It’s the same challenge we’ve volleyed back and forth over these last few weeks—to take this chemistry between us to the next level. But every time I contemplate stepping up, asking him to go todinner or to see a movie, or do anything outside the confines of Finn’s, fear stops me.
Besides not wanting to explain why I’m currently blacklisted from the wedding photography world, I haven’t dated in years. Working in an industry that consumed my nights and weekends, companionship was limited to industry professionals and wedding party members who slid into my DMs—not really options with much viability for long-term success. Then again, after almost a decade capturing weddings and watching the subsequent divorces, I started to believe that love, the kind that lifts a person up and lasts a lifetime, might just be a fallacy. A hypothesis confirmed by the disaster that was Phoebe’s wedding.
But sometimes with Hudson, I could swear I feel thatspark. That pulse of electricity that makes me do stupid things like overshare or wonder what it might be like to wake up together on a Sunday morning before meeting friends out for brunch. I tried to ignore it, but the more we’ve hung out, the more that spark has grown until it’s become perpetual fireworks every time I see him. But no matter how I feel about him, or how easily he evokes a Fourth of July celebration in my chest, I know better than to get my hopes up.
“How about the kind of drink that provides me with a momentary release from the burdens of reality,” I sigh.
“I’m not sure we serve that here. But Lilah might know a guy you could call if you want the hard stuff.”
“A whiskey sour is fine,” I assure him, nervously playing with my newish bangs. I cut them in a panic after the review hit, hoping that a change in appearance might lessen the gnawing discomfort in my stomach whenever I looked in the mirror. But I still saw the same scared girl who flinched every time her phone buzzed. The same girl who couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth to Phoebe’s words.
“I finally finished those books you gave me,” Hudson says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“How’d you like them?” I ask, watching as he combines three parts sour mix with one part whiskey in a metal shaker, little droplets of whiskey and juice flying out with every pump of his arm.
“I really enjoyed the dragon classifications.”
“You would,” I laugh. From magic regeneration sources to made-up native species of plants, no matter what series I throw at him, Hudson always finds an element to geek out about in every smut-filled fantasy series I recommend.
“And let me guess. Yours was when Tarwyn sacrificed his soul for Alia?”
“Please,” I scoff, offended at the accusation. “I’m not that much of a romantic.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you though?”
I flinch at the misconception. People always romanticize my job, believing that being surrounded by love and laughter on the “happiest day of their lives” must be like working in a fairy tale. But in reality, it’s enduring twelve-hour days, being subjected to endless passive-aggressive comments such as “don’t miss that moment” from relatives, and generally running around capturing choreographed ceremonies with hardly any real emotion whatsoever. But I could never say that. At least not to Phoebe, who made me feel ungrateful anytime I complained.
“If you really want to know,” I say, leaning into the reason I started bringing him books in the first place, “my favorite part was when they broke the armoire.”
A redness creeps up his neck at the mention of the most intense sex scene of the novel, as he drops a handful of maraschino cherries onto the countertop.
I reach for my drink, readying myself to take a sip, before Lilah saves me.
“Hudson, could you grab a few PBR cases from the back? We’re running low.” Her words are quick-fire and instinctual, like a mother catching her child about to touch a hot stove.
“Sure thing, boss,” he replies, heading towards the back room. The second he’s out of sight, Lilah grabs my glass, dumping the contents into the sink behind her.
“You have no idea.”
“Can you believe this is the last drink I’ll have to remake for you?” she asks, measuring the correct amount of whiskey, lemon juice, and egg white into the metal shaker. Pouring it into my glass, she pops a few cherries on top to keep the illusion that it’s the same beverage.
I take a sip, relishing the perfect ratios. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving. I can’t survive on beer.”
“Me? No. I’m probably going to die here. Hudson, however, is moving on.”
I almost choke on a cherry at her words.
“He’s leaving?” I ask between coughs.
“He didn’t tell you? Tonight’s his last shift.”
My stomach sinks at the thought of losing him. Even before everything that happened with Phoebe, photography was an isolating job. I didn’t have coworkers to complain to, and most of my days were spent at the computer. The only human interaction I had each week came from paid clients who just wanted me to smile and tell them they looked beautiful. Without Hudson, I’ll have to go back to doom-scrolling from my Finsta until 2 a.m. I shudder at the thought.
“Do you know where he’s headed? Another bar?”
“I think he’s focusing on his day job,” Lilah says, wiping down the counter.
Of all the topics we’ve discussed—his childhood dog Frodo, his weekend camping trips, how he’s been to too many FutureIslands shows to admit to another human, his distaste for gin, and his absolute obsession withThe Lord of the Rings—Hudson has never mentioned having another job. And the omission makes me wonder what else he might be keeping from me.
