Me
I still want to be with you. I’m just being honest with you because I don’t want you to think I don’t want you. I want you so fucking bad, Hudson, I don’t think you know.
Things take time, and that’s all I’m asking for, Huds. Time. We don’t have to rush.
Huds
I just need you to know that none of those things have to do with you being a guy. They’re just me things. The way it all happened… it sucked. It made me feel like shit, but I guess maybe we need to talk about it more.
Me
Can I make it up to you?
I wait for him to answer, and when he doesn’t, I assume he’s gone to sleep, so that’s what I try to do.
When I wake up, it’s nearly 8:00 am, and though I slept like a damn log, I still feel tired. I have a mild headache, though I’m not sure if it’s because I overslept or because of the drinking. Maybe both. I make my way to the shower and take my time, soaking up the hot water. It helps soothe my muscles. I check my phone, but there are no texts from Hudson. Then again, I’m sure he’s at work right now, and though I know he has no problem texting me from work, I figure it’s best to leave him be for now.
I still feel like shit, more so because reading back my drunk, desperate texts makes me feel like more of an idiot, but I know there’s no point in apologizing now. What’s said is said, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel some sort of relief having said what I did. Besides, Hudson and I have known each other for a long time, so the word vomit is nothing new to him, it’s just new that it’sabouthim.
I spend the day trying to keep busy around the house. I’d ordered a bunch of stuff for Hudson to the house, though we didn’t discuss getting each other gifts or anything, I didn’t want to show up to his parents’ place on Christmas without something for them, and of course, him, so I check my app to make sure they’re arriving on time, and sure enough they are out fordelivery. Hopefully, I won’t have to return any of this stuff. I try not to think about that, though. I try to remain positive that Hudson will call me or text me, or something…
It’s hard to resist the urge to text or call him, but I manage to keep myself busy so I can give him the space he needs. The space I should have given him last night, like he asked.
I do a load of laundry. I watch Netflix, make lunch, and put my at-home gym to the test. I lose myself in my run, barely noticing it’s been an hour and a half until I hear the doorbell ring. Must be the packages I ordered.
I stop the treadmill, catching my breath. I reach for a towel to pat my face dry and head to the door. The doorbell rings again.
“Coming, coming,” I say, and I throw open the door, my breath stilling as I lay eyes on Hudson—who looks dressier than usual in a pair of khakis and a dark blue button-down shirt beneath his large coat.
But it’s not him that my gaze falls on, but rather what he’s holding.
A bouquet of a dozen red roses and a small bag.
“Hudson—” I blink, unsure if I’ve hit some delirious level of runner’s high.
“Can I, uh… come in?” he asks, twisting his lips. He looks nervous, slightly uncomfortable, and the chill from the air bites at my sweat-slicked chest.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Of course, come in.”
He doesn’t look at me as he comes inside. I shut the door and turn to see him standing in my living room, coat still on, his amber gaze wide like a deer in the headlights. I hold it for a moment before I move toward him.
“Are you—”
“These are for you,” he says solidly, shoving the flowers at me, but holding on to the bag. The plastic slides against my chest and I grab them. I raise an eyebrow.
“You brought me… flowers?” I ask in confusion.
He shakes out of his coat and drops it over the side of the chair so I can see him fully dressed. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, making his thick forearms and fair complexion stand out. Some brownish blonde hair falls in front of his eyes and he awkwardly pushes it away.
“Yes,” he says. “To… apologize.”
“Apologize? To me? Why? You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, leaning down to sniff the roses. They smell good, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like them.
I mean, no one but my mother has ever bought me flowers, and the last time she did that was when I graduated college.
“Actually, I did,” he says carefully.
“I, uh… I’m going to put these in a glass,” I say, clearing my throat as I walk past him to the kitchen.
