Page 28 of His Holy Chaos

I want to be yours. I'm terrified of what that means. But I want it anyway.

I fold the letter in thirds with cramped, trembling fingers. I don't speak but I hand it to him.

"It's yours. I don't need to read it unless you want me to," he says. I keep my arm stretched and I nod. He takes the letter.

The paper is damp in places, warped where tears have fallen, yet Ford unfolds it. He reads it slowly, his eyes moving across my ragged handwriting, and I watch his face searching for signs of what's coming. His jaw tightens at certain lines. His throat works. Near the end, something in his expression cracks open, just barely. He folds the letter again with the same care I used, and tucks it into his breast pocket.

"You may stand now. It's been forty-seven minutes, but I think it's enough."

I try to rise, and my knees scream, my legs aching and numb. They shake beneath me. The blood rushes back into my lower joints and the pins and needles start. Ford gives me a hand to help me and I stay in place, trembling, until the blood starts flowing normally.

Ford's hand rises. It moves slowly, giving me time to flinch, to retreat, to do anything. His palm settles against the side of my neck, his thumb resting just below my ear, his fingers curling against my nape. It's not a grip. It's not a caress. It's something I don't have a word for.

I close my eyes and feel my pulse beat against his palm, and I know he can feel it too. Neither of us speaks. There's nothing left to say that the letter hasn't already said, that his hand on my neck isn't already saying. The vestry holds us in its dim, sacred quiet, the candles burning low, the saints looking on with their ancient, unreadable faces, full of pity and forgiveness.

Chapter 16. Jude

Things are different now. Not official, not defined, not anything we've put a name to. But since the vestry, something shifted between us. We text every day. Sometimes it's banter, sometimes it's him sending me a photo of Angel with food on her face, sometimes it's me sending him a song I think he'd hate just to watch him reply it’s ‘interesting’. He calls me ‘kid’, and I call him ‘Mr. Dom’ and neither of us has mentioned what happened on that stone floor, but it's there in every message, every glance at practice. We haven't discussed what we are. We haven't set terms or limits or rules. But when I show up to choir practice now, he looks at me like I'm supposed to be there, and that's more than I've had from anyone in a very long time.

Choir practice starts like any other. Ford raises his baton. I'm standing with the tenors, right where he put me, behaving. For about four minutes.

The problem is that the alto section is dragging again on the Agnus Dei, and I can hear it, and Ford can hear it, and everyone can hear it except the altos, who seem blissfully convinced they're nailing it. Ford stops the choir, corrects them gently, and we start again. They drag again. He stops again. Corrects again. We start again.

The third time it happens, I sigh. Loudly.

Ford's eyes snap to me. I give him my most innocent face.

"Something to contribute, Jude?" he asks, his baton suspended mid-air.

"No, sir," I say sweetly. I’m the youngest there by far. "Just breathing. Isn't that what singers are supposed to do?"

A few tenors snicker. Mrs. Patterson gives me a look like she’s having loads of fun. She loves when I’m a brat and I can’t disappoint her. Ford's jaw tightens, but he says nothing and raises his baton again.

We resume. The altos drag. I don't sigh this time. Instead, I start conducting along with Ford, tiny movements with my right hand at my side, mimicking his gestures with exaggerated precision. The tenor beside me notices and has to look at the ceiling to keep from laughing. Mrs. Patterson stops singing to laugh, loud.

Ford sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything.

"Jude. Hands at your sides."

"They are at my sides," I say, which is technically true.

"Still."

"Completely still," I agree, and stop. For about thirty seconds. Then I start tapping the rhythm on my thigh, just loud enough that the people near me can hear it but Ford can't quite prove it's me.

He powers through. We move to the Sanctus, and I behave for the first run-through because I actually love this part and I'm not about to sabotage good music. My voice blends with the tenors, and I can feel Ford's surprise at my focus, the slight softening in his posture when he hears me hit the high phrase cleanly.

Then we run it again, and on the second pass, I harmonize because the altos got it wrong again and I can’t take it anymore. Not the tenor line. A completely different harmony, a third above, improvised, technically gorgeous, and absolutely not what's written on the page.

The choir falters. Several singers turn to look at me. The sound is beautiful but wrong, and Ford knows exactly what I'm doing.

He stops the choir with a sharp cut of his baton.

"Jude."

"Yes, Mr. Director?" I tilt my head, smiling.

"That's not the tenor line."