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.
After stuffing my notebook and textbook into my backpack, I double check the cigarette case to make sure there are a few joints in it, then toss it in too, certain we’ll be taking several smoke breaks throughout the day. Once my feet are cozy inside my Uggs, I double-check my appearance in the mirror and decide my makeup free face and ponytail are going to have to be good enough today. I don’t have the time or the desire to do anything else; I’m just happy I already showered and brushed my teeth this morning.
I call out to Grams, letting her know where I’m going, then jump in my car and pull out onto the main road, already feeling a tad bit better. The drive to Beckham’s takes a little longer than it should, thanks to my inability to follow driving directions, but after circling the same block no less than four times, I’m eventually able to find the apartment complex.
Parking my car in the first spot I can find, I hop out and sprint across the lot, my backpack lazily slung over one shoulder. The blustery December wind whips across my face, turning the tip of my nose and my ears into icicles before I reach his unit. Gratefully, the door swings open mere seconds after I knock, and I’m greeted by Beckham’s smiling face.
“Hurry. Get inside and warm up.” He ushers me in and gives me a quick hug, hastily shutting out the cold behind me. “Someone needs to tell winter she’s early this year.”
Chuckling softly, I nod as I remove my boots and jacket, leaving them both in the entryway. “Yeah, it went from an unseasonably warm November to a brutal December in the blink of an eye.” Just like my life did.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks while leading me into the small, rather dirty kitchen. “Let me see what we’ve got.”
Unrinsed plates are stacked on one side of the sink, and it looks like the countertops haven’t seen a wipe down in at least several weeks, but neither seem to faze him in the least. The trash threatens to overflow onto the floor, the can brimming with empty beer cans and takeout containers. One particular Styrofoam box on top displaying the Half Pipe Pub logo catches my eye, and my chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of him. A mixture of worry and anger washes over me, and I begin to think that getting out of the house wasn’t such a good idea.