Somehow, though, I manage to turn away. Because that’s what she wants. And after all that I’ve taken from her, this I can give her—I walk out the door and leave.
The only thing that keeps me alive for the next few days is my commitment to making sure Alayna is surviving. I spend Monday morning getting the battery charges against Alayna dropped and finalizing details over GlamPlay with Norma. I’ve kept Jordan on duty, watching Alayna from afar in case Celia decides to try anything, and I check in with him often. I order a Kindle and start loading Alayna’s favorite books on it, so she’ll have something to do besides obsess and be sad. Those are my tasks this time. I’ll obsess about her instead of the other way around. I’ll be sad enough for both of us.
I call Liesl. I’m grateful to find that Alayna’s with her and not with David. I don’t give excuses. I don’t beg for another chance. I tell Liesl truths—that the police aren’t looking for Alayna, that her job is secure, that she can stay at the penthouse, that I’m here when she wants to talk. That I love her.
Liesl seems to care enough about Alayna to let me talk, though she scoffs at my proclamation of love. “She doesn’t want to hear that,” she says.
“It doesn’t make it any less true.”
I eat, but only because I need energy to keep fighting for Alayna. I don’t bury myself in Scotch, tempting as it may be. I’ll be no good for her like that. I don’t sleep. I ache. I feel. I try not to drown in my emotions.
When the pain gets too unbearable, I remind myself that hers is worse. I try to embrace the misery. It’s justice for what I’ve done. Consequences.
And I text her. I’m sure she’s not reading my messages, but it feels good to say the things that I want to say. I send so many that it seems our roles have reversed—I’ve become the stalker. I’m the one who can’t help myself. I tell her anything and everything.
I miss you, I say.
I heard that Phillip Phillips song on the radio today. You make it so easy…
Jack asked about you. You should call him sometime. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.
And so many times just, I love you.
God, I really fucking love her.
Tuesday, I call Dr. Alberts for an appointment. He says he’ll see me that day with the same conditions as previously given—I have to meet him at his office instead of mine. I agree.
It’s easier to talk to him now than it was before. Alayna opened gates in me that can never be closed again. I tell him everything. “She taught me how to feel,” I say, my eyes fixed on the smooth surface of his tray ceiling. “She taught me how to have emotions.”
Dr. Alberts doesn’t see it the way I do. “She didn’t teach you. You always knew how. You worked hard all this time trying to forget that. But you were never incapable. You created blocks when you were young to deal with the heartache that surrounded your family life. You didn’t feel because it was easier not to. It was a coping mechanism.”
I work my jaw as I consider this. There are memories that creep up on me sometimes, very specific ones from my youth, where my feelings are so bright they show through in my mind like a color. Reds and purples and greens. They’re few and far between, but they’re there. Were those remnants of the days before I learned to cope?
And if so, why didn’t Dr. Alberts say this to me before? I ask him.
“You weren’t ready to hear it. The question is, why do you think that you decided to let yourself now? You saw this woman from afar, and immediately, you were ready to take the first steps. Why?”
I’m certain Dr. Alberts isn’t the type to accept love at first sight as an answer. Honestly, I’m not either. I take a second to figure out what the answer really is. “She was familiar,” I say, finally. “I recognized that she’d struggled. And yet she’d come out okay. It was beautiful about her, and I wanted to get to know it more. I wanted that for myself.”
“And you realized to get that, you had to start to feel again.”
“I guess so.” It’s oversimplified. But isn’t everything?
It occurs to me that I have other questions that are in need of simple answers. Questions that my therapist may be able to put to rest. I sit up, and meet him face-to-face. “I’d been okay without playing people anymore. Why did I decide that I had to play the game to get close to Alayna?”
He steeples his fingers and rests his chin against them. “Why do you think?”
“Because I didn’t know any other way to relate to people.” It’s the reason I’ve clung to, anyway.
