Page 105 of Her Goal
subject: Re: Coming Clean
To My Secret Admirer,
This is practically turning into an advice column. But coming up with an answer is even harder without the details. The best suggestion I can make is to be honest. First, with yourself, or tell your friend to be truthful about how she feels. This is one of the hardest things a person can do because no one’s ego wants to admit that they were wrong about something. Dig down and ask some important questions. Why don’t I think I deserve for this person to be nice to me?
Put that way, it sounds pretty outlandish, but I don’t know what your friend did to think that. There’s a spectrum. Did your friend do a harmless prank like hard-boil an egg and put it back in the container or something more serious like replace their shampoo with hair dye? There’s a difference.
If they’re truly in the wrong, an apology is in order. Even if the person doesn’t accept it, your friend did their part so long as they aren’t a repeat offender. One of my coaches drilled into us to learn from our mistakes.
But I have a feeling they will, especially if it’s from the heart. Also, thanks for saying you’re sorry. No hard feelings, truly. I may have felt differently five years ago, but my situationship recently changed and the little grievances just don’t matter anymore.
On this topic, I have a question for you. A long time ago, I did something that I think hurt someone. I’m not exactly sure what, though.It could be that the thing I did, I don’t perceive as hurtful. Or I genuinely didn’t know it hurt them. Point of view makes such a huge difference. I recently read a classic novel by a British author and have been thinking a lot about relationships. Anyway, it’s almost like I’ve been given a second chance, but I’m not entirely sure.
Actually, I think I just realized what I need to do. Duh. It’s what we’re doing. I have to communicate. Turns out there really is something to this email journaling thing you started. Thanks for that.
Sincerely,
The Guy You Pretend to Hate
I’m stunned speechless.I mean, I’m alone except for Julius Cheeser, expanding his kingdom in the wall, but I don’t know what to say, never mind think.
How did Hudson get so smart and what does he mean about his situationship? Is he talking about us?
My head gets busy with all thewhat-ifsand I’m tempted to scroll social media for a dopamine hit, but I snuggle into my covers and doze off … only to dream about Hudson Roboveitchek and me growing old together.
A week later,I wake in the morning with a start and not because Rasmus rang his gong.
What did Hudson mean in his email about doing something a long time ago that may have hurt someone? Is he referring tome, his brother, or someone else? I start sweating even though this place doesn’t have heat and it’s well into the time of year when it should be turned on.
Bolting upright, Hudson said something about communicating, which has me watching over my shoulder all morning. I have a meeting at the town hall in Cobbiton about the Happy Hockey Days event. Thankfully, Nancy doesn’t show up to protest. But a man dressed in a period costume and a white wig scuttles toward me as I walk down the granite steps of the building.
“Miss Smith! Excuse me, Miss Smith.”
“It’s a little early for Halloween, but you get an A for effort, my good sir.”
He places an envelope in my hand. “I’m a courier and was instructed to give this to you.” He takes off his tatty hat, bows, and then scuttles away.
I turn the paper over in my hand. Across the front, it reads,Miss Smith.Inside, it reads,I’d cordially appreciate your company this evening at 6:30. Below that is Hudson’s address.
Did he finally realize that I’m the one sending him those emails or does he want to “communicate?”
All day, I obsess over what to wear. Wouldn’t it be easier if I had a ladies’ maid to help me with things like this? This level of preoccupation is so not like me.
On second thought, it’s very much in line with my character. Instead of genuinely stressing me out, a thrill of excitement rushes through me every time I think about spending time with Hudson.
Because it’s chilly and later, I’ll have to walk through my neighborhood at night, I opt for a sensible outfit, including jeans, my favorite tall boots, and a gray sweater that hangs off my shoulder, but my bare skin will be secure under a fashionableleather jacket with a belt that hangs open at my waist. It’s casual but cute.
I wash my hair then don’t have enough time to give it a blowout because I have to swing by my parents’ place. My mother wanted help with something. I can’t remember exactly what because my mind is racing a million miles an hour about what’s going to happen when I get to Golden Bantam Lane. Unfortunately, traffic is doing the opposite. Letting out a breath, I tap the steering wheel because, of course, there’s construction.
Apparently, there is at my mom and dad’s house too. Several large trucks line the street. Workers hasten along the pathway to the front door and around to the back.
In case I wasn’t clear before, this place is the opposite of the duplex where I grew up and where I figured, I’d someday bring my children to visit their grandparents.
Aside from the lawn my father mows like it’s his job and the landscaping my mother tends to, finally having her own area to garden, large lanterns line the walkway leading to the house, along with pumpkins and sprays of carefully arranged autumn leaves. Massive cornstalk bundles tied with festive ribbons flank the steps with mums and other seasonal flowers covering the front entry along with a wreath fitted with fall foliage and bows handcrafted by my friend Aleeyah, who has a studio space in the Old Mill building.
The mini-mansion came move-in ready, but there’s no telling what my mother will do once she gets an idea in her head. It looks like she saved up over thirty years of limited duplex decorating and let it rip for her first fall in her own home.
When I get inside, she’s like a circus ringleader, directing people with boxes, bags, and lots of pumpkins.
