Текст книги "Spark"
Автор книги: Erin Noelle
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
I fail the history final. I fail the history class. And after one semester in college, I’m officially on academic probation. Too bad I don’t care.
My organized, well put-together life, where all I needed were my plants, my family, and overindulgent Sunday dinners to be happy, is a thing of the past. None of it seems to matter anymore.
When Caleb and Crew walked into my life, colors changed from light pastels to bright and bold. Now that they’re both gone, I didn’t simply return to where I was before, but I’m even worse off, trapped in the flat world of black, white, and grayscale. It’s almost as if the universe played some cruel, sick joke on me, somehow knowing exactly how attached I’d get to them, only to watch and laugh as they were ripped away.
Fuck the universe.
Fuck stupid history classes that have no relevance in my life.
Fuck that skank Tasha and her stupid fire crotch.
Fuck Beckham and his conniving ass, who knew what he was inviting me over to witness.
Fuck Crew for making me fall for him and then for leaving me a shattered mess.
And if whoever is knocking on my bedroom door doesn’t stop soon, fuck them too.
“Hudson, come on. We’re all waiting on you to open presents,” Brighton calls out from the hallway, jiggling the locked knob. “Denver’s about to lose his mind, and Grams is almost as bad.”
Christmas morning. The best morning of the year, without a doubt. I’m usually the first one awake and waiting in the living room, not even needing any caffeine to be bouncing off the walls with anticipation and excitement.
But not today.
It’s seven-fifteen and I’m still in my bed, under the covers, groaning at the thought of getting up and pretending I’m happy for the holiday. For the last couple years, I’ve been the one in charge of planning the day-long festivities, but with finals and everything that happened with the Elliott brothers this year, I didn’t have it in me.
Fuck the festivities.
The last eight days were spent either stoned and sad or sober and angry. Someone else must be doing my chores, ‘cause I haven’t. Life is moving on around me, but I’m just in the corner, watching it all pass me by, uncaring. My family checks on me, bringing me food and water like I’m a pet who needs taking care of—and maybe right now I do. I’m just numb.
“It’s time to get up, sweet pea. Enough is enough.” My dad raps his knuckle against the door and the unusually stern tone in his voice tells me not to ignore him.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and shuffle over to the door, unlocking and opening it to a smile spread across his face that contradicts the impatience I just heard.
“Merry Christmas, Hudson,” he booms, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “We’ll give you a few minutes to wash your face and brush your teeth, but we need to start opening gifts. Mom and Grams need to get over to the lodge to cook breakfast for the guests, and the rest of us all have jobs today. Yours are listed on the board in the kitchen.”
Nodding, I continue on to the bathroom without a word, and as soon as I close the door behind me, I cringe at the sight of my own reflection. Shit, I look rough. My unwashed hair is stringy and tangled, dry skin clings to my high cheek bones, more noticeable now than ever, and the purple-tinted half-moons under each eye make me look like I haven’t slept in a week, only the truth is I haven’t hardly gotten out of bed in that long. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I had the flu. But I’m not sick.
I’m heartbroken.
Somehow, I manage to make it through the morning round of presents from my family and Santa, saying thank you and smiling appreciatively at all the proper times. I don’t even recall what I got. Clothes, maybe? A CD? Nothing of importance. Nothing that can compare to what I’ve lost. Nothing can fill the empty void.
Breakfast with the resort guests is a fuzzy collage of different faces and names, none of which I’ve previously met since I’ve been holed up in my room. As one of my responsibilities for the day, I’m on clean-up duty in the kitchen afterwards, and I honestly don’t mind much as long as I don’t have to stay out in the dining room with the others, pretending to be having a good time.
“You feel up to helping me do the side dishes for dinner tonight?” my mom asks warily when she comes in to check on my progress with the dishes.
I glance up at her from the skillet I’m spraying down and give her a brief nod, instantly berating myself for the nervousness she feels around me. Now that I’ve tempered my hatred for the world with half a joint, my mood has shifted to dejected and desolate. I never knew it was possible to feel so alone and empty, all while being surrounded by people who love you.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” I clip out, trying hard not to be a complete asshole of a daughter. It’s not my family’s fault I feel the way I do, and I know everyone’s been pulling my slack around here lately. “What time do you want to get started?”
