But that all comes crashing down when a blurry photo of Hudson graces my recommended page.
Like someone who just can’t seem to quit their addiction, I tap onto his page, the already present knot in my stomach tightening until it’s physically hard to breathe.
It isn’t the best quality photograph to be taken, but it’s not too blurry that I can’t make out the bright smile overtaking Hudson’s lips.
Lips that I know how they feel against my own, lips that have touched me, caressed me, whispered a mixture of sweet and filth dipped words and then sent me spiralling into ecstasy.
The photo must have been taken with the flash on because Hudson’s sage green eyes are lit up golden; practically sparkling with sheer happiness.
I hate to admit it, but it cuts like a sharp knife into my already torn up wound. While Hudson was having his photo taken, laughing and smiling, lit up with joy, I was moping around my apartment, snacking on chocolate biscuits and fighting back the urge to double check my phone for a text message from him.
I was the one tossing and turning all night, my mind creating a thousand and one different scenarios as to why he hadn’t texted…
My thumb slips easily against the pixilated touchscreen, sliding along to reveal the next photograph in the carousel. Setting my mug of hardly drank coffee down, I pinch the screen, zooming in so I can make out every little detail.
It’s a group photo, snapped in a pub if the barman in the background is anything to go by, while the smiling familiar faces of Hudson’s older brothers staring back at me. Two women, Delilah and Faith according to the username tags, sit perched, grinning, on the laps of their respective partners. Blake, another of Hudson’s brothers, sits alone but looks no less happy.
And Hudson…
Hudson sits alone too, a bottle of beer inches away from his mouth, eyes intently focused on the camera in front of him.
A thrill of heat thrums through me just at the sight of him, quickly followed by a zap of annoyance at myself.
Why am I pining after a man, who still hasn’t called or texted when he promised he would?
Ugh.
Fuck this.
Switching off my phone, I toss it into the sofa cushions beside me and stand to grab my journal and a pen so I can get my thoughts out on paper, rather than them cloying up my brain.
I have work to do, both for my own mental health and for my dance classes.
Neither of which include Hudson fucking Millen.
Chapter 16
Giselle
“Hey, Giselle,” Freddie, the juice maker, purrs in greeting on Thursday morning as I squint at the new acai bowl sprawled across the special offer chalkboard.
I glance at him and fake a small smile at him.
“Can I have the acai bowl, please, but can I substitute the banana for an extra scoop of desiccated coconut?”
Freddie punches my order into the screen in front of him. “Sure thing, Gee. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thank you.”
Tapping my card to the payment reader, I watch Freddie grab an empty takeaway bowl from the stack beside the blender and a spoon.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, trying to make conversation, but having to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the blender mulching my fruit up into a thick liquid.
Flashes of my weekend run through my mind before I can put a stop to them. Mainly, flashes of Hudson.
I think I’ve done pretty well to push those memories away, locking them tight into a mental box and shoving the box away,never to be reopened, but at Freddie’s loaded question, the lump in my throat is back again.
Because the truth is, I haven’t heard from Hudson in five fucking days. Almost a full week.
