The peals of laughter outside the living room window pull my attention from the book I’m devouring.
A dark romance novel with an alphahole and a spunky, fierce heroine.
Too bad these types of relationships don’t exist in real life. If they do, I’ve yet to find one.
“Oh! Stacy, Joe, and the kids are here!” Mom glances out the bay window and claps her hands together.
I shift in my chair and reluctantly place the book on the end table. I grin, taking in my mom’s happiness at seeing her neighbor, and closest friend, Sandra, and her children come home for the holidays.
“Come say hello!” Mom says.
“We’re going there for dinner tonight,” I remind her.
“Put your boots on,” she orders, waiting for me by the front door.
I roll my eyes but drag myself from the chair. “I just got into town too, you know?”
“Oh.” Mom waves a dismissive hand. “You flew in from Vancouver. Stacy and her family had to travel all the way from London.”
I don’t point out that while my flight may not have logged the same mileage, I’m still exhausted. That I’ve been up since three a.m. this morning. That this trip home for the holidays is a much needed and long overdue break from my hectic work schedule. That I’m teetering on total burn-out mode.
Working in public relations in Vancouver, constantly on the go and putting out fires for celebrities, leaves me with little time for myself. The relationships I’ve tried to start over the past few years fizzled before they had time to flourish. My college girlfriends are all marrying and starting families. My friendships from high school have faded with too much time apart and not enough calling.
Save for the boy next door, Hudson Page, I haven’t kept up with any of my high school friends’ lives. And I only know Hudson because he’s frequently on ESPN and is now playing hockey for his favorite team, the Ottawa Huskies. Plus, Mom and Sandra are best friends, hence, Christmas Eve dinner at the Page household.
I paste a smile on my face as I take a wool scarf from Mom’s hands.
It feels good to be home. Comforting. Since walking into the foyer several hours ago, the wave of exhaustion, mixed with denial, that I’ve been holding at bay has crashed down around me.
Maybe it’s because Mom and Dad provide a safe landing spot. But being here has forced me to acknowledge that I am unhappy in Vancouver. Stressed out. Exhausted. Alone.
I have nothing to offer and nothing to show for my time there, save for a fancy job title that does not come with a commensurate salary or job perks.
Unless you count flirty banter with men at my PR events, or exchanging lip gloss shades with women in the bathroom at said events, I have zero social life. No true friendships to speak of. No time for dating.
Besides, who would date me? I struck out with Hudson back in high school and since then, my history has been filled with one disappointing college relationship, a handful of lackluster experiences, and a half-assed attempt at long-distance. No man has ever lit me up, mentally and physically, the way Hudson Page did right before I tried to confess my feelings and kiss him the night before graduation.
It didn’t happen. He shut me down. And in that moment, my world crumbled. Because while I knew Hudson to be a playboy athlete with a reputation, I never thought his rejection would apply to me.
We’d been friends forever. Best friends who navigated the awkwardness of puberty and confided our deepest secrets. Except the one that ruined everything.
I never saw him as annoying or immature the way others did. I never minded his pranks. I never felt overwhelmed by his energy or infectious enthusiasm. He was as large as the sun and I felt like the Earth, pulled into an orbit around him.
Until that terrible non-kiss went sideways, and I lost my best friend. Afterwards, I saw the emotionally unavailable, jokester, playboy everyone accused him of being.
I shrug into my coat, my nerves kicking up in my chest.
We never even kissed and still, the way I felt around him—butterflies in my belly, excitement in my veins—remains a memory. Was it because of my youth? Or the trust I placed in Hudson, having known him for so long? Or the fact that he was my first true crush?
“Don’t forget a hat,” Mom advises, plunking a beanie down on my head. She cracks the front door and the icy blast, mixed with a gust of snowflakes, swirls through the foyer.
What will seeing Hudson be like? Will he recall my blustering attempt to kiss him in high school and internally grimace? Will he remember it at all?
Does he think about me the way I sometimes remember him?
I blow out an exhale.
The last guy I dated accused me of workaholic tendencies and an inability to loosen up. Clearly, my current thought loop is evidence enough, but will Hudson view me like that?