“I imagine there’s truth to that.” He thinks for a moment. “And you liked to do it, Hudson. Maybe you don’t anymore—it sounds like you’ve overcome that addiction—but you did. The rush it gave you was a substitute for the real emotions that you’d buried inside. You manipulated Alayna because a part of you wanted to.”
It’s hard to hear, and I start to object. But then I stop myself. Because he’s right. There was a part of me that wanted exactly that. Wanted to feel the racing of my heart as I attempted to guess how she’d behave. Wanted the reward of predicting her. I’d felt a rush the moment I’d seen her, and the game was the way I knew to recapture it. That thrill had quickly been replaced with the thrill of falling in love.
But that first yes—when I’d told Celia I’d play—that was wrong. I had no excuse. I was to blame.
Dr. Alberts recognizes my thought process. “Acceptance is the first step to moving on, Hudson. It’s why you could never fully recover before—because you never really accepted the blame for your actions. This is great progress. Talking about it, sharing what you’ve done with those close to you will help as well. I recommend you work on that next.”
Since he has no patients scheduled after me, Dr. Alberts lets me stay for two hours. Since we’re in his office and not mine, no one interrupts. I forget about work. I concentrate on me. With his help, I work through many life-long questions I’ve had about myself. It’s eye-opening. Liberating.
The one thing he can’t answer, though, is the one thing I want to know most: Is there any chance Alayna can ever forgive me?
Chapter Twenty-Six
On Wednesday, Mirabelle stops by my office. I’ve cancelled most of my non-urgent appointments, so I’m available to see her. I ask Patricia to send her back.
My sister’s face is serious. I know it’s not her health—she would have called if there were any new threats to her or the baby. I have to assume she’s here about Alayna.
“I’m guessing you’ve talked to her,” I say as she settles into the armchair in my seating area.
Her brow furrows. “Talked to who? Mom?”
“No, I meant Alayna.” I grab a bottle of water from my mini-fridge and hand it to her before taking a seat on the couch. “Aren’t you here about her?”
“I am now.” Her eyes narrow mischievously. “What’s going on?”
I’ll have to tell her eventually. But I don’t know if I can talk about it. Not yet. I scrub my hand over my face. “Forget I said anything.”
“Uh, that’s not happening.” She leans forward and places her hand on my knee. “Hudson?” I shake my head, but, as always, she reads me. “Oh, God. What happened? Tell me.”
“She…” I take a deep breath in and blow it out before I can go on. “She left me, Mirabelle.”
“No way.” She studies me. “You’re serious.”
How I wish I wasn’t. “I told her everything she wanted to know, and she left me.” It’s no easier saying it this time than it was a moment ago. My voice catches on the words. Not only am I now able to feel, but it also appears that I’m unable to keep my feelings hidden.
“I’m sure you’re overreacting. People fight. You’ll get past this.”
I don’t want to argue with her. I’d rather let her hope for the best. I’m still hoping, after all. So I simply say, “Anything’s possible, I suppose.”
“But you don’t really believe that.” She tilts her head and stares at me with sympathetic eyes. “Oh,
Hudson, what happened? Maybe I can help.”
I know she can’t help, and that’s why I don’t intend to tell her. But then I remember what Dr. Alberts said about opening up to those close to me. To see progression in my therapy, I have to work for it. And I want to see progression. I don’t know if there’s any chance at all that Alayna and I can be together again, but if there is, I know that I need to be the best man possible. The best me possible.
So, for the second time in two days, I tell the story. It’s harder to share with Mirabelle. She doesn’t hide the disappointment in her features. She frequently brushes tears from her eyes, but she listens without interrupting.
When I’m finished, she lets out a breathy sigh. Then she says, “Fuck you, Hudson.”
I’m surprised—not because I don’t deserve the cursing, but because I didn’t expect it. Not from her.
“I love you. I really do.” Her voice is heavy with emotion. “And I’m always going to be here for you, but you really fucked up this time. And if you don’t recognize that, then there’s no hope for you.”
