CHAPTER 1
HEART

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
EARTH-616

JUDE WRIGHT wasn't sure how long her alarm had been ringing, but it didn't take an idiot to realize she was late. She slammed her hand down on her phone, turned off the alarm, and almost fell as she jumped from bed to closet. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she muttered under her breath, trying to find the blazer she'd picked out last night. Why wasn't it here? This was her closet, for Christ's sake!

Her head whipped in the direction of her vanity, the same broken vanity she'd gotten off of Facebook marketplace the first week she moved to New York. The blazer hung on a hanger, dangling off a knob on one of her drawers. She had laid out her entire outfit last night, so she wouldn't have to go searching in the morning. Little did her past self realize that she was an idiot, and now she'd spent an extra five minutes she didn't have to search for a goddamn blazer.

Jude wasn't usually like this in the mornings. She wasn't usually late. She wasn't rushing around trying to put her shirt and pants on at the same time. But today was different. "Today will be different," she told herself, brushing her hair back into a low ponytail. And despite her blazer having a few wrinkles, and needing to use a Tide To-Go stick to get a stain out of her trousers, Jude knew today could be a defining moment in her career.

Most people said she was lucky with the spot she'd gotten, even if it was basically like living a lie. For one thing, she didn't go by her actual first name at work. She chose to go by her middle name, Jude, forgoing her real name, Willodean, along with her southern roots. Jude had a complicated relationship with her childhood, with her parents, and everything in between. Her dad, Deacon Wright, was a preacher in a little town in Louisiana called Barton Hollow, and he had raised Jude in the church. He was obsessed with it and ensured his daughter got in no trouble, stayed pure and true to God. Her mother, Bonnie-Mae Right, was the same way, but left a little space in her heart for opioids. Jude and Bonnie-Mae stopped being on speaking terms when she found out her mother owed someone a lot of money and started dealing laced drugs to teenagers. And Jude, being the saint she was told to be, ratted her to the police. Bonnie-Mae got twenty years for that one, but was released after eight due to good behavior. Jude tried her best to forget about them, forget all about her life in Louisiana, when she went to college on scholarship. Even lost her accent after a few years. She was no longer that girl anymore.

Now, she was Jude Wright, photographer for the New York Times. A title she didn't take lightly, with the way she was currently running down the staircase of her apartment building with a piece of toast in her mouth. She knew she was lucky to be in the position she was in at just 29 years old. Most people didn't get an interview at the post until they were way over 30. And she enjoyed photography, but it wasn't what she wanted to do. She'd always wanted to be a writer. It felt like it was written in the stars for her – literally. Simply look at her name. In undergrad, she graduated with a double bachelor's in Art and English, and then she attempted to get her masters in writing. She had to drop out due to losing her scholarship, but nevertheless, she always had more writing credit to her name. Featured in various online magazines and her undergrad's newspaper, she thought she had it in the bag with NYT, and she did ... kind of. You see, she had applied for a junior writer position, but NYT gets so many applicants in a day. Once they saw she had a double degree with photography attached to her name, the hiring manager thought it was appropriate to fill in that long-needed junior photographer. And thus, here she was, at New York Times, in a position she never applied for.

But Jude was never for looking a gift horse in the mouth. Especially today.

Slinging her bag across her chest, she managed to catch the subway just 2 seconds before they shut the doors. She breathed out a sigh of relief and leaned against a pole in the crowded morning train car. There was no mistaking how late she was, but if this train continued on schedule, she'd still make it for her meeting. In just 43 minutes from now, she had a meeting with the Times editor to discuss her possibly changing roles to the junior writer's division. Was she a little old to be trying for a spot as a junior writer? Absolutely. But it was a start, and that was all you needed at the Times to be set up for success.

