Early.
CHAPTER 33
WREN
I jumpup from the chair and Hudson stands, smoothing his hair and T-shirt. I shove past him and bolt up the stairs, running for appropriate clothing before my parents make it through the front door.
I scramble up to my room and shut the door behind me, only now realizing they’ll walk into the house to find Hudson standing alone in the kitchen. I wasn’t ready for this. On so many levels. I’m not ready to explain myself, why I’ve quit my job, what I’m going to do now, my relationship with Hudson, if I can even call it a relationship. I certainly was not ready for them to walk in at that precise moment, fresh off a life-altering orgasm and Hudson’s face still buried in me.
Their voices fill the entryway, sending a rush of adrenaline through my system as I pick up a pair of leggings and a tank top I had previously thrown on the floor the last time Hudson and I had been together in this room. Good enough for now. I settle my breathing, but there’s not much I can dofor the flush on my neck and cheeks by the time I get downstairs.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I say, my voice an octave higher than normal. I kiss them both on the cheeks, our usual, reserved greeting, even though it’s been weeks since we’ve seen each other. They’ve never been particularly warm. “You’re home early. I didn’t think you’d be getting back until tomorrow.”
“We were making good time over the prairies and decided to motor back. We’ve had enough time on the road.” They both wander through to the kitchen to where Hudson is awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth on his feet.
“Hudson,” my dad says, his tone indecipherable. “What a surprise seeing you here.” Hudson reaches out a hand to greet him with a handshake, and my father’s eyes dart between us a few times before accepting, though his stare is squinty and skeptical.
“Yeah, I was returning some tools I borrowed while you were away.” I wince, because even though Hudson is on tool-borrowing terms with my father, he also keeps a detailed inventory and always,always, likes to be notified when they leave his shed. Panic overtakes me, and before I can think, I cut in.
“No, he wasn’t. He was here, with me. We’re, um, together, kind of,” I rush out. I didn’t exactly want to tell my parents like this. They didn’t approve of my relationship with Hudson the first time around. They always saw him as some goofy kid, and not up to their standards for theirdaughter. I’m hoping whatever favour Hudson has with my father now, it will ease the consequences coming our way.
“And my kitchen is littered with paint and canvases because …” Okay, apparently, we’re breezing right past my new-old relationship and getting right into the good stuff. The reason I’ve turned their kitchen into an art studio. They always thought my painting was a waste of my energy, that hobbies are not a productive use of time. I stall for a moment, considering how I’m going to break it to them that it’sallI’ve been doing with my time … since I quit my job.
I glance between them and Hudson, everyone waiting for a response from me. I decide to rip the band-aid off, get it out in the open. There’s no point in delaying it now.
“I’ve been painting again because I quit my job,” I say, hoping my false-confident tone sounds convincing. “Painting has been helping me cope with some anxiety I’ve been struggling with lately,” I add, even though they won’t care. Mental illness isn’t a real thing to them, because Millers don’t show signs of weakness.
“You quit your job,” my dad says, deadpan but with a noticeable scoff. His tone sends a squishy, queasy feeling down my core. “You must have a better offer lined up. Better pay?”
“No. No other offer.” My confidence is slipping. I don’t know how I expected this conversation to go—I wasn’t intending on even having it until I needed some reason to save Hudson from my father’s wrath.
I’ve always tried to protect him from my family. He’s the one good and pure thing. I never wanted what I have with Hudson to be sullied by my family’s poor opinions. I knewwhat they thought of him; that was enough. He didn’t need to hear that they thought he was lazy, directionless, holding me back. If anything, he’s the one person who encourages me to be true to myself and my own aspirations. He’s the only person who has taken my struggles seriously, too.
The way he didn’t hesitate to help me when I was having my panic attacks. My father would have told me to ‘buck up.’ My mother would have said ‘Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, Wren.’ Come to think of it, ever since I left my job, I haven’t had one episode of anxiety, not one panic attack. I’ve been even-keeled; my joy hasn’t been overshadowed by a looming dark cloud of dread. “I’m taking some time off, for myself. To figure out what I want to do.”
“What do you need to figure out? You have everything you could ever want.” My father’s face is turning a ruddy shade of red, the volume of his voice rising with each word.
“I have everythingyouwant,” I clarify. “I never wanted to be an engineer.”
My dad squares his shoulders, and my mom glances nervously at him, then at me, like she knows he’s gearing up for a fight. She won’t step in, though. She’s never stood up to him. In fact, she agrees with him most of the time. Mom never went to university, she never got a degree. And though she loves my dad—she doesn’t have a means of leaving their marriage even if she wanted to. So, she’s determined I’m not going to follow the same path. I’m going to be self-sufficient, which, in her eyes, is congruous with getting a degree and having a stable career. Not being an artist. Not being a free spirit.
“Well, if you don’t have a job, and you aren’t activelylooking for one, don’t expect to freeload here, using this house as a crash pad for whatever you want. Like you clearly have been while we were gone.” His brown eyes are sharp, and a muscle flicks in his jaw. “Millers don’t take time off tofindthemselves. Millers know who they are, so if you don’t, then …” His voice trails off and leaves me to fill in the blanks.Then you’re not a Miller.“I didn’t raise you this way. I sure as hell am not going to sit here and watch you throw your life away under my roof. Get out.”
“Ian … Don’t be too rash—” my mother attempts, but she’s met with a hand held up from my father in a gesture to stop, though his eyes are still trained on me.
“Get. Out,” he repeats.
I blink back tears collecting on my lower lashes, trying to ignore the burning behind my eyes. I was ready for disapproval, even a lecture about ensuring I have a stable income, but this? Disownment? I wasn’t prepared for that. Not after I told them I was struggling with my mental health. There was at least a small part of me that hoped they could empathize and decide my mental wellbeing was more important than a job title or a pay check.
I hurry past them, slipping on a pair of old flip flops, and hurrying out through the front door. I keep walking. I’m not going to let them see that this gets to me. I can’t let him see me cry.
My mind races as I stride off, replaying the interaction as I head nowhere in particular.Millers know who they are. The problem is, I do know who I am. I’ve just never fit the mould, the box he wants me to fit into.
Hudson catches up with me a few houses downthe street. He grabs my arm, firm but not hard, and turns me around to face him. His eyes search my face, a line of concern forming between his brows. Whatever I think he’s about to say, he doesn’t. He just pulls me into him, wrapping me in a warm, comforting hug. My tears come fast and hot and in big gulping breaths. Not necessarily because I’m hurt by my father’s words, but because I’m so stupid for not expecting it to be so bad.
“This was a mistake,” I say, my voice muffled in Hudson’s chest when I’m finally able to breathe again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me … plenty of people work jobs they aren’t passionate about to pay the bills, and they’re fine.” He slides his hands up to my face and cups my cheeks, tilting my head back to look at him. His light grey T-shirt is marred with dark mascara stains, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“There isnothingwrong with you, Wren.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You are brilliant. Everything you touch turns to solid gold. Whatever you do, do it for you. If you want to paint, paint. If you want to find a nudist colony and join them, do it.”
