“The fuck you are.”
If I didn’t catch that she was angry from her swearing—Mirabelle rarely said anything coarser than asshole—then I’d surely be able to tell from the bright fury sparking from her eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t. I’ve been watching you. I saw you talking to Melissa. And I know you’ve been with her before. Then she goes off, and you get all whispery with Tim? This is my wedding weekend, Hudson. I can’t even look at you right now.”
She knew, she had to. There was no other reason for her to be outraged. Honestly, attempting to play her friend was shitty on my part. But, like any addict, I continued to deny. “Mirabelle, I really don’t have any idea what this is about.”
“You know what? Fuck you.” Her small frame shook as she crossed her arms in front of her. “Fuck you, and I don’t want you here anymore right now. I want you to leave.”
The pool house counted as leaving, right?
“But so help me God, if you fuck with my friends tonight or tomorrow or during any of my wedding stuff, I will never be able to forgive you.”
“Seriously? I—”
“Yes, seriously!” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want you here right now. Go.”
I wanted to argue more, but what exactly could I say? She’d pegged me correctly. And it wasn’t my intention to ruin Mirabelle’s rehearsal. “Fine. I’ll go.”
She kept her eyes on me, so heading to the pool house now was out of the question. I pushed past her instead and snagged a bottle of Scotch from the bartender before storming toward the house. I didn’t allow myself to think. Not until I got far enough away that I didn’t do anything I’d regret.
Getting off the premises, however, proved problematic. The driveway was too packed to get my car out, so it looked like I was on foot. There was nowhere for me to go if I went toward the highway. So taking a path on the side of the house opposite from the party, I crept down to the gazebo at the edge of our land. Though it had a nice view over the ocean, it was rarely used. Too far from the convenience of household help, I supposed. Mirabelle and I had used it a lot growing up though. It had made a nice escape when Sophia grew too difficult—or drunk—to tolerate.
It seemed fitting that I ended up there.
The stairs creaked as I climbed in the rotunda. I settled on the wood bench and undid my tie. The breeze came in and out like the waves of the ocean below. I nursed my Scotch and let the shit settle in my mind.
God, Melissa with her double G’s and tight pussy. Right about now, she was probably pissed and about ready to throw her clothes back on. Then Timothy would show up. They’d likely think I set it up that way, for them to find each other and fuck each other’s brains out. I’d never thought I’d be jealous of that prick of a guy.
But disappointment and irritation at the forced end of my fun didn’t last long. Their disappearance left space for a heavier emotion—shame. I felt certain that Mirabelle wasn’t aware of the extent of my games, that she thought she’d just caught me fucking around with an engaged woman. It wasn’t really the biggest of deals. Except I’d let her down. I’d hurt her. That realization was not one I wanted to dwell on. It was too raw, too uncomfortable. Like an ice-cold wind slicing across my skin, stinging and chafing.
I let the Scotch burn through the chill and searched for something else to occupy my mind. Soon I found my thoughts returning to the disclosure from my mother earlier. It was strange to think about what her life had been like once before. That she’d been a happier woman. That she’d believed in her future with my father. Was it so simple to say that her entire life had been ruined because her father had wanted her betrothed to prove himself? That, in turn, Jack—out of love for his new bride—threw himself into doing just that? That the time apart the work caused led to the estranged relationship, the drinking, the cheating?
And if events had been different, if they’d managed to find the balance in their worlds and maintained a healthier relationship, would I have still been the way I was?
It was pointless to dwell on it. There would never be an answer.
Likely, my parents would still have been fucked up even if he’d stayed for the whole honeymoon. And I would still be exactly like I was. Why was I complaining, anyway? It was my superpower, wasn’t it? Not feeling.
Lately, though, it didn’t seem like a superpower. It was more like a distraction. A constant whirring in my head that begged for explanation. Pushed me to examine and study and scheme. Drove me crazy. Or was I already crazy to begin with?
Wasn’t that the question of the century?
“Hudson?” Mirabelle’s soft call startled me out of my spiraling speculation. I didn’t answer, but she continued toward me anyway, climbing up the stairs and then leaning against the arch of the entry. “Here you are.”
“Here I am.” Though her demeanor was calmer than it had been, I wasn’t happy to have been found. It surely meant there’d be talking. Fuck, how I hated that. I couldn’t exactly send her away though. And it had been my actions that led to this. Consequences.
The light was out in the gazebo, and Mirabelle blocked the moon behind her, so I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. Was she still mad? Hurt? Or did she come to apologize?
Finally, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and said, “Mother’s drunk.”
Huh. Not even focused on me, then. “Are you surprised?”
“No. I was hopeful, though. She’d had a good day.” Her tone was melancholy, and I knew if I could see her eyes, they’d be sad.
I didn’t understand sad. But I didn’t like it when Mirabelle was. I tried to be consoling. “Parties are the easiest time for her to drink without anyone noticing. Everyone’s drinking.”
“True.”
She stepped forward and sat on the bench next to me. That meant she was staying. It didn’t leave much chance of escaping more reprimand from the earlier incident.