Her mouth tilts up in a small smile as the corners of her honey-colored eyes crinkle with delight. The elephant of despair raises one of its feet off my chest, relieving a small amount of the tension threatening to crush me at any given moment.
“Let’s see,” she checks her watch, then looks back up at me, “it’s almost eleven-thirty now, and everyone’s supposed to arrive at the house around six. How about three-thirty?”
Again, I nod. “I’ll run over to the greenhouse and grab some fresh produce and herbs beforehand.”
“Sounds good. Maybe I can even corral Cheyenne and Brighton in to join us.” Clapping her hands together and bouncing on her toes as if getting me to agree was a huge accomplishment, she spins around to leave, but right before she walks out of the kitchen, she stops and calls out over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to plan for fourteen or fifteen when you’re measuring portions.”
“Fourteen or fifteen? Who all is coming?” I drop the sponge and stare at her, confused. Christmas dinner has always been something we do as just a family.
“Uncle Danny stayed in town this year instead of his usual beach vacation, and he’s bringing a lady friend.” As her eyes then fall to the floor, so does the unease in my gut. I already know I’m not going to like her answer to my next question.
“So that makes twelve. Who are the others?”
The long pause slams into me, stealing my breath as I wait for her confirmation.
“Mary and Luke are coming too. Neither of them has any family here,” she replies, biting her worried lip.
“And?” That single word whispered from my mouth overflows with equal parts desperation and hope, and I hate myself for even asking. But I have to know.
Pity washes over her face as her shoulders sag forward. “Mary said he may show up. She wasn’t sure, but seemed hopeful.”
My throat constricts with an onslaught of sobs, but I force them back, refusing to breakdown right here. “I’ll plan accordingly,” I respond curtly, and then press my lips in a tight line as I return to what I was doing.
Twenty-seven minutes later, once I’m back in the secure solitary of my own room, I cry my own Colorado River as I smoke the other half of my morning joint, unable to decide if I’ll kill him or kiss him if he shows up.
Trying not to try too hard is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever tried to do.
I’ve pulled damn near every article of clothing out of my closet, torn as to whether or not to fix myself up—to look great and show him what he’s missing out on, or to come out in mismatched pajamas and be honest about what a disaster my life is after losing Caleb and him. Finally, I settle on a solid red, V-neck sweater and a pair of new skinny jeans I’d received from my parents this morning, hoping, if nothing else, they’ll know I'm appreciative of their gift. My hair goes in double braids and my makeup is light, just enough to bring a little life back into my face.
Once I’m satisfied with my appearance, I slowly make my way down the hall to check on the dishes I put in the oven before my shower, scared to death that one of the muffled voices I hear in the family room belongs to him. I’ve flip-flopped between the mindset of I hate Crew and I miss Crew at least more times than I can count since I found out he may be coming tonight, and at least a million things of what I want to say to him have flashed through my thoughts since I last saw him at Beckham’s apartment. But now that I know him being here is a real possibility, I can’t come up with anything that conveys my emotions toward him. I’m afraid ‘Fuck you, asshole I’m in love with’ isn’t a good opener at Christmas dinner.
After I pull a couple of the casserole dishes out onto the stovetop to cool and rearrange the remaining ones to finish cooking, I creep over to the arched doorway, and with a deep courage-seeking breath, I peek around the corner. Relief whooshes out of my lungs in a long exhale, but unexpected disappointment quickly begins to fill the void. I hate myself for that too.
For the rest of the night, my body is present physically, but my mind is lost in space. I hear the conversations surrounding me, enough so that I can throw out a somewhat relevant comment once in a while and everyone seems to think I’m paying attention, but truly, my thoughts are solely on the empty chair at the other end of the table.
I avoid eye contact with Mary at all costs throughout all of dinner. No one dares to mention Crew, as I’m pretty sure everyone thinks I’ll lose my shit if they do, and rightfully so, but on several occasions, Mary talks about things Caleb liked during the holidays. Her voice cracks each time she says his name, but the genuine smile on her face prevails as she does her best to remember the good times and to celebrate his life…just like the funeral officiant told us to do.
Fuck funerals.
The second I decide it’s no longer rude to excuse myself from the table, I do. I’m tired of listening to everyone’s great life news and how thankful they all are for their blessings. I should be happy for Nali, who got an internship at a nationally broadcasted Denver radio station, and I should commend Dakota for getting accepted to the Colorado School of Healing Arts so she can fulfill her dream to open a spa one day. Shit, I should probably even congratulate Mary and Luke for their engagement, despite the fact I do feel it’s a bit rushed and ill-timed.
