Whowouldbe the right guy?
WhynotHudson?
Slipping out of his grip, I gave a little shrug.
I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
It was the only answer I had for him. And the only answer I had for me.
“There you have it. That’s what happened—mostly. So what’s the diagnosis?” I asked. “Exactly how pathetic am I?”
“Nothing pathetic about you. You can have sex. Or you don’thave sex, who cares? I just…” He toyed idly with a piece of broken glass on the ground, then used his boot to guide it into the gutter, where it couldn’t hurt anyone. “I wonder if you’re letting this Lloyd-GalacticSolutions thing stand in the way of you being happy. Not just about sex, but everything. I know you like your work, but are you so wrapped up in it because you want to be, or because you’re hiding behind it?”
I blinked. Hudson visibly paled, then nervously fiddled with his spectacles.
“Sorry, I overstepped. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” I replied, soft but firm. The words were almost whispered. It was surprisingly difficult to articulate full sentences when sloshed on tequila and seen straight through by the most handsome man in the world. The truth was…he was right. I’d just never let myself understand it that way. “You’re…surprisingly insightful, Hudson Bailey.”
He chuckled. “What a pair we make, huh? The sex toy engineer who’s never had sex and the sex toy app designer who’s never used a sex toy.”
“Clara always says that she’s not in the sex toy business. She’s in the people business. Getting the correct people together and letting them work their magic. I guess she had to horribly fail sometime.”
His dimple appeared as his grin widened. “Fail? I don’t know, Scout. I think we’re a win so far.”
It was so romantic. The stirrings of good to come, if only I would let myself have it.
If only I hadn’t ruined it by immediately throwing up all that tequila right on his shoes.
9
Dildon’t You Want Me, Baby?
Hudson was really nice about the vomit thing. Did he turn a little green? Yes. Did he politely excuse himself to (I assume) clean himself up and do theMen in Blackmemory wipe thing on himself so as to forget my existence and the unfortunate relaxation of my pyloric sphincter and subsequent emesis? Also yes.
But he did it all without ever once making me feel bad about the incident or his likely now ruined shoes.
After a thorough shower and a Coca-Cola mixed with two salt tablets (the most scientifically sound hangover pre-cure), I tucked myself into bed and tried to sleep, but my mind kept circling around the conversations I’d had in the last thirty-six-odd hours. Mr. Ose had basically called me weird and unsocialized. Addie said I needed to get some girls and go on some dates. And Hudson said I was holding myself back.
Two data points were interesting but not significant. Three data points were the beginning of a trend. Four or more data points were irrefutable.
If I was going to take Mr. Ose, Addie, and Hudson seriously, then I needed more data.
“I was wondering when you’d phone me,” Clara said, answering my call on the second ring.
A hum of activity crackled behind her, and I pictured her in all her Goop-elegant glory, still slurping back jalapeño margs at Josie’s.
“Sorry. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all. We’re just wrapping up here. I’m walking to my car.” The sound dulled as she did just that. Then, easy as breathing, she informed me, “You’ll be happy to know that Jared has quit.”
“Hewhat?”
“No one else thought his little spectacle with you was funny. He kept trying to get everyone in on the joke, to back him up as it were, but when no one would take the bait—in fact, Addie and Terrence gave him a pretty firm talking-to—he said that this was the last straw and he could no longer tolerate being saddled with such humorless, cancel-culture woke-ists.”
Guilt and shameful relief mixed inside me like noxious chemicals in a test tube.
“I didn’t mean for him to quit” was all I could manage.
