“Do you want to take a picture to jerk off to later?” I snap. He shakes his head, and as if he knows that will annoy me even more, he doesn’t respond to my question.
“I told your dad I’d drop off his power washer this morning. Borrowed it for the firehall spring cleaning day.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know. I just missed him. He texted me to let me know I could come in through the gate and put it in the shed.” The information hits me like something solid, making me sway on my feet. My dad and Hudson text each other? They’ve somehow become close enough that he lends Hudson his tools, trusts him to let him come over into the backyard unsupervised?
A burning pain radiates through my sternum, the hotsting of betrayal. After everything Hudson put me through, you’d think my own father would have enough allegiance to me to write him off the way I did. Shouldn’t my father feel the same rage I do? Shouldn’t he want vengeance for the way this man hurt his baby girl? I instantly know the answer to my question deep in the fibres of my being.
No.
Because my father has never felt as protective over me as he does for Claire. Had it been Claire in my shoes, I bet my father would have burnt this town to the ground in retribution.
“The shed is over there.” I place a hand on my hip and point to the back corner of the yard. Nowhere near the patio, or the French doors, or the spot where Hudson is standing.
His smirk is still there; it hasn’t faltered once while we’ve been standing here. He nods, retreating to put the power washer back in its rightful place. I don’t move a muscle. I stand on the porch, barefoot, arms still crossed in front of me, and watch him, so he knows not to try anything while he’s here.
When he reemerges from the wooden shed, he squints up at me in the sunlight and brushes the dust off his hands onto his jeans.
“I’ll get going then,” he says. I nod, flashing him a snarky, squinty smile, as if to sayYou think?“See you later.”
“Not if I can help it,” I mutter under my breath, as Hudson retreats around the side of the house. Once he’s out of sight, I go back inside, tail between my legs, to lick my wounds. Ease the sting of my humiliation.
I can’t get away from him. I knew coming back to Heartwoodwould bring up old memories and that I might bump into Hudson at some point, forcing me to make small talk. But this? I never could have predicted that he would be downright impossible to avoid. That he was so woven into every facet of my life, the version of me in Heartwood doesn’t even exist without Hudson.
I head upstairs and decide to take a shower, to wash off the feeling of Hudson’s ocean blue eyes roaming over my exposed skin in these flimsy pajamas.
Standing in the stream for longer than I normally do, I let the hot water scorch my skin, hoping it will cleanse me of any remnants of Hudson’s attention.
The image of him is seared into my eyelids, and I can see him clearly when I close my eyes—the way his blond waves caught the sunlight, a single curl falling over his forehead. The glimmer in his too-blue eyes as they took in my appearance, moved up and down over lengths of exposed skin. His plush, pink lips twisting upward. Pressure builds between my legs, and I squeeze my thighs together.
I catch myself before I let my mind wander any further down that path, and I twist the shower handle to change the water to cold, the shock of it making my breath catch in my throat. It wasn’t a hot shower I needed. I didn’t need to wash off the lingering feeling of Hudson’s gaze. I needed a cold jolt of reality. Because the sickest part about the whole thing? I didn’t hate having him look at me like that.
That’s the effect Hudson has on me. One look from him and my body betrays me. It always has.
Close to shivering, I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a plush white bath towel and cross the hall intomy room. The feelings warring inside me are challenging to navigate. I can’t tell if I want to kill Hudson or fuck him, and I realize how blurry the line is between those two emotions.
I’m buzzing with restless energy as I rifle through my clothes to select my outfit for the day. I grab a pair of denim cut-off shorts and a plain grey T-shirt. I brush out my wet hair, leaving it to air dry. And then I decide that my day is not going to be derailed by my embarrassing moment with Hudson. I’m going to do what I always do—I’m going to channel my feelings into productivity.
When I first got home, I hastily and haphazardly piled all my art supplies in the corner of my closet to make space on my desk for my laptop. I didn’t think I’d be needing any of them. Now, I silently curse myself as I root around to find my sketchbook and my old pencil case.
Once I get through the pile of paint tubes, brushes, and old rolled-up canvases, I find it. I brush the dust off the brown leather cover. The pages are thick and crinkled with watercolour paint, pastels, charcoal, and loose pages I’ve stuffed in between.
A pang of nostalgia flashes across my chest and leaves me feeling breathless and hollow. This book was so much a part of who I was—art was integral to my identity growing up. Looking at it now, I feel like it was a different lifetime. I hug the book to my chest, inhaling the earthy scent of leather, the metallic smell of charcoal.
This book served me well then, and it’s going to serve me well now. Once I locate my old pencils, I’m going to find an empty page to start brainstorming my design for the arts centre.Two worlds colliding—my artistic self of the past meeting my engineering self of today.
I finally find the floral quilted pencil case and head back out to the yard to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while I work. I take a seat on my mother’s reclining lounge chair and crack open the sketchbook to find a blank page. When I do, a few sheets of paper fall, fluttering to the ground. I pick them up hastily before the breeze can snatch them, and my heart stutters when I flip them over and see the sketches.
My eyes take in the smooth swoop of hair, the short pencil flicks forming soft eyebrow hairs, the delicate shading creating a distinct and recognizable dimple.
I used to sketch Hudson a lot. It was one of my favourite things to do while we hung out—me, drawing, him, reading his book. Even doing nothing, Hudson looked beautiful. Most people wouldn’t use the word beautiful to describe a man like Hudson, who is muscular, tanned, and rugged. But I would. His beauty is something intangible. It’s in the softness of his features, so that despite beingall man, he’s got this boyish ease about him. I was obsessed with trying to capture it on paper.
Had I taken my sketchbook with me when I left for university, I probably would have burned these pictures. Hudson broke up with me only a month after I left, when I was at my loneliest, watching everyone else make friends before me.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why he did it—I still don’t fully understand why he did it. My best theory is that he was intimidated by my success.
Everything I’ve done up until now is despite the hurt hecaused me, and in spite of him. I tuck the pictures away in the back of the book. I can pull them out for motivation later, if I need to doodle something to take out my anger. Some devil horns or something.
