Page 53 of Pictures in Blue
“And two,” Charlotte says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You spent the night with Hudson?” She squeals.
“Yes, but it’s not like that!” I blurt out. Because it wasn’t. It isn’t. “Nothing is going to happen there, Charlotte. We agreed.”
“Who agreed?”
“Hudson and I agreed.”
“Ummm, if you agreed nothing was happening there, then something must have happened. So, what happened?”
I consider not telling her anything. Telling her whatalmosthappened is just going to give her more fuel to feed the fire or whatever it is (or isn’t) between us. But I need to talk about it. I learned over the years that I don’t cope well when I don’t talk through my feelings or what I’m thinking. My therapist has helped me realize how much I kept to myself throughout my childhood and how damaging it was for me.
I go into an explanation of the hike, the mud, my ankle, the waterfall, and the almost kiss.
“He was going to kiss you and you stopped him? WHY would you stop him?” she yells.
“Because, Charlotte. I’m leaving soon. Why would I start something when I know I’m leaving?”
“Whywouldn’tyou? Have you never had a fling before? Why can’t it just be that?”
No, I’ve never had a fling. Ever. I’ve only had relationships. I’ve never even really dated before, besides James. I had my first boyfriend when I was a sophomore in high school and we dated until senior year. We broke up for the reasons you’d expect. Different colleges, different goals, didn’t want to do long distance. Then I met a guy in college, which again didn’t work out.
It never helped that Sharon was always in the back of my mind, reminding me that it was my fault when my relationships fell apart. Remembering James and the train wreck that turned into, I don’t think I’m the best judge of character when it comes to guys anyway.
“I don’t think I’m a fling type of person,” I respond. I feel things too deeply and I always fall first. And it’s usually face first.
“But how do you know you aren’t a fling person when you’ve never tried? Stop overthinking everything and just have fun for once, Ave. I’m begging you.”
“Iamhaving fun. Just my version of it.”
“Alright, alright. I can respect that. But, wait, whose shirt are you wearing?” she asks.
Shit.I realize I am still wrapped in Hudson’s shirt, clearly visible to Charlotte on the screen.
“Uhhh, mine?” I say, trying to play it off, but I already know she isn’t going to let it go.
“HAH, nice try. I know you. You don’t own flannel.”
“You don’t know every shirt I own. I could have bought this recently or received it as a gift.”
“You mean you received it as a gift from a hot man from a charming, Hallmark-like, small town whocarried you on his backso you didn’t have to walk back and further hurt yourself?”
Putting my face in my free hand, I groan. “Stooooop, okay? It’s his shirt. I fell in the water this morning and didn’t have anything to change into so I made him give me his shirt because he was being an ass about it.”
Charlotte responds with a burst of laughter. Her face leaves the screen as she doubles over, her guttural laugh filling the air. “You are so in for it,” I hear her voice say. I roll my eyes, ignoring just how right she might be.
Exhaustion overwhelms my body.The rest of our conversation included more teasing from Charlotte and more of me insisting I could keep up my end of the deal Hudson and I made. As much as I want to crawl under the covers and sleep the rest of the day, I can’t consciously get into clean bed sheets without first cleaning myself.
I strip off Hudson’s shirt and resist the temptation to inhale the scent of him. Pine, salt, and a type of woodsy scent, maybe cedar, or cherry. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating and it might just be my new drug.
After I shower, lingering longer under the steady stream of water—hot enough to make my skin look like I spent the last few hours reading on the beach with no sun protectant—I dress quickly in another pair of leggings and an oversized gray sweatshirt, and tie my hair in a red ribbon with frayed ends. My ankle throbs a little less and the swelling isn’t as bad as it was this morning. Probably because I haven’t really been walking on it much today. It’s still sore, but the pain is manageable. At least enough to go get my equipment, come back and curl up in bed with my laptop on the empty side of the bed streaming movies the rest of the day. However, when I sit on the bed to tie my shoes, I am greeted with a soaked bed sheet.
Just what I need,I think as a drop of water hits the top of my head. “You’vegotto be kidding me.”
I stand and watch as another water droplet cascades from the ceiling and lands with a wet drip on top of the wet spot. A leaky roof. Perfect. Between the hike, last night, Hudson this morning, and the teasing from Charlotte, this is the last thing I want to deal with. I’m going to have to pack all of my stuff, most of which is strewn everywhere as I made myself at home over the last few days, move into a different room, and get settled there before I can cocoon myself for the evening.
“Cordie!” I call down the stairs as I slowly make my way to the front desk, using the railing as a crutch.
“Yes, dear?” She calls back from the front desk where she is attempting to crochet either a sweater or a blanket. Maybe a scarf with extra ends? I can’t tell.
