“Who?”
As expected my news distracts Aspen from whether or not people are talking about her. “My ex-boyfriend.”
“Finally! Why wasn’t he fired months ago?”
“I know. Now I’m not forced to look at his stupid face anymore.” Everyone was right. Dating a guy from the mailroom was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made. It’s true what they say. Don’t date someone you work with. It only ends in misery. He turned out to be such a douche canoe.
Aspen starts ranting and raving about the dumb shit he did during the time we were dating, but my attention is distracted by Hudson going through the stack of papers and notebooks on the corner of my dining room table. You’d imagine after having him in my house and up in my space for over a week I would be used to him living here, but the truth of the matter is I’m not. I don’t know what we have going on. Our relationship has progressed to more than a bodyguard and damsel in distress, but at the same time nothing else has happened after New Year’s Eve. Hudson still sleeps on the couch and so far, both of us have done our absolute very best not to talk about our hot and heavy make-out session.
If only I could drill a hole in his head and see what he’s thinking. He’s not a man of many words and without knowing his feelings on the subject I’m stuck between falling hopelessly in love with him and being ready for him to get the hell away from me. Pretty soon I’ll probably have a panic attack brought on by increased stress during this period of my life. Who will take care of the piggies while I’m at the psych ward?
I study Hudson as he picks up each piece of junk mail on the top of the pile, and then when he reaches a particular small purple notebook, I turn my head and pretend I’m looking anywhere in the room but at him. Not a word Aspen says makes it to my brain, but hopefully I at least act like it’s the most interesting conversation I’ve ever had in my entire life.
Despite my best efforts to ignore that entire half of my apartment, Hudson eventually wanders his way to where I sit on the couch and steps into my direct line of sight. He holds up the small purple notebook with a colored unicorn on the front and the words written in big black ink, “People I want to throat punch.”
He waves the notebook from side to side guaranteeing I can’t pretend to have missed it. My eyes widen but I don’t make any other acknowledgment. I’m sure everyone owns a list of people who annoy them. It’s totally normal.
When it’s obvious I’m not going to make further comment, Hudson points to the book and then his hand flattens as he waves it to the side like a Price Is Right girl.
“Aspen, I’ve got to go.” I sigh at the end of the sentence, the air blowing between my lips and messing up my long bangs.
Aspen laughs. “Yeah, I bet you do. Go enjoy your hunk. I’ll sit here and watch Finn play video games.”
This time it’s my turn to laugh. “You love it.”
Aspen makes this fluttery sounds on the other end, something you’d expect from a lovesick cartoon character. It’s cute that even though they’ve only been married a few months she’s definitely still head over heels in love.
I toss my phone on the cushion beside my place on the couch to stop Hudson from sitting too closely at my side. Every time he gets less than a foot away I want to touch him. Wrap my hands along his muscular arm. Take sniffs of his cologne.
“What?” I ask like there’s nothing weird about the situation.
Hudson’s eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side, but one side of his face pinches up like he’s holding back a smile. “People you want to throat punch?”
I shrug. “There’s a unicorn on it.”
Hudson flips through the notebook quickly, so fast there’s no way he had time to read the pages. Not that he hasn’t already done so. Honestly, I can’t figure out why it took him this many days to find it in the first place. He’s been in my junk, and for someone who doesn’t want to have her stuff touched, I’m doing a fairly good job of not freaking the hell out on him, if you ask me. Not that anyone has.
“What I can’t figure out is inside you have random notes. Doctor’s appointments, a breakfast order for you and Aspen, something here about making sure you Google how to bathe guinea pigs. I didn’t see anyone you want to throat punch.”
“Only because there hasn’t been time to add your name yet.” I smile through the insult in case he takes it seriously. Marissa is such a wonderful influence. “Why are you going through my stuff?”
Hudson tosses the notebook in my lap. “Because when a man sees a purple notebook with a unicorn and the words people I want to throat punch, it pretty much guarantees he has to pick it up and look inside.”
I consider his answer for a few seconds and then decide he’s right. It caught my eye from down the journal aisle and I had to buy it.
Hudson wraps his hand around my phone and places it on the small coffee table in front of the couch. Then without even asking me, he sits down in my space. I eye his black polo shirt with the pelican stretched tight. How many of those did he pack? And did they shrink or does he buy his shirts a size too small? “So, this ex-boyfriend who was fired, you want to put his name in here?”
I stare at him for a second not answering. Crap on a stick, does the man have Superman hearing? Or is he super nosey? Granted Hudson’s a little high strung at times, but up until now I’ve been able to make excuses for him. Stress of the job, my life is on the line, you know, that sort of thing, but this… this is… pushing it.
Which I love. I like it so much my stomach clenches in happiness. If Hudson were here as only a bodyguard, he wouldn’t care about an ex-boyfriend or any of the people I want to punch. There are exactly two thousand four hundred and one ways I can analyze this information, but from the way his deep thoughtful eyes bore into mine, if I don’t start talking soon he’s liable to pull it out of me.
“It’s not worth my time to write down an ex-boyfriend in the book.” It’s not like it’s a damn burn book.
“Because there are too many?”
I slap him across the shoulder. Then I move my body so we’re face to face, my left leg curled up on the couch. “No! But once you break up what’s the point of giving someone mental space?”
I leave out the part where after every breakup I spent at least a week analyzing exactly what each of us did wrong and how I could have been better. Then ultimately with the help of Marissa, Aspen, Simone and sometimes Clare, we usually all end up at the conclusion that I have horrible taste in men. That’s my problem. But it takes quite a few cartons of Ben & Jerry’s to get there every time.
