by Erin Noelle
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.
Striding around to her side of the bed, I press my lips to her forehead in a goodnight kiss, and as I turn to leave, something shiny on her nightstand catches my attention. I inhale a jagged breath as I pick up the cracked cigarette case, and as I stare at it, my chest constricts with guilt. I will find a way to make this right. No matter what happens between us, I have to fix this.
I drop the case in my back pocket then tiptoe out of her room, closing the door behind me. My hope was to get out of the house completely unnoticed by anyone else, but as I turn to do just that, I’m met face-to-face with a smirking Grams.
“Come on, boy,” she orders, motioning for me to follow her. “It’s time we talked.”
A marching band of sumo wrestlers has taken up residence inside my head, and I’m pretty sure they’re rehearsing Metallica’s Enter Sandman over and over and over again. I’ve mentally begged them to stop for at least an hour, but they continue to ignore me. Fuckers.
The wad of sandpaper lodged in the back of my throat is worse than any cottonmouth I’ve ever experienced, and my eyelids feel like they’re sewn shut, refusing to open no matter how hard I will them to. Finally, when my expanding bladder threatens to burst, the invisible seal holding them together releases, and I’m able to slowly pry them apart.
The framed picture of my family sitting on my nightstand is the first thing that comes into focus, proving my suspicion that I am indeed at home. Weird. Wasn’t I supposed to stay the night at my sisters’ apartment? How did I end up here?
I move to slide off the bed, attempting to remember what happened last night, when every muscle and joint in my body screams out in agony, pleading for me not to move again. Good Lord, was I hit by a car? A semi, maybe? With the nosedive my life’s taken recently, I wouldn’t be surprised. And now, I’m seriously wondering what the fuck happened.
As I inch my way down to the floor and then creep at a snail’s pace toward the bathroom, I scroll through my memory log, trying desperately to pull up some recollection of last night—anything—but I’m drawing a big, fat blank after we left my house and showed up at the party.
I remember a lot of people being inside the house, more than I expected, and Dakota telling me only to take drinks from one of them as she handed me a red plastic cup filled with a slushie drink that tasted like frozen fruit punch with a bite. Then, we went outside, and there was music and a bonfire, and that’s about where it goes black. I’ve got nothing else. Must’ve been some bite.
If this is how drinking always makes you feel the next day, I’m not sure why in the hell anyone does it. Never once after smoking pot—and there have been nights I’ve been stoned silly—have I physically hurt the next day or gotten so fucked up that I blacked out.
This shit is terrible.
I bounce off something solid, my head ricocheting backwards. I crack a crusty eyelid. Brighton. Maybe Denver. Someone shorter than me.
“What’s wrong with you?” the smaller person asks.
Hunching over, grabbing their shoulders, I attempt to make eye contact, but all I can manage to get in my field of vision is a nose.
“Don’t. Ever. Drink.”
Then, I lurch past them, my only goal the bathroom with its porcelain shrine, where I feel the sudden need to worship.
Locking the bathroom door behind me, I fall onto the toilet in the most ungraceful of moves, wincing as the pain shoots sharply through my limbs and core. After I take the longest pee of my life, I stumble to the sink and splash ice-cold water over my face before daring to look in the mirror, not that it does anything to improve the scary image staring back at me.
Holy hot mess! I have been hit by a car!
The matted strands of my hair close to my face are sticking up in directions that defy gravity, and the long tendrils in the back are twisted and tied into a straw nest that I’m not sure a full bottle of detangler can handle. Mascar
a is smudged under both of my eyes, which are so swollen they’re merely slits resting atop my pale cheeks.
Last night’s clothes, sans the boots, hang limply on my frame, a stale smell coming from them—or maybe that’s just me. And the hideous reindeer dancing across my chest laugh at me, because they remember what happened, making me want to rip this damn sweater apart at the seams. Just squinting at myself is exhausting. If negative energy was a thing, that’s what I’d be feeling right now. Less than nothing.
Hangovers fucking suck.