But I don’t do any of that.
I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts spinning around in my head like an out-of-control tornado that I don’t realize Mary stands up from the table at the same time I do and follows me into the kitchen. Rinsing my plate, I turn to place it in the dishwasher, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with her, knowing I can no longer dodge the conversation I’ve been dreading all night.
“Can we take a walk, Hudson?” Her expression is soft and soothing, as are her words, and she offers a faint smile when I nod silently.
No one says anything to either of us as we pass by the dining room on our way to the foyer, but I feel their eyes following me until the door closes behind us. Zipping my jacket up to my chin, I stride forward in the days-old slush covering the front yard and blow out an icy breath that matches my current internal temperature.
The first few minutes she follows me, she remains quiet, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to figure out what to say or waiting for the right time to say whatever it is she wanted to discuss, but either way, I just want to get it over with. My heart may explode with anxiety at any moment.
“I talked to him,” she announces as we arrive at the greenhouses, the motion-detecting security lights illuminating the dark sky.
I hadn’t planned to end up here, but somehow my body instinctively led me to one of my safe places, and as I unlock the weed growing center, I’m glad I did. This conversation is going to require a joint.
Leading her inside, I flip on the fluorescent work-lights that hang over each row of plants, head straight to the curing area, and snip off a bud ready to be smoked. Methodically, I break up the pot, roll it into a skinny doobie, and light it, having still not responded to her statement about Crew.
“He reached out to me last Thursday,” she obviously realizes I’m not going to say anything, so she continues as I pull a long hit, “and we had a really good heart-to-heart. We both said a lot of things we needed to get off our chests, and we’re both trying to move forward…to put our lives back together in Caleb’s honor and memory.”
“That’s great, Mary,” I manage to say through a puff of smoke, but again, I refuse to meet her eyes. “Really, you both deserve to be happy. I hope you find whatever it is that gives that to you.”
“I hope we do too,” she whispers as she begins to stroll through the aisles, pausing every few feet to read the information on the cards labeling each grouping of plants, until she finally stops in front of my special babies. “Why don’t these have a card?”
Shaking my head, I snuff out the end of the joint, leaving the roach in the ashtray, and join her in the back corner. “It’s my latest project, a new strain I’ve been tinkering with,” I admit while reaching out to run my forefinger up and down one of the stems, not ready to tell her the story behind them. “But it’s got a long way to go before it’ll be ready to be smoked. These plants are only about six weeks old, so they’ve got at least another three to four months, possibly longer.”
I step back and return to my workstation, hoping she’ll do the same. I don’t want to talk about those plants any longer. Thankfully, she does.
“I really thought he’d come tonight. I know how he feels about you—” she begins to say, but I rudely cut her off, my bottled up emotions finally bursting out.
“How he feels about me?!” I screech as I snap my head in her direction. “I think he made it damn clear how he feels about me when he announced to you, me, and the rest of the coffee shop a couple of weeks ago that I was nothing more than a piece of ass to him.”
Anger burns hot in the tips of my ears and deep in my belly. “At first, I thought he was just letting off steam, pissed at the world for Caleb’s death, but after seeing him in bed with one of the waitresses he works with,” I cringe at the pain I feel when thinking about what he did, “I know that’s exactly what I was to him.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” she cries, reaching out to grab my shoulders. “He’s fallen for you, just like you have for him.”
Retreating, I move out of her grasp, not wanting to hear her lies. Hot tears flood from my eyes, but I’m too mad to care. “It is true!” I insist, stomping my foot on the concrete. “You just confirmed it by telling me that a week ago he started piecing his life back together…that he’s moving on and trying to be happy. I’m obviously not a part of that life, Mary. Don’t you see? He hasn’t contacted me! Not one fucking time! He feels nothing!”
“Hudson, please—”
“No, you please,” I interrupt again, raising my arms in the air to surrender, consciously trying to calm myself down. “Pl—please, I’m begging you. I just want to be alone right now. Go back and enjoy the rest of your Christmas. I’ll come back to the house in a little while.”
