“Hey, Dad,” I replied, letting go of Jude’s hand to give him a hug.

“Happy turkey day,” he said, squeezing me tight.

“Gobble, gobble,” I said, smiling over at Mom.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, her face looking younger than the last time I’d seen her. Some of the deep wrinkles had ironed out, and instead of looking perpetually pissed off, she tended more towards the peaceful side of facial expressions.

Moving from dad to mom, I gave her a hug.

“Hey, Jude,” I heard dad say, the smile of pure enjoyment in his face. “Sorry, that just never gets old.”

“Hi, Mr. Larson,” Jude said formally, shaking hands with him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Looking over at my mom, Jude cleared his throat. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said, shifting his weight, his face looking uneasy. Coming around the table to him, I grabbed his hand up again and he visibly relaxed. This was going to be harder for Jude to get through than I’d anticipated. I’d hold his hand all afternoon if that’s what he needed.

My mom came around the table and, stopping in front of Jude, she rested her hands on his shoulders. “We were glad you could make it,” she said, her voice soft and her smile just sad enough to guess at what was going through her mind. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled Jude into a hug. He looked as awkward as she did.

Greetings out of the way, we took our seats. I scooted my chair closer to Jude’s and found his hand under the table cloth.

“This is a fancy place,” Jude said, gazing up at the painted ceilings and chandeliers hanging above us.

Dad’s gaze followed Jude’s and, even though it was only a little after noon and he was sitting in a high backed chair that wasn’t anything like his old recliner, Dad seemed alert‌—‌present in the moment. It was a nice change. “It’s a little over the top, but the food’s supposed to be amazing,” Dad responded.

Jude nodded, glancing down at the restaurant’s Thanksgiving day menu. “Really fancy,” he added, his eyes widening as he checked out the prices. “You’ll have to let me pay for Luce and myself, Mr. Larson.”

Both of my parents’ faces looked offended.

Jude somehow managed to work part time at a garage close to the campus to bring in a little extra cash. I didn’t know how he managed to work twenty hours a week on top of his classes and football schedule and still make time for us, but he did it. He said he was only able to do it because he didn’t sleep. I didn’t think that was much of an exaggeration.

“We couldn’t let you do that,” my mom said. “We invited you two here and we insist.”

Jude opened his mouth, which was as good as a wasted effort when it came to arguing with my mom, when dad waved his hand.

“We’ve got it, Jude,” he said. “It’s the least we could do.”

Jude’s face went flat‌—‌a little color even drained from it‌—‌before his hand clenched around mine. “The least you could do because you ruined my family?”

My head whipped to the side, my mouth opening. I’d known Jude was uneasy, but I never would have guessed he was this upset. I was wrong. I’d pushed this on him. Too much, too fast.

My dad’s shoulders sagged as he leaned back into his chair. “I meant the least we could do since you’ve taken such good care of our daughter.”

Neither Jude nor anyone else had a chance to reply because our waitress arrived, her eyes automatically targeting on Jude. “What can I get you all to drink this afternoon?” she asked. Well, she asked Jude.

No one replied; we were all still in a shocked silence from Jude’s mini explosion. So I broke the ice. “I’ll have a pomegranate tea.” I suppose I could have tacked on “please” for good measure, but the broad wouldn’t take her moon eyes off of Jude.

“I’ll have a water,” Jude said, staring at his menu.

“Oh, get something fun,” Mom said, trying to lighten the mood. “They’ve got a special hot cider for today or‌—‌”

Jude glanced up, his eyes landing on Mom. “I’ll have water,” he repeated, his jaw tightening.

Shooting Mom a leave it be look, I glanced back at the waitress. She was still fixated on Jude. “You know what? I’ll have a water too.”

Jude looked over at me, the muscles of his neck straining, and I grinned at him. He looked as distressed and ready to go crazy as a caged gorilla. I never would have guessed one Thanksgiving brunch with my parents would be as potentially dangerous as it was becoming.

I should have known better.

“Make that four waters,” Dad said, dropping his menu.

“Do you all know what you’re going to order?” the waitress asked.

“We’ll have four of the five course Thanksgiving day meals,” dad said, collecting up our menus.

“I’m good,” Jude said, shaking his head. “Thanks, though.”

“Jude,” I started, before he leveled me with a look that cut off my sentence.

“I’m not hungry, Luce,” he said. “I’m good.”

We’d gone from bad to worse in ten seconds. Things were not looking good for the rest of the afternoon if we continued at this rate.

“Son‌—‌” Dad started, nothing but concern in his voice, before Jude’s head whipped around to glare at him.

“I’m not your son,” Jude said, his jaw clenching. “The man whose son I am is in jail for killing your son. So don’t pretend we have some sort of relationship that entitles you to refer to me as ‘son.’” Bursting up in his seat, Jude shoved his chair back and marched away from the table.

Popping up in my seat, I followed after him. Even at a fast walk, he was thundering through the exit before I was out of the dining room. I’m sure people were watching the two of us, but all I paid attention to was the wide back thundering out into the street.

As soon as I shoved through the door, I ran down the steps and into the street. “Jude!” I hollered at him, but he didn’t hear me. He was pacing beside the bed of his truck, his hands on his hips and his eyes somewhere else completely.

Then, clutching his head, he kicked the wheel of his truck before driving his fist into the rusted bed. His other fist followed, until both were moving so fast I couldn’t tell which one was responsible for each metallic note exploding in the air.

“Jude!” I ran across the street towards him, almost slipping on the fresh snow. “Jude, stop!” I said, braking to a stop beside him and grabbing one of his arms. He was so intent upon beating the shit out of his truck I had to wrap both arms around one of his before I got his attention.

“Jude,” I said, taking in a breath, “what are you doing?”

His gaze turned from the dents he’d hammered into his truck to my eyes. They didn’t eclipse from black to light like they normally did when I interrupted one of his bouts of rage, and having him look at me with those dark, tortured eyes made a chill crawl up my spine.

“I need you to leave me alone right now, Luce,” he said, biting around every word.

“Like hell I’m leaving you alone,” I said, not letting go of his arm.

“Damn it, Lucy!” he shouted, driving his other fist into the truck bed. “I’m not safe to be around right now.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” I said.

“I never would intentionally, but I hurt things, Luce. I hurt people,” he said, looking away from me. “I sure as shit don’t mean to, but it’s in the damn DNA. The only way I can protect you from me is if I recognize the times it’s not safe to be around me, tell you, and you actually listen.” His tone had turned from angry to pleading‌—‌almost begging. He was begging me to turn around and leave him alone when these kinds of moments were when we needed each other most.

“I need to sort out my shit right now. I need to do this alone,” he said, fitting his hand over my cheek, but it was careful, like he was afraid the contact might break me. “Tell your parents I’m sorry.”

I lifted my hand and folded it over his on my cheek, trying to press it harder against me. It was met with a warm wetness. Holding my hand out in front of my face, I grabbed his. “You’re bleeding.”