Brushing my teeth takes ten times longer than normal, since every time my toothbrush ventures near the back of my mouth, I gag and lean my head over the toilet, spewing liters of red shit into the basin. I think some even comes out of my nose. It’s at this point I vow to never drink again in my life. One time was plenty for me.
Once I’m confident the volcano has finished erupting, I swallow four ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and chase them down with water from the sink. Twisting the knob firmly to the cold side, I slide out of my clothes with the least amount of movement possible, praying the needles of water will magically heal me.
Taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror right before stepping into the tub, I spy a bandage on my upper wrist that was hidden by the long sleeves of the sweater. Holding my breath, I hastily peel the bandage back to reveal a pretty nasty-looking, bloody scrape that appears to have been cleaned and covered in some cream. How did I do this? Who helped me? My sisters? Is that why they brought me home?
Panic rises inside me as the unanswered questions build up, and my hands shake as I pull back the shower curtain. As soon as I clean up, I’m calling Dakota to find out exactly what went down. But first, a shower.
None of them are answering their phones. Not calls, not texts, nothing. I peer down at my watch and note that it’s only a little before ten, so I assume they’re all still asleep, but still…I groan with frustration, quickly reaching the point of insanity as I mull over the possibilities of last night’s events.
That’s it. I’m going to their apartment. I don’t care if I have to beat down the damn door; I need to know, and I need to know now. Maybe I’ll stop and get doughnuts and coffees on the way as an upfront apology for waking them up. Yes, that’s perfect.
Yoga pants and a thermal is all I can muster up the energy to put on. My wet hair goes into a single braid, and I don’t bother with any makeup, not even my favorite strawberry lip balm. I can’t think coherently enough to try to impress anyone. I’m just happy to have found two matching shoes. Once I get some answers, I’m coming straight back home and sleeping the rest of the day away.
Grabbing my stuff, I head out to my car, but as soon as I walk outside, I see Grams walking up the front steps, toting one of the large plastic containers we use for transporting marijuana to The Green Halo.
“Grams! What are you doing carrying that by yourself? You could really get hurt.” Forgetting all about my aches and pains, I sprint over to her, taking the bulky bin out of her arms and setting it down on the porch.
Her eyes light up at the sight of me. “Oh, I’m fine, but I’m glad you’re up! I was just coming to see you.”
“You were? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” she assures, patting my shoulder lovingly. “Uncle Danny just called, and they’re almost out of three different sativa strands and running low on a couple of other hybrids, so he needs someone to bring him what we have available.” Her eyes drop to the car keys in one of my hands and my purse in the other, then flick back to my face. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Were you on your way out?”
Giving a slight nod, I shift my weight uncomfortably as I weigh how much I want to tell her. My family is usually cool as shit about this kind of stuff, as long as we’re never in danger or putting anyone else in danger, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.
“Yeah, uh, I was heading to the girls’ apartment. I left my phone with them after the party.”
“Oh, yes, right.” She nods, staring up at me with an amused look on her face. “I was surprised to hear you come in last night. I thought you were staying with them.”
Another nod as I bite my bottom lip nervously, and my gaze falls to the ground. I really suck at lying. “They brought me home, ‘cause I started not feeling well. Probably just ate too much at Christmas dinner.” I wrap my arms over my belly and make an ugly face, acting as if my stomachache is from too much food, not too much alcohol.
“Are you okay?” Her eyebrows pinch together with concern. “Feeling well enough to drive into town?”
“Yeah, much better now.” I pat my lower abdomen and smile, continuing the lying charades game I’m playing. “Good as new.”
Good as new? Shut up now, Hudson.
Her forehead relaxes and a happy smile replaces the taut frown, as if she’s buying every false word falling from my lips. “Then it’s a good thing they brought you home when they did.”
“Definitely. A great thing.” I rock back on my heels, blowing out an uneasy breath. “So you said you were on your way to see me?”