Hesitantly, she leaves me be, but within five minutes, my three older sisters have taken her place. At first, I try to send them all on their merry way as well, but after we plop down on the ground and share a joint, I end up opening up about Crew. Nali wraps her arms around me while I sob out the entire story, and by the end, Kota’s offering to beat him up. Juno tops that, volunteering to kick him in the balls or take a baseball bat to his truck, and somehow, by the time they’re done, there are plans to castrate him.
Before I know it, my tears are dry, I’m giggle-snorting, and they’re dragging me off to their friend’s Ugly Christmas Sweater After-Party with promises of enough shots and hot guys that I’ll forget Crew Elliott exists. Not that I’ve ever really wanted to before, but maybe tonight’s my night to do something wild and crazy.
Fuck being a good girl. Look at where that’s gotten me.
Naturally, the exact second I close my eyes, my phone starts to ring and vibrate on the bar across the room, where it’s plugged into the charger. Perfect timing. With a loud groan, I throw the blanket off of me, stand up from the couch, and pad across Rory’s living room, careful not to clip my knee on the edge of that damn coffee table again—an experience I hope to never repeat after my disastrous trip to the bathroom the first night I stayed here that almost landed me in the emergency room.
“What’s up, man? You okay?” I answer after seeing Rory’s name on the caller ID.
Earlier, he’d asked if I wanted to join him and a friend at some ugly sweater party tonight, but after working four days straight at my new eight-to-five job, spending the first half of the day with Mom and Luke, and then taking Christmas presents to Caleb’s grave in the evening, I was pretty fucking exhausted. Sometimes, a night filled with SportsCenter, frozen pizza, and a bowl of Ramen is exactly what I need to find my inner Zen. Tonight was one of those nights.
“Yeah, I’m good, no need to worry,” he shouts into the phone, bass thumping loudly in the background. “Why didn’t you tell me there were more Hipster Barbie sisters, dude? They multiply every time I look over there. There are four now!”
My senses go into high alert at the mention of Hudson, and any tiredness I was previously feeling evaporates. “Look over where? What are you talking about?”
“Your girl, dude. She’s here, and she’s got three Hipster Barbies with her this time. It’s like that family hit the lottery in the looks department.”
“At the party? You’re sure it’s Hudson there?” I’m already turning on the lights and searching for my jeans, shirt, and baseball cap before he responds.
“I’m positive. I’m only on my second beer; all the names and faces haven’t started running together quite yet,” he jokes.
In the short amount of time we’ve been friends, and even shorter amount of time I’ve been crashing on his couch, I can assure you Rory rarely even brings a girl home, and if he does, he sure as shit is going to know her name and what her face looks like. He’s just not that kind of guy.
Then he adds, “But I can tell you she’s definitely not on her second beer.”
My heart slams inside my chest as I freeze, standing up tall in the middle of the room, my thoughts snowballing from bad to worse at the idea of a drunk Hudson at a party with a bunch of horny college guys. Fucking hell. “What do you mean not on her second beer? What in the fuck is she doing?”
“Dude, stop with the twenty questions. Get dressed and get your ass here to save your girl from the white Bob Marley. I’ll text you the address.”
By the time I pull up to the brick split-level, my entire body is trembling with a combination of anxiety over seeing her again and the jealousy of knowing she’s here with someone else. I know technically I have no claim to her anymore, but damn it, she’s still mine and I’m still hers. I just needed a little time to get my shit in line so I could prove to her I was worthy of her and apologize properly.
I park my car in the first empty spot I find on the street and then stalk up to the house, scanning the people outside smoking on the front porch to ensure none of them are her. Stepping inside the loud, crowded living room, my eyes sweep over the area until I find Rory perched on the armrest of one of the black leather sofas.
He motions with his hand for me to join him, and it’s not until I weave my way through the throng of people do I see he’s seated across from Juno, Dakota, and Nali. Gritting my teeth, I trudge over to them, and by the looks on all three of their faces, I immediately know his claims are true. A small part of me had been holding out hope that maybe he was mistaken and it was only someone who resembled Hudson here at the party.
“Where is she?” I bite out as I approach, not bothering with any false pleasantries. He knows why I’m here, and he knows I’m not happy. Poor guy’s had to hear me drone on and on every night for the last week about how I epically fucked up one of the best things in my life. And he knows about my recent resolve to win her back, which may be put into motion a little earlier than I intended. Like right-fucking-now early.