I bow my head. I can’t look at her anymore. Her disapproval hurts almost as much as Alayna’s. “I recognize it. Fully.”
She won’t look at me. “That’s something at least.”
“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
“I don’t doubt it.” There’s a bite to her words. They’re pointed and sharp. They leave marks on me.
I always thought of myself as well-armored. Nothing could get in. And now when I really look, I see the scars. Feel their jagged edges across every inch of my body. Can everyone see them? Can Mirabelle?
I’m broken and mangled, but it’s suddenly important to me that she knows I’m trying to stand again. “Losing her, Mirabelle, it’s…it’s hitting bottom. I’m seeing Dr. Alberts again. I tried to change when you sent me before, but now—now I want it.”
Finally, she looks at me. There’s an edge of kindness in her gaze and a pinch of pity. “I’m glad to hear that, Hudson. I really am. I only want the best for you. And I sincerely believe you can be a different man if you want to be.”
“I do.” I want it retrospectively. Why couldn’t I have been a different man before I met Alayna? If I’d tried harder to change before, then could I have been ready to meet her as my best self?
It’s hopeless to dwell on what-ifs. Yet they sneak in anyway. I let my head fall back and close my eyes.
Mirabelle moves to sit next to me. Without saying a word, she runs her fingers through my hair. It’s soothing. Hypnotic.
I swallow past the tight ball in my throat. “I fucked up, but I genuinely love her.”
“I know.” Her voice is gentle now. “She’s not the only reason you want to change, is she?”
“Possibly.” It’s not the right answer, but it’s the truth.
Mirabelle’s hand only pauses for a half-second before resuming her calming strokes across my scalp. “Because I don’t know that you can win her back. This is…it’s bad, Hudson. There may be no moving on from this.”
I force a laugh. “The queen of love-conquers-all has doubts? Man, I’m really fucked.”
“I’m just being honest.” She leans her head against my shoulder. “And I want you better with or without her.”
I can’t imagine a without her. Even while we’re apart, she’s still so present in my life. I know what Mirabelle means, but I simply can’t let myself think like that. “It won’t be a problem. I won’t ever stop loving Alayna. I need to be ready in case she ever changes her mind.” When she changes her mind.
“Hudson. I’m so mad at you.” Mirabelle sits up and punches her fist into my chest. It’s a heavy enough hit, though I barely feel it through the pain that already encompasses me. I wish she’d hit me again, actually. Wish she’d beat me to a pulp.
She doesn’t. Instead, she lays her palm flat against me and lays her head back on my shoulder. “And I’m so heartbroken. For both of you. I love that girl too, you know.”
“I know.” I’m not usually the type to cuddle up with my little sister, but I don’t know who I am “usually” anymore. So I wrap my arm around her tiny frame and pull her in closer. We sit like this, both of us mourning our loss.
Then she bolts up. “Ah, shit! My opening! Laynie’s supposed to be a model. She’ll probably back out now.”
“If I’m there, yes, I’d bet she does cancel.” I’d thought about this. There’s nothing I haven’t thought about regarding Alayna. But my next words are not premeditated. “I won’t come.”
Mirabelle looks at me, seeming to gauge my seriousness. When she realizes that I’m completely genuine, she says, “I know I should try to argue, but honestly? I don’t want to. Don’t hate me.”
“I understand. She’s your model. You need her. I know she wants to be there for you. So please, let me back out.” I also hope it’s something that will get Alayna out of her shell. Something that will remind her how to keep living. It’s not about Celia winning or losing anymore—Alayna has to survive because I will not be the person who destroyed her.
“Okay. I’ll let you back out. You’re banned from the premises on Saturday.” The gleam in her eyes says she understands the entirety of my motivation. “I mean it though. You can’t change your mind and show up.”
“I won’t. Scout’s honor.” Like I was ever a scout. Like I ever had honor.
I reach up to erase the smudge her earlier tears have left under her eye. I’m suddenly moved by this beautiful creature. Besides Alayna, she’s the one person who has been able to see something more in me than what I put on display. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never told her as much.
