Drying off quickly, I put my clothes from earlier back on and walk out into the living room, wishing more than anything I could leave this damn apartment. Unfortunately, I don’t have my car, nor do I have any place to go. I glance down the hall at Tasha’s door, knowing I’m damn well not sleeping in bed with her, and then at the empty couch against the wall.
I stalk over to the leather sectional and lie down, without a pillow or blanket, and eventually fall asleep, wondering if this nightmare will ever end. But all I dream about is eyes—Hudson’s full of life, and Caleb’s flat with death.
Glancing down at my history notebook, all I see is a chaotic mess of squiggly lines, arrows, and question marks, the perfect representation of what I hear when I’m sitting through Dr. Langford’s lectures. The woman jumps from topic to topic so fast I’m lucky if I don’t have whiplash when I walk out of her class. And I currently have twenty-four hours to make heads or tails of this rubbish scribbled on my papers, or risk failing the class.
I attempt to reread the highlighted passage from the text for the fourth time, but yet again, I retain none of it. Slamming the book shut, I chuck it to the other side of the bed—the side that still smells like him—and fall back on my pillow with a frustrated groan, staring up at the blank ceiling.
It’s been three days since I stormed out of the coffeehouse, leaving Crew and Mary behind. I’ve talked to her several times since, and neither of us has heard from him. Not a single text. He hasn’t come for his clothes, which I gathered and packed in his bag that sits in the corner of the room, taunting me ruthlessly, and nobody seems to know where he’s staying. Dakota and Juno went on a reconnaissance mission up to Half Pipe last night, but he wasn’t working, and whoever they talked to claimed not to know anything.
At this point, I’m not even sure how I feel anymore. Before the last couple of months—before I met Crew—my life was virtually stress and drama free, and though I’d never experienced the high of the highs like I did with him, I’d also never suffered through the lowest of lows.
And damn, until now, I had no idea how low it could be.
I knew he’d be angry at me when I tricked him into meeting with Mary. I was well aware he’d lash out, most likely saying things to purposely hurt me, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think he’d stoop to that level.
Eventually, I could’ve overlooked the entire ‘whore’ thing with a proper apology and some major ass-kissing, because honestly, it wasn’t like he was too far off-base. After the funeral, I willingly allowed him to use me—my body mainly—because it was the only way I knew how to be there for him, since he refused to talk about anything. I thought he just needed time to process Caleb’s death, and ultimately, though he’d never be the same, he’d recover and I’d be the one there to help him through. That’s what you do for people you care about. You give them whatever support you can.
But blaming me—shit, blaming any of us—for what happened that morning was excessively hateful and cruel. Caleb’s accident was terrible, gut-wrenching, and the most devastating thing I could ever imagine, but it was exactly that. An accident. I’d felt guilty for the first week or so, knowing I contributed to the circumstances that left Caleb alone when he needed us most, but after talking things out with my parents and Grams, I knew in my heart no one was at fault.
“Hudson?” Grams knocks lightly on the partially open door, yanking my attention out of another Crew daydream. “You doing okay, love? Are you coming to breakfast this morning?”
Shaking my head, I shimmy up to a sitting position and reach for the discarded textbook. “No, I’m not hungry. My last final—the hardest one for me—is tomorrow, and I have to cram pretty much straight through.”
“Surely you can stop to eat. I think you’ve lost five pounds in the last few days alone. All of this studying you’ve been doing, barely ever leaving your room, can’t be healthy. Come on,” she demands, flitting over to my bed and tugging on my arm. “Let’s go eat. Your brain needs fuel to get smarter.”
Laughing softly, I allow her to pull me off the bed and into the kitchen, where she already has a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns waiting for me. My stomach roars to life as the appetizing aromas fill my nostrils. Okay, so maybe I am a little hungrier than I thought.
I slide onto the chair and dig in to the breakfast, scarfing it down so fast that I’m sure my belly will hurt in a couple of hours. Grams hovers, which is uncharacteristic for her, so I come right out and ask what’s going on. She and I have a loving, but no-nonsense kind of relationship.
“What’s up, Grams? You’re acting strange,” I announce in between bites.
“The boy. What happened?”
Sighing, I rest the fork against the edge of the plate and wash down the bite with a long swig of orange juice. “What happened?” I repeat her question, staring down at the remaining strips of bacon, at a loss. “That’s a damn good question, and I’m still not exactly sure.”
I continue eating as I tell her everything that happened on Monday afternoon, pretty much word-for-word, since I’ve replayed the scene in my head no less than six hundred times in the last seventy-two hours. And then I await her response, hoping for one of those really impactful lines you get from older people who’ve learned a lot of wise life lessons in their years.
Instead, she says, “You need to have sex with someone else.”
My jaw hits the table. Say what? I just rehashed this horrendous story of how the first and only guy I’ve ever had real feelings for—the guy I gave my virginity not too long ago—completely tore my heart out of my chest and squashed it like a poisonous bug scurrying across the floor, and my grandmother’s words of advice are to go sleep with someone else?
“Are you serious?” I finally manage to say. “What would that help?”
“What could it hurt? You need to relax and let things be the way they’re going to be. It’ll all work out exactly the way it’s supposed to in the end, and in the meantime, getting a little nookie could only help to improve your mood. It used to help me. You should never underestimate the power of a cute boy and a good orgasm.”
Oh. My. God. My grandmother just used the word nookie and is discussing orgasms. I think I may need to vomit. Thank goodness I’ve already cleaned off most of my plate, because my appetite is absolutely nonexistent now.
“I’ll…um, I’ll definitely consider your suggestion,” I sputter out the words while standing up and carrying my dirty dishes to the sink, “and thank you so much for breakfast. I love you, Grams.”
As soon as I’m back in my room, I’m about to dive into the dull material, when I get an idea. Maybe Grams is right…well, kind of. I’m not sure about hopping into the next available bed I can find with Joe Schmoe is the best thing, but I have been hiding out in this room for entirely too long this week, and I desperately could use a change of scenery.
Grabbing my phone from my nightstand, I type out a text to Beckham, hoping to kill two birds with one stone.
Me: Hey, it’s Hudson. I know it’s last minute, but do you want to study for the History final together today?
His enthusiastic reply flashes across the screen in less than a minute.
Beckham: Definitely. I’m about to leave campus. All of my notes are at home. Wanna meet me there in 30?
Me: Just send me your address. C u soon.
Hurriedly, I change out of my yoga pants and tank top, and slip into a gray hoodie and a pair of jeans, which rest lower on my hips than usual. Huh. I guess my Grams was right about me dropping a few pounds. I contemplate adding a belt, but decide against it.