Jude casually finished the last bit of toast hanging from her lips while looking down at her phone, gripping the pole next to her to prevent herself from falling. This damn train was prone to short stops. She refreshed the homepage for the Times about five times. The Creative Director, Adam Davis, told her this morning an article about recent protests in the city was being published as a top story on the homepage, the same article that featured several of her photos. This would be the first time one of her photos for the Times reached homepage status, and maybe she could use it to her advantage in this meeting scheduled in ...

Jude looked at the time. 32 minutes.

After a solid two minutes of refreshing, she sighed. Maybe they had changed their mind on today's top stories, or they just didn't care enough to update the site this early. The top story for today was the same as yesterday: Local Queens Journalist, Sloane Bernstein, Offered Book Deal Amid Viral Article Sensation. Jude had read her piece, had wondered why it didn't get more than a nomination for the Selden Ring Award. It was amazing and deserved all the praise, but couldn't Jude have this win? Just once? The photo next to the article of Sloane holding up a publication of her article in a book of essays was haunting her. Out of spite, Jude tapped on the article and scrolled, eyes lingering on the photo Sloane had posted to Twitter of her, her editor, and Spider-Man. They're definitely fucking, she thought to herself.

When would it be her turn to get that kind of opportunity? Not the fucking Spider-Man part. The part where one of her articles could be critically acclaimed. Jude's mother wasn't a murderer, but she had seen enough stuff in the church as a kid to warrant a scathing memoir.

One day, she'd get her chance. Maybe today really was that day.

━━━━━━

As Fate decided, today didn't end up being her day.

At the very least, Jude had arrived at her meeting on time with 3 minutes to spare. She had cut it real close, but she still got there and was waiting by the editor's office when she arrived. Her name was Laney Russell and she'd been with the Times longer than Jude was alive. She was probably around her mother's age, but she looked like she hadn't aged a decade. She had arrived at the meeting in a matching navy blazer and pencil skirt with a pair of red bottom heels and her reddish-brown hair in waves. Her eyes narrowed at Jude standing by her office, before it dawned on her why some woman she hardly even knew was waiting there.

"Wannabe Writer," Laney addressed her while walking into her office.

Jude quickly followed her, sticking out her hand. "Actually, my name is Jude. Jude Wright."

"But you're a photographer that wants to be a writer," Laney explained while sitting down in her chair, "hence the name, 'Wannabe Writer.' It's a joke. You can laugh."

The younger blonde feigned a chuckle and set down her resume. Laney didn't take one look at it and began to lecture her for an hour on the tightness of her team, how they had no room to oversee fuck-ups, and that she appreciated Jude's excitement about joining the writers' team. But unfortunately ... "We simply don't have room for you," Laney finished, lacing her hands together. "Hey, don't look too down. You have a bright career ahead of you. You should feel grateful to be in the position you're in."

Jude wished people stopped saying that to her. "If you just looked at these samples I provided with my resume –"

Laney pushed her red reading glasses on her nose, looking from her computer monitor to Jude. "I don't need to read those again."

"But if you just –" Jude blinked. "Wait, again? You've read my work?"

"Well, I had to do research on you before you walked into my office. Adam may have hired you, but I didn't know if you were a serial killer or not."

"And after all that ..." Jude slapped her hands on her thighs. "No room?"

Laney exhaled heavily and pushed her glasses up to her hairline. "I need to see more from you before I even consider letting you on this team," she replied calmly, no hint of malice in her tone. "You lack heart, Miss Wright. All these samples, they tell me nothing about you. You're good, okay? But you're not great, and my team is great. I mean, you read the homepage every day, right? You see what we're working on here. A writer can pen a thousand articles about protests, politics, death, disease, and they could all be great, but if they lack heart, what do they actually bring to the table?"

Jude collected her things defeatedly. She stuffed them in her messenger bag and leaned against the door. "So I lack heart," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "If I bring you an article – or even better, a memoir – with heart and a lot of honesty, will you read it and reconsider?"

Laney pinched the bridge of her nose. She sighed and glanced up at Jude again. "If I say yes, will it get you out of my office so I can get actual work done?"