“You should be with your guests.” I took a sip from the bottle of Scotch and tried to appear nonchalant about my suggestion to leave.
She wasn’t biting. “You’re my guest.”
“You have more important guests than me.”
“I don’t think so.” She mirrored my posture, looking out over the ocean. “Besides, we need to talk.”
I pretended not to know what topic she thought should be discussed. “If you need last-minute marriage advice, you know what I’ll say—don’t get married.”
“You’re an ass. And no. I’d never come to you for marriage advice. You’ll come to me, though. I’m calling that now.” She swung her foot in a rhythmic sway that seemed in time with the ocean waves.
“Uh-huh.” The hell I was ever getting married. Though marriage seemed more likely than falling in love. Telling that to Mirabelle would be another impossible conversation. Really, any way I looked at it, there was an uncomfortable discussion about to take place.
I decided to dive in and get it over with. “Look, we don’t need to talk about earlier. Lapse in judgment. That’s all.”
It was so quiet I could hear her swallow. “No. We don’t need to talk about earlier,” she agreed quietly, much to my surprise. “But there’s something else.”
Well, that had been easy. With her soft disposition and her somber mood, I had a pretty good guess at what she wanted to say instead. The typical, I love you, you’re a good brother even though you tried to drown me when I was seven and screw my bridesmaid at my wedding rehearsal, all the bullshit things that sweet, naïve sisters say to their siblings on the eve of superficially important occasions like their weddings.
But she stunned me again. “Hudson, I need to talk to you about an intervention.”
Really? Tonight? I’d wondered how long before someone tried to sober up our mother. I did not think it would happen in the middle of my sister’s wedding. “Shouldn’t Chandler and Dad be here? They have just as much effect on our mother as I ever would. If not more.”
&n
bsp; “Not for Mother.” She stopped the swing of her feet. “For you.”
I laughed. “This probably seems unconvincing when I’m drinking straight from the bottle, but I’m not an alcoholic.” Sure, that was what all alcoholics said. Still, I’d never gotten drunk or sloppy. It was hardly believable that Mirabelle really thought I had a problem. I laughed again. Seriously? “Besides, aren’t there supposed to be lots of people at these things?”
“Well, they’re supposed to be formed of a group of people that the addict—that’s you—loves and will listen to. I happen to think that I’m the only one who could possibly say anything that matters. At least, I’m hoping that I can say anything that matters.” She was so solemn, so intense.
I sighed and tried to address her with equal earnestness. “I don’t have a drinking problem, Mirabelle.”
She chuckled politely. “I don’t think you have a drinking problem, Hudson. Get real.” Her somberness returned. “But I do think you have a problem. A very different kind of problem.”
My heart skipped a beat, my mind immediately jumping to the game. There was nothing else that I did, nothing else that I had in my life. But how could she even know about that? There were occasions that my experiments had come back home. Tonight, for example. The result of a few bad choices on my part. Perhaps that’s what she meant?
I played ignorant. I was ignorant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I took another swallow of my Scotch. It didn’t calm me the way that I’d hoped.
“Let’s not dance around it, Hudson. I don’t know the word for it anyway. There might not even be one. But I’m aware. I see it. I see what you do to people. How you…handle them. Like earlier tonight, but this is hardly the first time. Or the fifth. Or even the fiftieth, I’d bet. It’s cruel behavior. It’s destructive. And I don’t just mean to the people you do it to. But to you. It’s destroying you.”
They were the only words I had, so I repeated them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice was weaker than before, though. I had zero conviction.
“You do know. And you don’t have to say anything. I don’t need to hear excuses or details. What I need is for you to hear me.” She fell down on her knees in front of me and grasped my empty hand between both of hers. “Hear me, Hudson. You are not who you think you are. There is more in you than you suspect. More to you than the mind games that I think absorb your life. I see it. I feel it. And not because I’m a hopeless optimist, but because this other part of you is very, very real.”
I started to pull my hand away, a jerk reaction, but she held it steady. “Don’t. I won’t let you break away from me, Hudson. You can’t. I’m invested in you, even if you aren’t invested in yourself. And I’m about to start a new life. One that might possibly push me further away from you, and here’s the thing—I can’t go if I don’t know you’re okay. I can’t move my world from yours until I know you aren’t going to destroy your own.”
My throat tightened. It felt like I should say something, but there weren’t words. And inside, where I usually felt empty, my chest burned. Uncomfortable, like indigestion, but even more constrictive. Like something was stirring around in there, stealing the space to breathe, about to explode out of me.
Mirabelle dug her fingers into my skin, her nails pleading as much as her words. “So will you do it? Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me you’ll quit. Tell me that you’re going to try. For me, if for no one else. Please, tell me.”
I could tell her to fuck off. I could tell her whatever she wanted to hear just to get her off my back. I could try to explain to her what the game really was, so that she could understand that it wasn’t actually a problem.
But the truth was that it was a problem. The experiments had become an obsession. I lived and breathed for them. And none of them, not a single one, ever taught me what I really wanted to know, which was why the hell I felt so goddamned empty.
