4. Alana
So maybe tipsily proposing toa man who definitely disapproved of her was not her best bet, Alana thought three days later. It had been radio silence from Hudson, even though she knew he had seen the text.
JP had said something about Hudson going off and hermiting in the woods making art or whatever, so Alana tried not to worry too much about fucking up their friendship group dynamics any more than they already had.
Because the whole friend group had somehow found out about the proposal (she wasn’t the one that spilled, and she knew for damn sure it wasn’t Hudson) and were all waiting on bated breath to see what would happen next.
Her period had started the morning after her ill-fated proposal, and so even if Hudson had said yes that first day or two, she wouldn’t have been able to answer him.
It was day three and she still felt like death, which meant she worked her usual full day, but from home. There was flexibility in the office when it came to working remotely, and any time Alana’s uterus decided to throw a temper tantrum, remote working it was. It was just too much of a logistical nightmare for her to want to try to commute to work and then work on an office floor with four other women.
She’d rather deal with the murder scene that was her period in the comfort of her own home and having both bleach and her heating pads in close proximity. Not to mention, she didn’t have to wear a bra.
“D’you ever think about how fewer women murderers are caught and it’s probably because we’re so good at getting rid of bloodstains?” Alana asked Shannon that night. She was in the shower, and Shannon was half-sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink going through her elaborate version of her skincare routine, which meant she was supposed to be writing but was procrastinating instead.
“I mean, I don’t usually think about murderers of any gender, but that does make sense,” Shannon replied. “I also thought there was something about women not being as messy when they murder.”
“Or once again, maybe they’re just better at cleaning blood.” Alana sighed. “Remind me why proposing to Hudson was a good idea?”
“Because he shouldn’t have to work in a cafe and pretend to like people and he needs health insurance to get out of that,” Shannon promptly responded. “And if he says no, that’s his choice.”
“Sure, but that means I’m back to square one,” Alana said. She leaned against the bar they had installed in the shower for a moment, before she was able to stand up again on her own. “Maybe there’s some actor who needs health insurance. An Elmo, perhaps?”
Shannon snickered. “Can we just imagine what would happen if you told your mom you married a Times Square Elmo? She would die.”
“If I did marry a Times Square Elmo, there is no way in hell I would tell my mother,” Alana replied. “That would involve talking to her again, and I have spent far too much money on therapists helping me see the light of no contact with her.” She paused. “Though if she found out, she would crumble into the Earth immediately.”
“Do you not plan on telling anyone about your fake marriage?”
“Besides the doctors, and the person in HR who handles benefits? Nope.” Alana let the hot water pummel her body. “Nobody’s business.”
“You’d tell us, though, right?”
Alana laughed. “That’s not the same thing. I would never keep that from you guys.”
That, sure. Tree sex with Hudson? Yes. If there was a way for her to erase that memory from her mind and body, she would. If someone had invented a procedure for that, she’d be down.
Even if insurance wouldn’t pay for it.
Today had been one of those days that had started off frantic and had only escalated since. It was nearly four, and Alana had been in back-to-back meetings nearly the entirety of the day, due to a certain nameless auditing department, who had decided that today was the day to fuck up everyone’s lives.
Collapsing into her chair, Alana finally picked up her personal phone, and winced at the number of missed texts and calls, mostly from Shannon. Reading through them didn’t make things much better.
The ones in the beginning were the usual sorts of texts Shannon would be sending her. Memes, a reminder that they were running low on toilet paper, a link to an article her coworker had written, a potential book cover that had come through.
And then, at around eleven, things escalated.
First there was the screenshot of an article that was announcing the musical Shannon worked for was closing immediately, then an email from the production company to all employees saying they were sorry about the way everyone found out about the news, and that the last show was going to be one week from today.
Then several texts about how much Shannon hated whichever shitty finance people made the decision to shut everything down that abruptly, and it really didn’t take much to be a billionaire other than nepotism and the inability to feel empathy for another human person.