"Absolutely."

"Then yes," Laney said, gesturing to the door. "Make sure to shut it on your way out."

It wasn't a win – in fact, it was far from it – but it was something. Jude walked away from Laney's office a little disappointed, wishing she at least looked at her resume. There had to be something in her portfolio with a bit of heart in it. What about her essay from college about drug use in young adults and relating it to her own mother's addiction? There was no heart in that? Jude looked around at all the writers in their cubicles, typing furiously as if their life depended on it. She rolled her eyes, clearly jealous, and headed downstairs to the Creative division.

She was part of a small team compared to Laney's. Barely fitting on the second floor of the Times building. Adam was determined to grow it as big as the writers' division, as if that were possible. She passed his office and heard him interviewing a new junior graphic designer. He was so goddamn loud that she could hardly get any work done in the office. Sitting at her desk, she popped in her headphones and could still hear him over the music. She sighed and opened Photoshop begrudgingly.

How the hell was she going to find the time to write a memoir "with heart" – fuck that fucking heart – while still managing to fulfill her daily tasks? There were days that she needed to be out in the streets shooting, or she had portrait shots scheduled, or she had almost a hundred photos to edit in a day. Then, she had to get home, and the train was never on time. She had to make herself dinner because she lived alone and no partner had cooked her dinner a day in her life. And some nights, she had to watch the Bachelorette or Survivor. How could she fit in time to write a stupid ass fucking –

Her phone started ringing. Dad was the contact name.

Jude felt her vision get blurry. She hadn't spoken to her father in a decade.

With shaky hands, she popped out her headphones and quickly walked over to a corner where she could be alone. She stared down at the screen, hesitating, before answering the call. "Dad?"

"Sweetheart?" Her father's deep-set southern drawl was clear through the speaker. "Willodean, is that really you?"

Jude leaned against the wall. "It's really me, Dad."

"Can hardly even recognize your voice," he replied softly. "Did those New York-ians take your accent too?"

"Dad, uh ..." She pondered over her words, scratching the crown of her head. "Why are you calling me? We haven't spoken since I moved away."

"Yeah, well ... I must admit, I was a little frustrated with you when you left us for the big city. Did some things I regret – not speaking to you being one of them. I wish my pride hadn't gotten in the way. The grudge lingering in my heart has always affected me, but God told me recently that I would be much happier once I let it go. And look," he chuckled to himself, "finally, here I am. Talking to you. And it feels so much better than not."

Jude licked at her lips. Her dad was a preacher; he was known to go on monologues like this.

"Anyway, I ... unfortunately, I have some grim news," he finished.

She had no idea what it could be. Had her mom finally overdosed? Did she end up back in jail? Was Aunt Peggy still alive? And then, there was her godfather, her uncle. Was he –

"It's – uh ... it's your godfather, Uncle Abel," her father stopped to collect himself. Jude wasn't sure if she could hear him crying on the other end. "He's gone. He was murdered. We all know he was."

"Oh, my g –" Jude hesitated, knowing that her dad hated that phrase. "Dad, I –"

"Willodean, I ... I know our family is not what it used to be. And that is something I will always have to live with. I realize asking this of you is a long shot. But I know us all down here, including your godfather, would love it if you visited for the services." Her father sighed heavily. "The door is always open. You loved him so much as a kid. Him and Aunt Peg ... sometimes you were over their house more than your actual home."

He was right. Despite the big move she'd made, she had been close with her godfather. While her father became increasingly obsessed with his church, Uncle Abel had been a father to her. He knew his brother – her dad – was neurotic and a little in over his head, so he stepped in when his brother's daughter needed someone. She loved him. He was once her best friend.

She hadn't even thought when she moved how much that had hurt him.

"I can't ..." Jude shook her head. "I can't even believe this. Thank you for telling me, Dad. I'll – um ..." She paused, wondering how to decline his offer politely. It wasn't like she had the time to visit anyway. "I'll let you know soon about visiting, okay?"