Tipping his head toward the back door, he grimaces as he stands up next to me. “White guy with dreads playing the acoustic. She should be close by. I told them I called you.” He warily glances down at her sisters, none of which look too pleased to see me.
Juno leaps to her feet and gets right up in my face, our noses nearly touching. “This is your last chance, Texas,” she warns, her blue eyes piercing through me. Grabbing my hand, she flips it palm-side up and shoves a key inside it. “A key to her house. Make sure she gets there safely and figure out how you’re going to make this all right. If for some reason you don’t want this—if you don’t want her—you need to walk out of here right the fuck now and never look back. You got it?”
“I got it, and I’m not leaving here without her,” I assure her before lumbering toward the back door, my mind focused on one goal.
I don’t hear any music once I’m on the back deck, nor do I see any dude with dreads, but it takes me less than a fraction of a fucking second to locate Hudson out in the center of the yard, huddled with a group of people around a small bonfire. With her back to the fire—and me—her waist-long blond hair blows wildly in the winter wind as she sits in someone else’s lap, their chests pressed against each other, her face nuzzled up in his neck. I can’t make out what his face looks like from here, but I already hate it.
As I make a beeline in her direction, my upper and lower teeth clench together so fiercely, so tightly, I’ll definitely be seeing a doctor about TMJ after tonight. I remind myself to try to stay calm, especially after my explosive reaction to seeing her with Beckham. The last thing I want her to think is I’m some out-of-control maniac; that would completely negate all of the positive things I’ve been working on. But, fuck, I really want to punch whoever the hell that dude is.
The smell of pot grows stronger the closer I get to the circle, and as I move over near where she is, I notice several joints being passed around the loop. Luckily, there’s an open seat to the left of her and fuckface, so instead of barreling up to her and making a big scene, I lower myself onto the vinyl fold-out lawn chair, trying my damnedest to reel in the frenzied fury racing through my veins before I open my mouth.
Pulling the brim of the hat down lower over my eyes, my knee bounces erratically as they break apart for the guy to accept a doobie from a girl on the other side, and the pool of lava deep in my gut burns even hotter. I have no idea what to expect from her when she sees me, but based on her inability to hold her head up on her own at the moment, I’m not sure it’ll even happen.
She’s tanked.
The guy—who really does look like a white Bob Marley, especially once I see the ponytail of dreadlocks dangling down his back—takes a few puffs off the joint then blows the smoke directly into her mouth from his, just like she used to do for me. I think I may be sick.
Bursting into a fit of drunk giggles, she throws her head back at something he whispers in her ear, and to keep her from falling off his lap, he circles his free arm around her thin waist and hauls her up closer to sit directly on top of his dick. My hands ball up into angry fists and I exhale an impatient breath, waiting…begging for her to look over at me. I’m not going to be able to keep quiet much longer.
Finally, Marley boy turns to me and extends his arm out to pass the weed. I pretend not to notice at first, making him nudge my shoulder and address me, which in turn gets her attention.
“Hey, dude, here you go.” The guy lifts the lit joint up in front of my face. “It’s all yours.”
I don’t reply, because I’m too busy staring at Hudson, who is now staring directly at me as well. Her glazed-over, bloodshot eyes narrow on me, and after a couple of seconds, a wide grin spreads across her face.
“Wait a minute! I know you!” she slurs while pointing at me, the goofy smile still intact.
I nod, keeping my face expressionless. I hate seeing her torn up like this, and knowing the way I’ve treated her most likely has something to do with the reason why, it fucking kills me. For Christ’s sakes, she’s so fucked up she doesn’t even know who I am right now.
“I know you too,” I reply softly, the edge of my mouth kicking up in a small apologetic smile.
“What are you doing he—” She starts to ask me one question, but then gets distracted and points at my shirt. “Hey! You aren’t wearing an ugly sweater! Why not?”
Glancing down at my plain black fleece hoodie, I lift my eyes back to meet hers. “No, I’m not planning on staying long. I just came to pick someone up.”
She curls her little nose up in disapproval and shakes her head, again nearly toppling to the ground. “Pick someone up? It’s too early to go home. I’m having such a great time here with,” she stops talking and looks over at the guy, obviously trying to remember his name, and then shrugs her shoulders when she gives up seconds later, “all these fun friends with ugly sweaters.”