Those texts would have been bad enough, and Alana was about to text back, but there were more texts, and things only got worse. Because apparently, Shannon’s grandfather had decided last week Thursday had been a good day for a stroke, and none of Shannon’s relatives had thought it was a good idea to update her about his health. That was, until they realized that someone was going to have to run the barbershop/salon/pharmacy he owned in the very small town in Montana where Shannon had grown up, and that someone was Shannon.
Alana sent a flurry of texts back, letting Shannon know she loved her, she hoped Grandpa was doing better, and she was ready and available with an alibi if Shannon needed one to deal with her relatives.
Finding someone you actually liked enough to want to live with was a damn near miracle, and Alana and Shannon had somehow found each other five years before. Their friendship had survived all sorts of jobs, graduate schools, a slew of questionable relationship choices, and that one time in their old apartment when the ceiling collapsed.
Shannon responded that she was packing and would probably eat a sandwich for dinner, Alana told her that she was being stubborn and that she would take care of dinner, which Shannon responded with a laugh-crying emoji, which meant that she was not doing well. The laugh-crying emoji was Shannon’s emergency bat signal emoji. Alana’s was the monkey covering its eyes.
You never knew when you would need an emergency bat signal emoji, and both Shannon and Alana had used theirs multiple times in the years they had been roommates.
And now that chapter was over. At least for now.
Alana had meant it when she had told Shannon she was down to be her alibi if Shannon wanted to beat the shit out of any of her relatives. Or perhaps do something slightly more devious and petty. They were taking Shannon away from her, and Alana didn’t have to forgive them for that. Especially if they hadn’t bothered to tell her about her grandpa’s stroke until almost a full fucking week later.
But once Shannon’s grandpa was stable enough (and that would be according to Shannon herself, and not her stupid self-absorbed relatives), Alana would start making Hallmark movie jokes, because they practically wrote themselves. Though selfishly, Alana hoped that whatever burly lumberjack man that fell head over heels in love with Shann would be down to move to New York. Montana was too far away.
After a quick stop at the local KeyFood, Alana headed back to the apartment with new emergency ice cream and some cauliflower. The cauliflower was unrelated but had been on sale.
Shannon was in her bedroom, packing her enormous suitcases and video chatting with her cousins. “I’ll call you back,” she said to them when she saw Alana standing in her doorway holding a container of ice cream.
“Oh, Shann.” Alana walked into the bedroom, dropping onto Shannon’s bed. The ice cream was safely placed on the nightstand.
“Lana.” Shannon’s face crumpled. “Everything sucks.”
Alana wrapped her arm around Shannon. “I know,” she crooned. “Fuck ego-filled financial backers and capitalism as a whole and the fact your Grandpa can’t live to two hundred in perfect health.”
“Apparently he’s demanding a bacon cheeseburger and has started calling into the local TV station to critique their news segments that he claims he’s being forced to watch in the hospital,” Shannon said between sniffles. “He told them that it was his right as a citizen to give his honest opinion, even if the presenter is his grandchild. What a drama queen.”
“You come by it honestly.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Oh, my grandpa would never eat a bacon cheeseburger,” Alana replied. “Mostly because he’s dead, and I’m pretty sure dead people can’t eat anything, let alone cheeseburgers. My dad would never dare eat a bacon cheeseburger, because my mom would say it was uncouth.”
“Are you sure you weren’t adopted?”
Alana shrugged. “I live in hope. So, when’s your flight back to Montana?”
“I’m driving.”
“You’re renting a car? Holy shit, Shann, that’s not gonna be free.”
“A truck, actually. Apparently, some guy just moved from New York and wanted someone to drive his truck there for him. So, all I have to do is not get into any car accidents and we’re set.”
Alana filed that away for further mockery re: Hallmark movie plotlines (was he a rich businessman who was disenchanted by life in the big city? Fuck, that would mean he wouldn’t want to move back to New York. Maybe he had a brother. Maybe he was there in exile? But then that meant he had done something terrible. This needed more work. This was why she left the romance novel plotting to the professionals, including Shannon.). “I’ll send you links to playlists.”
