It’s not until I’m tossing everything back underneath the cabinet—a Dyson Airwrap, bottle of vanilla-scented body spray, and a box of tampons—that I realize that none of these items belong in a bachelor pad.
I try to consider all the logical reasons why Hudson might be in possession of such a selection.
He has a female roommate? But it’s a one-bedroom.
He has a sister who likes to stash stuff at his apartment? But he said he was an only child.
Closing the cabinet, a nagging feeling pricks at me as I gather my clothes from his bedroom and tiptoe into the living room.
The morning light exposes everything I failed to see in the dark. Scented candles, throw blankets, ornamental bronze elephants, and carefully curated coffee-table books that accessorize the small space. Combined with the fact there isn’t a single piece ofLord of the Ringsmemorabilia hanging from the walls or sitting on the bookcase, my unease quickly turns to suspicion. And then I see it—the undeniable truth of what I’ve feared.
Nestled betweenInStylemagazines and golden bookends are framed photographs of Hudson with his arm lovingly draped around a beautiful brunette. In one, they are laughing together on the beach as she kisses his cheek. In another, they are sitting on the slopes in snow jackets. And the last one is a black-and-white print of them kissing in front of a fountain.
Hudson has a girlfriend—a live-in one at that.
My stomach churns from more than just mixing liquors last night.
One-night stands I can handle. Ghosting, sure. But making me complicit in his infidelity is absolutely unacceptable.
“I can get you on the first flight tomorrow,” Meredith says, as I bite back the rage burning in my chest. “Does that work for you?”
And even though I know that saying yes is probably going to be another mistake, the opportunity to escape to the other side of the country, to get away from this city and everyone in it who’s betrayed me, feels like kismet.
“I’m in.”
4 Hudson
Rolling over, I breathe in the scent of cinnamon and citrus. After weeks of daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss her, touch her, taste her, my senses are buzzing with her proximity. The fact that she’s taking up space in my bed and not in my dreams is a reality I haven’t entirely accepted yet as I reach out to pull her close. But instead of finding the warmth of her body, I’m left with nothing but cold sheets.
Opening my eyes, I see the light on in the hallway and listen to the sound of her footsteps against the hardwood floor.
“You jonesing for coffee already?” I ask. My head is in that liminal space between drunk and hungover as I check the time. It’s early—barely six. I’ve gotten maybe two hours’ sleep, not nearly enough for my body to metabolize the remaining alcohol in my system.
Pushing myself out of bed, I make my way to the kitchen, stopping when I see that the door to the bathroom is open and an array of items are scattered on the floor—Katherine’s things—and the sight sobers me like a cold shower.
“Mira?” I ask, right before I hear the front door slam.
My heart pounds as I run, barefoot and shirtless, down the hall. The elevator is already making its descent to the lobby as I open the emergency exit door and sprint down the stairs. All those yearsof traversing mountain terrain have prepared me for this as I jump two at a time, hoping to shave off enough seconds to catch her.
As I throw open the door, the security guard offers a shake of his head and I know that I’ve missed her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
Despondently, I take the elevator back up to my floor, ruminating on all the things I could have done differently. I should have told her the truth at the bar, the door, anywhere between Finn’s and my bedroom. And when we got back to my place and she slipped off her jeans, exposing a pair of black lace panties that matched her bra, I could barely formulate thoughts, let alone explain my unorthodox living situation.
Before I started dating Katherine I’d only slept with one other girl, and when I found out that sharing a sleeping bag at wilderness camp was more of a rite of passage than a legitimate proclamation of feelings, I was heartbroken for a month. So no matter how much I liked Mira, or how badly I wanted to get her off, the thought of sleeping with her without being upfront about my situation felt disingenuous. Using all the willpower I could muster, I excused myself to the bathroom.
I had to tell her the truth. That I was still living with my ex. That I was about to be a CEO. That I had real feelings for her. When I exited the bathroom, I found Mira half-asleep on my bed, an arm underneath the pillow, and this premature ending to the night felt like a gift from the universe. I even optimistically DoorDash-ed a carton of eggs in the hopes of waking her up in the morning with a batch of my signature pancakes. Seeing the eggs now, carefully placed in the entryway of my apartment, I want to throw them against the wall.
Retreating to my bedroom, I grab my phone from the charger and open my text chain with Mira. My fingers hover over the keys as I contemplate what to say.
I know what this looks like ...
I can explain . . .
I’m single. I swear . . .
Everything I type sounds like complete bullshit. Another excuse from another asshole. But I have no idea how to explain the situation without writing a dissertation on the last three years of my life. This is definitely a conversation I need to have in person. And on any other day, I would go sit at the bar and wait for her to show up. I’d wait all week if I had to. But today, I have a plane to catch.