Probably not the best way to respond. Now she needed to think of a courteous way to tell him no later. But for now, her father sounded ecstatic over the phone, "Okay, you let me know, sweetheart. Do you want to say hi to your moth –" He stopped, and Jude thought she could hear her mother saying faintly, I don't want to talk to her. "Well, I guess I'll hear from you soon, Willodean. Talk soon. God bless you."

"Yeah," she replied bluntly. "Bye, Dad."

The call ended with a click.

━━━━━━

There was no way she was going back to Louisiana. I mean ... she couldn't, right? There were just about a million projects going on at work. She had a portrait session scheduled at the end of the week. Who would feed her fish? She had a little Betta Fish for about a year now, and he was a fickle thing with feedings. And – oh yeah, she needed to learn how to write with heart.

Jude couldn't help but grumble to herself as she took the subway home that evening. Not even the loud music blasting in her ears could silence her racing thoughts. When she stepped out into the busy streets of New York, the hum of people and animated billboards distracted her eyes ... for a little while, but her mind remained on her father's call. Would her godfather truly want her at his funeral? It wasn't like she could ask him now. He was murdered. Old age hadn't taken him out; it was someone's own hand. Jude had a better chance of being stabbed in New York, so was her tiny hometown in Louisiana not safe too? It seemed impossible. There wasn't one person there with a murderous bone in their body.

As she climbed up the steps to her apartment, she wondered if it was one of those nights to look through an old photo book. She only managed to grab one before she moved away. Maybe she'd find a few photos of her godfather to send to her dad, as an apology for not being able to make it. So it's settled, she told herself, I'm not going to Louisiana.

Just when she was about to jam her key in the rusty lock, she noticed something taped to her door.

An eviction notice.

Jude grabbed the flimsy paper, ripping a portion of it still taped to her door. Her mouth fell open slightly. A stupid, fucking, goddamn eviction notice –

This had to be a sick joke her landlord was playing. But it was real, it looked just about the realest thing he'd ever given her. Even the contracts she signed before moving in didn't look like this. Had she really missed that many monthly payments? She kept telling him she'd get him the money ... and then things came up and she supposed he'd forgotten about it. But wasn't an eviction notice just a bit too far?

With an irritated grunt, Jude fought with the door until it finally opened and threw her keys and crumpled up eviction notice on the counter. That front door was practically hanging off the hinges now. Perhaps it was time to start an apartment search again. She scanned her place: hardly any furniture ... it had already been through one roach infestation, thanks to her neighbors ... a bathroom sink that barely worked ... water that sometimes came out brown on a bad day ... a small flat screen that she bought on eBay years ago ... ugly popcorn ceiling and just about the cruelest shade of beige on the walls ... no character, no nothing.

What purpose did she have here again?

Her eyes flicked back to the eviction notice, calling to her like a siren song. She breathed through her nose and flattened out the paper, pondering the big red letters. She glanced up again, and the first thing her gaze found was the frame holding the only good picture she had of her and her parents, taken on a beautiful Sunday morning when she was eight. The frame, of course, was face down on the coffee table, so she didn't have to see it all the time. But that photo would always be burned in the back of her eyelids. She could see it when she closed her eyes then: they were standing in front of her father's church, the day after it was handed over to him. He had one arm around his wife and the other held his Bible, passed down from generation to generation. Her mother looked beautiful – dark red hair done up and wearing a modest yellow dress. She was touching little Jude's – well, Willodean, back then – shoulder, who stood in front of both of them in a red and white checkered dress, blonde hair braided into pigtails.

Jude opened her eyes and sighed. Home was calling.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: LET'S GOOOOOOOOO my girl jude is gonna go get her man!!!

just a reminder to you guys to check out the playlist, if you want to! it's filled with so many jams that relate to certain scenes in the fic 🤭