“Thank you.” Shannon sniffled. “I hate this.”
“Maybe it’ll be a good thing?” Alana offered.
“I’m abandoning you!” Shannon wailed. “And my whole life! And this apartment! I just finished my gallery wall!”
Fate was a bitch, and today, Alana was not a fan.
“I have ice cream?”
Shannon glanced at the tub. “It doesn’t have any pieces.”
“They didn’t have any good ones with pieces. But we have the emergency chocolate stash and that has MM’s and Reese’s pieces.”
“I suppose that will do.”
“Drama princess.”
Shannon stuck her tongue out. “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
“First of all, you’re not going to be gone forever. Second, the internet exists. And third, that damn song is gonna be stuck in my head all night and I’m gonna find a leftover Solo cup from some party that’s probably hiding in the back of the cabinet and I’m gonna serenade you for the next forty-seven years.”
“You’re a butthead.”
Alana grinned. “It’s part of my charm.”
Alana was lying on the couch eating dumplings when someone rang the buzzer.. She groaned, and slowly got up, shuffled over, and buzzed them in. Probably a package. But then a few minutes later, someone rang the doorbell.
Not the mail guy. He left the packages downstairs. She sighed, and got back off the couch, making sure she wasn’t going to accidentally flash whoever was there. Shannon was in her bedroom, headphones in, on Zoom with her writing buddies, and she couldn’t hear for shit in there.
Hudson Miller was standing on the other side of the door, looking practically edible.
Was he coming to turn her down in person?
He could do that, but couldn’t even bother having a conversation about That Time In Connecticut? Probably because people found out about this, and so he couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. Not that she was that much better, but that wasn’t the point.
Alana opened the door. “Hudson,” she said.
Hudson looked her up and down quickly, and his brows drew together, concerned. “Are you sick?”
If it wasn’t for the fact that her body had in fact tried to murder in the past few days, she would take that question and ruminate about it for the next four to seven business weeks. Hell, she might anyway, because when it came to Hudson Miller, she lost all versions of herself that made good choices.
Alana shrugged. “Just the usual. What’s going on?” She moved back to let him into the apartment. “Have you eaten dinner yet? There are emergency freezer dumplings if you want. Got them the last time I went to H-Mart.”
Hudson nodded thoughtfully. “I ate before,” he said. “But thanks.”
“D’you want a drink or something?”
“If you’re sick, shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, lying down? In bed?”
Alana waved her hand. “I will be, don’t worry.” She headed toward the couch with Hudson following her.
The couch felt smaller with Hudson sitting on it, and Alana resisted the urge to sit on his lap, even though it looked comfortable as all hell. She had no interest in having sex now with anyone at all (fuck her uterus and all the cysts), but she was still perving over Hudson.
Her body was a mess.
Shewas a mess. And about to be rejected, too.
Just rip off the band-aid, she silently wished.
“So. What brings you over?” Alana asked.
“When you said marriage,” Hudson said, “Exactly what does that entail?”
Well, that wasn’t what she had been expecting him to say.
“I know you said that you meant it,” he continued, as though he hadn’t just dropped the world’s largest metaphorical bomb. “But I wanted to ask you again when you were sober.”
“I am very sober right now,” Alana said hastily. Alcohol did not mix with the cocktail of pain medications she juggled to try to manage her symptoms. At least the throwing up from pain part had settled for the time being.
Was eating dumplings a good idea?
Questionable, but Alana didn’t care. She was out of rice cakes, and if her body was gonna punish her later, she’d cross that bridge when she got there.
“So.” Alana heaved a sigh. “Long story short. I have endometriosis.”
“Where tissue grows outside of your uterus.”
Alana blinked. “Yes. Why do you know that?”
“I googled it after I found out you had endometriosis,” Hudson replied.
