, then why'd he keep dragging you along? Why'd he let you hold his hand, let you give him so much sugar—so much time?

Why'd he ever kiss you?

"'I—I ain't the sorta fella a girl like you should be marryin', [Name],'" you say, and you try to mimic his tone, but your voice is all warbled, and hiccups interrupt your breaths, "'You—You oughta stop wastin'—wastin' your time on me.'" You ball up your handkerchief and chuck it at the photo, but the picture only waves a little, and the handkerchief falls to the top of the vanity with a soft little puff. "Why'd you wait so long to say something, huh? I'm not a kid. I know how I wanna spend my time; I know who I wanna spend it with."

Why'd he say he loved you?

You glare hard at Jude's picture, and before you know it, you're sliding off the bed and stepping over to it, and raising your hand and wagging your finger like it'll do something.

"You got some nerve, Jude Blackburn," you continue, but the heat in your tone is feeble, and the flames in your chest are already seeping out your pores. "You think I can't handle you, huh? You think I don't got what it takes?"

Jude's photo stares back at you, and he's scowling in it, but the photographer what had taken it had asked him to take off his hat, and his dark brown hair sits in a wild mop atop his head. He's got a scar on his eyebrow, and his lips don't know all too well how to smile, but his arms can hold you nice and tight, and sometimes, when he uses it too much, his bad hand starts shaking something awful.