So I said the only word I could. “Okay.”
“You mean that?”
I nodded, speech not easy through my clenched throat.
Her face crumpled, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she bit her lip. She nodded a few times. Finally, in a choked voice, she said, “Thank you.”
She crawled up into my lap then, her legs to one side, and hugged me, like she used to when we were younger.
I let her.
I even hugged her back. Reluctantly at first, and then with a bear-tight grip.
“Thank you,” she said when she finally broke away. She scrambled off my lap to the bench beside me. She dabbed again at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cry. I figured you’d take me more seriously if I remained together. But, that’s not me, I guess. Anyway. You have an appointment tomorrow.”
“An appointment tomorrow? With who?”
“A psychiatrist. Dr. Alberts. He’s an expert in experiential avoidance and a bunch of other big words that basically mean ‘aloof.’”
Other big words like sociopath?
“He’s situated in the city,” she continued, “but he makes house calls, and he agreed to come out here to meet you at ten. I arranged it before tonight even happened, Hudson. So don’t think I’m just reacting to this one incident.”
That she’d had this planned all along left a sour taste in my mouth. I hated that she’d formed an opinion about me, and then I’d proven her right. It was almost as though she’d played her own game, formed her own hypothesis, and she’d guessed correctly. Having the tables turned wasn’t my idea of a good time.
Besides that, I’d agreed to being intervened, so to say, but I’d thought it would be on my own terms. I could decide the course of my treatment. Not her. I used the obvious for my protest, “It’s your wedding day.”
“And this is my wedding present. From you.” She was even giddy about it.
“My wedding present was to not work all week.” But I already knew I’d meet with her specialist.
“This is another wedding present. You got me two.” She swiftly pecked my cheek. “Thanks, big bro.” And I was the master manipulator.
“What have you done to me, Mirabelle?”
“Good things, Hudson. I’ve done good things. Just wait and see.” She stared at my profile for several seconds. I felt her gaze like it was her hands that touched my skin. When she seemed satisfied with what she saw, she said, “But I’m going to go back to the party now and let you stay here and mope or mull or whatever really boring antisocial thing it is you like to do. Brood. That’s what you do.”
“I don’t brood.”
“Well, whatever you do, I’ll leave you to it now.” She stood, her skirt swirling in the light breeze. At the stairs, she looked back. “Ten tomorrow morning. In the study. Dr. Alberts is coming. Be there.”
“Where else would I be? Organizing the flowers with Mother?”
“Good point.” She gave me another bright smile, this time adding a wink. “I love you, brother. Thanks for making my wedding everything I ever dreamed.”
There it was. The typical words for the occasion. It made me smile a bit as well.
She blew me a kiss then skipped off into the night.
I sat on that bench for a long time after. I sipped my Scotch. And I cried. Sobbed for the first time that I could remember. There was no feeling behind the tears, just release. It was cathartic. It was a start.
Maybe it was even the beginning of the road to more.
Chapter Twenty-One
After
I wake to an empty bed. I should be used to it by now, having woken up the last several days alone. Each of those nights had been restless, sleep hard to come by without the warmth of the woman I’ve come accustomed to wrapping around in slumber.
Except I came home from Japan earlier tonight and reunited with Alayna, so my bed should not be empty. I’m so in tune with her that, despite several days apart, her absence can be felt even in my sleep.
I find her in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, her face pale and
eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”
She jumps slightly at my voice, then peers over her shoulder at me. I don’t miss that she scans my naked body. My dick thickens a bit at her eyes, yet I ignore it, crossing to her. “Are you okay?”
There’s a moment of hesitancy before she says, “I just had a bad dream, and now I can’t sleep.”
Her reluctance to say more worries me. It’s only a dream, but after everything we’ve just been through, we have to be more open with each other. I need her to share this with me, if for no other reason than to feel like we are making progress.
I prod her gently. “Want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head then says, “Yes. But later.”
That, I can live with. Meanwhile, I start her a bath and agree without pause when she invites me to join her.
A few minutes later, we’re settled in a warm tub, Alayna sitting between my legs, her back to my chest. I hold her and think for the first time in my life that I understand happiness. It’s a truly different feeling than being sexually sated. We are naked, and I’m definitely aroused. I’ll have to be inside her before our bath is over. I’ll need to lick the wet drops of water from her breasts, need to fill her tight pussy with my cock. But it’s not a requirement. Touching her, holding her, being in her world—that’s where this peaceful bliss originates.
Also, we talk. We connect with words. It’s a strange thing for both of us to communicate openly, without fear of judgment, without regret. It will take getting used to, but we begin to try. I’m profoundly excited about this new start.
I even begin to forget about the one secret that I’ve held from her. I’ve worried whether I should tell her, then I’ve worried she’d find out. Now the worry starts to fade. Perhaps it’s not that big of an issue. I can keep it buried, and, as I learn to live with it, I can maybe stop letting it affect the way I am with Alayna. Possibly I could tell her how I really feel. Tell her that I love her without the guilt preventing the words.
But then Alayna asks a very unexpected question. “What happened between you and Stacy?”
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