“...Oh.” That wasn’t what she had expected either. “Anyway. I’ve already had two surgeries to get rid of cysts and stuff, but the issues keep coming back, and the best way to handle all of it is to get rid of it all. Uterus, ovaries, everything.”
“Still not sure why you need a husband for that.”
“Because patriarchal medical bullshit.”
“Oh.” Hudson nodded. “And so, if I’m your husband and tell the doctor that I want you to get a…”
“Total hysterectomy,” Alana supplied.
“He’ll give you one?”
“He’ll give me a referral to the surgeon who will give me one.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yup.”
“Have you told the doctor anything specific about me?” Hudson asked. “So I know not to say anything that would contradict it?”
“Just that you were away on business,” Alana replied. “I didn’t specify what kind of business, though.”
“Okay.” Hudson said. “And how long do you want to stay married?”
Was this really happening? Or had the sheer amount of narcotics she had taken to manage her pain finally have her hallucinating?
“I was thinking maybe a year?” Alana said. “If you want it to be longer, it can be, too.”
“A year is fine,” Hudson replied. “Hopefully gives me enough time to get movement on an artist’s visa or find a job I hate less that comes with health insurance.”
“A visa?” Alana repeated. “You’d move out of the country?”
Hudson shrugged. “We’ll see what happens. But the thought of not having to worry about health insurance forever seems like a dream. And it’s not like my heart is magically going to be fixed one day, so…”
Alana nodded. “Makes sense.”
Why did she care if Hudson decided he was going to move out of the country? They weren’t friends like that.
After everything that had happened, they couldn’t be friends like that. And it wasn’t like he had any interest in it, either.
So her and her delusional hormone-fueled daydreams could shove themselves back away.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Alana asked. “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“If anything, I should be asking you that,” Hudson said. “From what it sounds like, all I have to do is pretend to be your husband at one doctor’s appointment.”
“Yeah, and I have to have one conversation with the HR department at work,” Alana replied. “Not even. I just have to send them an email.”
“If you’re sure,” Hudson said.
“If you’re sure,” Alana replied.
“Well.” Hudson leaned back. “I guess the real question is, when are we getting married?”
Shannon popped into the living room. “Did you say the M-word?”
Hudson glanced at Alana.
“Shann…”
Shannon was high on creativity and whatever her writing friends put inside their little Zoom meetings. “Confirm or deny.”
“Confirm,” Alana said. “But I told you. It’s just a piece of paper.”
“Which means one less womb.” Shannon grinned. “We’re gonna throw the best goodbye party for your uterus, I can’t wait.”
Hudson blinked.
“Don’t worry, you can totally come to the goodbye party if you want to,” Shannon said. “Oh my god, we have to throw you guys a wedding party.”
“Uh, that seems unnecessary,” Alana hedged.
“Pfft. You need photographic evidence for your evil doctor.” Shannon waved her hand. “Don’t worry, we’ve been planning this forever. All you have to do is show up.”
Hudson looked at Alana, confused. “I promise,” Alana said. “I had nothing to do with whatever this is. It’s just some paperwork and an appointment at City Hall which should take an hour, max.”
“I can do that,” Hudson replied. He pulled out his phone and opened the calendar app. “And when’s your doctor’s appointment?”
Alana leaned over to compare calendars and tried her best to ignore whatever chaos Shannon was planning with Jamie and the rest of their friends.
It was just a paper marriage, Alana rationalized. Sure, she appreciated the dramatic irony of her and Hudson getting fake married for a year, but whatever the rest of their friend group had in mind was probably excessive.
She loved her friends, she really did, but as a whole, when there was a bit to commit to, they did it in spades.
“It’s just a paper marriage,” she repeated to Hudson. “So. Live your life the same way you normally would except we’ll have to talk to an accountant about taxes, and we’ll talk to Ben about a prenup and then twelve months after we’ll get divorced. Deal?” She reached out her hand to him.
Hudson looked down at her hand, then at her. Enveloping her hand in his, sending shivers down her spine, they shook hands. “Deal.”
What was she getting herself into?