“Mari, please. Five minutes, then I’ll leave if you want me to.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve told him to go to hell. I should’ve screamed through the intercom about backstabbing and idea theft and how he’d stomped on my heart with his ridiculously expensive shoes.
Instead, my finger moved seemingly of its own accord and pressed the buzzer to let him in.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
I looked down at myself in horror. Northwestern sweatpants. Oversized t-shirt with a wine stain that had defeated three wash cycles. Hair that hadn’t seen a brush in... I couldn’t even remember. And was that ice cream in my eyebrow? How did that even happen?
There was no time to change or shower or become a functional human being. Instead, I frantically cleared takeout containers from the coffee table, kicked a bra under the couch, and attempted to smooth my hair with my hands, which only resulted in discovering that yes, there was definitely ice cream in my hair.
The knock came all too soon.
I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and opened the door.
And there he was.
Hudson Gable—or maybe just Hudson now, if that viral video of him telling his father to fuck the family name was accurate—looked simultaneously the same and completely different. Same perfectly structured face, same green eyes that had once made my stomach flip (and apparently still did). But the expensive suit was gone, replaced by jeans and a simple button-down. His hair was shorter, less rigidly styled. And there was something different about the small smile he gave me. Something softer.
“Hi,” he said.
“You cut your hair,” I blurted, because apparently my brain had short-circuited at the sight of him.
His hand went to the shorter sides. “Yeah. Needed a change.”
We stood there, awkward silence stretching between us. He was holding something; a sleek laptop bag and what looked like a legal envelope.
“Can I come in?” he finally asked.
I stepped back wordlessly, letting him into my disaster zone of an apartment. As he entered, I became acutely aware of the half-empty wine bottles on the counter, the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, the general air of someone who’d given up on adult responsibilities in favor of a close personal relationship with fermented grapes.
“Sorry about the...” I gestured vaguely at everything. “I wasn’t expecting company. Or to ever see you again. Ever. What the fuck are you doing here, Gable?”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“You’re damn right.”
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”
“Probably the last. What do you want?”
He remained standing, as if unsure whether he was allowed to sit. “I should have called first.”
“I wouldn’t have answered.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Probably not. But you let me in.”
“Yeah. I blame the alcohol.”
More silence.
“You look good,” I offered, which was both true and a complete lie. He looked good, yes, but also exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a weariness in his posture that made him seem older.
“You look beautiful,” he replied, and I actually snorted.
“Now I know you’re full of shit. I look like something that crawled out of a dumpster behind a frat house, took a nap in some leftover nachos, then rolled in a puddle of stale beer.”
His smile widened. “I’ve missed your particular way with words.”