So I tell her now. “I could never hate you, Mirabelle. I love you. I want you to be happy. I want you to be proud to be my sister. As proud as I am to be your brother. You’ve often been the only support I’ve had. The only one who’s believed in me. I hate that you’re looking at me now with disappointment.”
Her eyes well, but she smiles. “I’m disappointed, Hudson. I am. But it doesn’t mean I’m not proud to be your sister. I love you, too. Don’t give up on her. More importantly, don’t give up on yourself. I never will.”
She hugs me, and I let her.
For a few minutes, anyway. I’m the one who pushes out of her embrace. It feels too good, and feeling good is not on my agenda. My mind wanders back to the person it never really leaves. “Alayna might still back out of the opening, you know. Even without me there.”
“I know.” Her tone says she’s not concerned. If anyone can convince Alayna otherwise, it’s Mirabelle. “I’m going to think optimistically. And I’m going to be optimistic about the two of you too. I don’t think I’ll let her know that I know what happened. She could be really embarrassed about this. Maybe she’ll feel more comfortable if she isn’t worried about what I think about it all.”
“That’s insightful.” I hadn’t even considered she might be humiliated. But of course she is. She’d been duped by an asshole. “I’ll support however you want to play it.”
I cringe at my choice of words. “I’ll support whatever you say, I mean.”
She catches my correction. With a sad smile, she reaches up to tousle my hair. “You’re a good guy, Hudson. You did a really shitty thing, but you’re still a really good guy.” A tear slips down her cheek. She wipes at it with zest. “God, I have to get out of here. I’m too hormonal for this crap.”
“You’re fine.” I stand though and help her up beside me. Then I remember, “But was there another reason you came by?”
“Oh yeah. There was. There is. I’m telling you—hormone-brain is crazy.” She shifts her weight onto one leg and bites at her lip. “Anyway, I hate to bring this up after all that you’re going through, but there’s something important, and I need your help.”
I hate that she’s nervous about asking. Doesn’t she know I’d do almost anything for her? “Of course. What is it?”
“It’s Mom. She’s in trouble.”
Now I understand her hesitancy. “She’s been in trouble for a long time.” Longer than any of us.
Mirabelle nods. “And we haven’t been there for her. It’s time that we are.”
“Are you staging another intervention?” The look on her face answers the question for me. “Ah, you are.”
“You think it’s stupid?”
I’m surprised we’ve never discussed this before. All these years we’ve just let Sophia live as though her drinking wasn’t a big deal. As though it was normal. Because we’d never known her any other way, it actually was normal. It was the normal we knew, anyway.
But we’d grown up. Somewhere along the way, we realized that her behavior wasn’t healthy or sane. And still we’d done nothing.
Mirabelle’s right when she says it’s time we did something. “It’s not at all stupid,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
Hope shines in her eyes. “Really, you think so?”
“I do.
“Thank you. That’s really a relief.” It shows. Her shoulders relax, and she stops nipping at her bottom lip.
Once again, Mirabelle moves me. I draw her into a hug. “I don’t know how you ended up surrounded by such broken and battered souls. We don’t deserve you. But I honestly believe none of us would have made it as far as we have if it hadn’t been for you holding us together. You’re our glue. You’re my glue.”
Jesus, when did I develop such diarrhea of the mouth?
Mirabelle nudges me with her elbow. “That was awfully poetic, Hudson. I’d say I didn’t know you had it in you, but that would be a lie. There’s hope for you yet.”
I’m not sure that’s true. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were?
That night, the weight of it all hits me. I’m in the loft, sitting on the couch in the dark, when pain rips through my chest like a bulldozer running me down. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t ache—my hands, my feet. My head throbs. Blood rushes in my ears. My heart pounds as if it’s going to burst from my chest. It bends me over, stealing my breath. I gasp for air in huge gulps that are half-sobs.
Complete Fixed: The Complete Fixed Series: Books 1-5 Page 121