“Yes, I do. Can you stop talking? I don’t want to cause a scene!” Jude says, removing his seatbelt and locking the car doors. Resting his elbow on the console, he twists his body until he’s facing Beckham at an angle. He’s nervous — his heart is beating probably about twice the rate it should be (or at least it feels that way), his head is beginning to pound from all the thoughts running through his mind, and Jude’s having a hard time trying to figure out what to say, too. “Before I start, I just want you to know that… I don’t know, this isn’t easy for me, okay? Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. Please?”
With the way Jude’s speaking, and the fact that they’re parked in a dark alley past midnight, it’s hard not to be suspicious. He wonders why they couldn’t have this discussion Jude’s trying to initiate at home, and the only plausible explanation is that it’s going to end badly, with Beckham receiving the awful end of the stick. “You...you don’t have to do this,” Beckham says tentatively, “We can just, you know, go home. It’s late. You’re probably not thinking too clearly, yeah? Don’t want to do something you might, uh, regret,” he gulps, “It’s hard to take things back when they’re like, final.”