“I need you to drop that,” she tips her salt-and-pepper head toward the Rubbermaid resting at our feet, “off at the store for me. Your dad took a group out skiing this morning, your mom just left to go in town with the girls for some big sale they wanted to hit up, and I’m covering breakfast while trying to watch Denver. I’d take it myself and have you finish up breakfast if I could drive, but you know that’s not possible.”
Without a second thought, I squat down and pick the container back up in my arms, offering her what I hope is an easy grin. “No problem, Grams. The shop isn’t far out of my way at all. I’ll drop it off.”
“Thank you so much, love. I’ll see you when you get back. Tell them all I said hello.”
The drive to The Green Halo is unusually quiet. My head, though it feels much better, isn’t ready for music quite yet, and not to mention, I’m so caught up in my thoughts about what I’m going to say to my sisters that I don’t even recognize the silence until I’m parking the car in the employee area behind the building.
I grab the tan bin and hitch it up on my hip, toting it through the back entrance, which I gain access to with my thumbprint. Following the sound of voices from the sales area, I leave the container in the storeroom to go find Danny and ask him where he wants me to put the stuff. However, as I turn the corner to the hall that leads out front, I run smack dab into a hard chest, which sends two strong arms shooting out to help steady me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking whe—” I cut my apology short when my eyes land on Crew’s face, complete shock washing over me as I wiggle free of his grasp. “What are you doing here?"
He doesn’t answer me at first, appearing to be just as surprised as I am to run into each other. His gaze travels over the length of my body, as if he’s making sure it’s really me standing in front of him, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Then, as he locks his eyes back on mine, the corner of his mouth ticks up in a small smile, waging a serious war inside of me—my hopeful heart and traitorous body on one side, my sensible mind and self-respect on the other.
“Well? Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me, or tell me why you’re at my family’s shop?” I demand, my tone borderline rude.
His proud smile grows. “I’m working here now.”
“Working here?” I scoff, pinching my eyebrows together in disbelief. “Since when? What are you talking about?”
“Last week, I called Doug and asked if he could help me find a non-bartending job, if he knew anyone hiring, and he told me Danny was looking for some help. I’m guessing he didn’t tell you?”
My eyes grow wide as the nausea from earlier threatens to make a reappearance. “My dad hired you? Are you fucking serious? Am I on some prank show right now?” I spin around in a circle, waiting for people with cameras to jump out at any minute.
“No, this isn’t a damn TV show, Hudson. I’m really worki
ng here. After everything that happened with—” He blows out a long breath while brushing an unruly strand of hair out of his face.
I try not to stare at how his shirt pulls taut around his chest and biceps, but fail miserably. I'm supposed to be pissed off at him right now...I mean, I am pissed off at him. So why does it feel like a flock of geese have taken flight inside my belly? What is it about him that I find so captivating? Why do I want to forgive him before he’s even said he’s sorry? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“After everything that happened with you last week,” he continues his previous thought, ripping my gaze from his toned upper body and back to his cautious green eyes, “and everything going on with Mom, I realized I needed to pull my head out of my ass and get my life back together. So I quit my job at the pub and started working here.”
I do my best to wipe all emotion from my face as I whisper, "Were you going to tell me?"
Shifting his weight uncomfortably, he drops his focus to the ground. "When the time was right," he mumbles at his shoelaces.
My back straightens as I nod stiffly; a thousand questions teeter on the tip of my tongue, but I'm too scared to know the answers. Instead, I point over to where I left the bin and say, "Well then, you can let Danny know where I left that...since you work here and all now. I gotta get going."
Spinning around on my heel before he can say anything else—before he can break my heart any more than he already has—I scurry to the exit. As I push the door open, seconds before I reach the safety of the outdoors, he calls out, "Hey! How's your arm?"
"It’s fine," I answer absentmindedly, glancing back briefly over my shoulder before rushing out to my car.
Hurriedly, I buckle my seatbelt and stick the key in the ignition, wanting to get as far away from him as possible before I do something really stupid. Like go back inside and slap him. Or kiss him.