Made Marian, Volume One by Lucy Lennox
Jude
Ari fucking Crowe. I knew it was him. As I looked around the ballroom for Derek, my eyes landed on Ari and I felt like I’d been zapped with a stun gun. Seeing his face in that room was like feeling a sharp claw take a swipe at my heart. Six years of healing erased in the blink of an eye. There I was back again in the dingy roadhouse with peanut shells scattered on the floor, hearing the man I thought I’d be with forever tell me I wasn’t ever going to amount to anything and sure as shit wasn’t worth coming out of the closet for. He’d decided our two-year relationship had all been a big waste of his time.
Within a couple of months he was engaged to his high school sweetheart, the daughter of one of the richest, most conservative politicians in Nashville. They’d been married in a big society wedding while I was recording the song I’d written after our breakup. “Bluebells” went on to debut at number one on the charts and stayed in that spot for months. The band catapulted overnight from a Nashville club favorite to the Grammy-award-winning group it was today.
The six years since I last saw Ari had been quick and wildly successful for me. On the outside I’d looked like a man whose dreams and hard work had finally come to fruition, but on the inside I’d been shattered, feeling like I would never again feel the touch of loving hands on my body. I’d thrown everything I had into becoming the best at what I did, and I’d hoped like hell the stardom would somehow mitigate my broken inner confidence.
While we were together, Ari and I had stayed in the closet for several reasons, mainly his family and my career. When he’d dumped me, he’d made it clear our relationship would forever stay locked away in that closet for both of our sakes. His Nashville high society could never know, and the world wasn’t going to fully accept a gay country music singer anyway. Our shared history seemed to evaporate, disappearing like a morning mist. One minute we were thinking about engagement rings and the next I was staring at a half-empty apartment.
I heard Derek calling my name, but I couldn’t move or speak. Was I imagining Ari there in that ballroom? Had it been real? Why hadn’t it occurred to me he would be at a black-tie event in Nashville? How could I have been so stupid?
Derek’s hand guided me somewhere and I blindly accompanied him, my brain clicking through years of memories, feelings, and ultimately, the same old questions. How could you up and leave someone like that? Why did he walk away from me?
I rubbed my hands over my face and tried to focus on what I needed to do next. Luckily I was distracted with many familiar faces backstage and I did my best to fake it through some small talk.
By the time my name was called, I’d had enough of a distraction to put on my game face. I wasn’t there as Jude Marian, starving artist mooning over Ari Crowe six years ago. I was there as Jude of Jude and the Saints, multimillionaire and Grammy-winning superstar. If there was one thing I’d perfected since I’d seen Ari last, it was performing for strangers—putting on a mask and becoming someone else on stage. I tucked my heart back into its familiar lockbox and strode confidently up onto the stage.
“Next up we have a VIP private guitar lesson given by none other than Jude of Jude and the Saints.” The announcer introduced me and gave the rah-rah about my success and how I started playing guitar when I was a toddler. It was a bit of an exaggeration but true to some extent. Instruments had come easy to me from a very early age, and guitar was no exception.
The crowd in the room was rapt with attention, and I gave them my best heart-stopping smile. I picked up one of the Gibson guitars displayed behind me and tuned it. Momentarily catching sight of Derek behind the stage, I found myself idly strumming the acoustic intro to “Sweet Child o’ Mine” by Guns N’ Roses before realizing what I was doing and transitioning into the popular riff from our song “Startin’ From Scratch.” As people began bidding, I lightly plucked out little recognizable acoustic riffs and country licks from popular songs, trying to encourage people to keep bidding.
I looked up from the strings to smile at the audience and saw Ari lift up his paddle to bid. My fingers tripped over the chords and quickly fell back on the most familiar muscle memory of all, “Bluebells.” Goddammit. Of all songs, that was the one I never wanted to play in his presence. But I was on autopilot. I knew my smile had faltered and I tried desperately to put my public mask back on.
The bidding finally winnowed down to two bidders. Ari was bidding against a familiar looking man, maybe a fan or bigwig I’d met before. Every time the man raised his bid, Ari upped it. Finally the man gave up with a frustrated grumble, and Ari won with a bid of $32,000. I was stunned, both at the value of my guitar lesson and at the fact Ari had just donated money for the opportunity to see me for two hours the following day. I was going to have to spend time with Ari Crowe.
My stomach planned a revolt, and I couldn’t feel my fingers. I felt like everyone in the ballroom knew my secret. Ari’s eyes were laser-focused on me from across the room. I tried to remain neutral, not giving away my recognition of him.
After I exited the stage, Derek approached me to lead me to the table where I would meet with the winning bidder to arrange the details of our meeting the following day. I shook and thought I might vomit.
“Wolfe, where’s the men’s room?” I asked quietly. He looked at me with concern.
“You okay?” Derek asked, gesturing to the coordinator we’d be back in a minute. He led me out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom.
“No,” I breathed. “Not okay.”
He swept the bathroom quickly, and I entered behind him to splash some cold water over my face. Derek’s hand came down warm and strong on my back while he held some paper towels ready for me with his other hand.
“You going to tell me what’s going on, Bluebell?” he asked.
I thought about confiding in him but realized this wasn’t something he should have to deal with. If I was going to succumb to my own feelings of worthlessness, wouldn’t it be better to go it alone instead of having a witness?
“Maybe I’m coming down with something,” I lied.