I shift my gaze over to her nameless fun friend and look at him in a way that clearly says, ‘This little game is up. I’m gonna take my girl home now, and if you ever think about laying one of your piece-of-shit hands on her again, I’ll make sure you don’t play the guitar for a long fucking time.’
Guy language is a fucking miraculous thing, ‘cause it takes homeslice less than five seconds to read between my raised eyebrows to figure out it’s in his best interest to return what belongs to me. And she fucking belongs to me.
Hudson’s still babbling about something to do with the sweaters as Marley guy stands up, sliding her off his lap and onto her feet in front of him, except she’s so unsteady she staggers sideways and trips over a random branch, falling to the ground with a loud, “Owww.”
Being the only sober person around, my reaction time is light-years faster than anyone else’s, and I’m at her side in a matter of seconds, picking her up in my arms and shuffling her over to the chair I was just in. I sit her down and immediately begin to check her all over. The only place I can find any injuries is a good-sized scrape on her forearm, and although it’ll need to be cleaned and bandaged, I’m relieved not to find anything serious. And based on her near-comatose state, she’s not feeling any pain right now anyway.
I scan the small crowd that has gathered close to make sure Hudson’s okay, hoping to find the guy she was with so I can find out what she’s been drinking before I give her any medicine for the pain, but he’s nowhere to be found, probably hiding out from my wrath, which is a pretty smart move right about now.
Scooping her up in my arms, I’m cautious to keep the abrasion from rubbing up against anything as I carry her half-alert body across the backyard and into the house. I stop where Rory and Hudson’s three sisters are waiting to hear what happened.
“She’s okay, other than a scrape on her arm. I doubt she’ll remember any of this tomorrow anyway,” I assure them, peering down at her as I squeeze her even closer to me. “I’m gonna take her home now and get her fixed up. I know there’s some ointment and bandages in the bathroom cabinet. If I can’t find what I need, I’ll wake up Mel and Doug.”
They all nod their approval, and before I take her out to my truck, each of her sisters kisses her cheek or forehead and tells her they love her, but she’s passed out cold. I don’t say anything, ‘cause it’s probably best I don’t, but I want to tell them they should’ve done a better job watching out for her if they love her so damn much. That fucking tool could’ve done anything he wanted with her, and no matter how much she hates me, I know Hudson wouldn’t want that. That’s not who she is.
Her eyes stay closed throughout the entire trip to her house, only fluttering open when I lift her out of the truck and cradle her against my chest. She peers up at me through her heavy lids and sighs contently, then closes her eyes and buries her face in my sweatshirt without saying a word.
Using the key, I quietly let us in the front door and take her to her room, gingerly lowering her into the bed and removing her boots. Once I’m certain she’s settled and comfortable, I retrieve a cool, damp cloth, antibacterial cream, and a bandage from the bathroom in the hall, again careful not to make too much noise.
As gently as I possibly can, I doctor her up, cleaning, treating, and covering the scuff, all while she stays asleep. After I put everything away, I realize I should leave her to rest, but I can’t help myself and end up lying down next to her on the mattress to watch her sleep. She’s so fucking beautiful.
Memories flood my mind from the different times I’ve laid in this exact spot next to her, and though most are associated with good times—some fucking amazingly good—it’s the most recent memory that fills me with overwhelming regret and remorse. The way I treated her in the days after Caleb’s funeral is inexcusable, no matter what had just happened. She was hurting from losing him too, and instead of grieving with her, I only added to her pain by shutting her out.
God, I really fucked up.
Reaching my hand out, I tenderly trace my fingertips over her flawless facial features—along her cheekbones, down her nose, across her lips—praying I get another chance to show her what she means to me, to prove to her that I want nothing more than to be with her. She’s my happiness. My snow angel.
“This feels like a dream,” she murmurs without opening her eyes, “and I don’t ever want to wake up.”
My heart swells with hope as I continue to skim my fingers over her porcelain skin. “You’re my dream, Hudson,” I whisper softly.
Neither of us says another word, and after about an hour or so, once I’m sure she’s good and asleep, I begrudgingly crawl off the bed. As much as I want to stay with her all night, I know I can’t. Her waking up hung over, only to find me asleep in bed next to her, may end in serious bodily injury on my part. I’d rather my apology speech be violence and vomiting-free.
