72. Chapter 70
Hudson
For the first time I can recall, my mind is a complete and utter mess of emotions and concepts. I have lost my ability to hold on to any one thought.
My living room has grown dark, my glass of bourbon ran dry some time ago, and Emery’s journal lies closed on my lap. Since returning home after my failed modeling session with Emery yesterday, I have done nothing but read the words she has inked onto these pages.
There are sketches in the margins, some so heartbreaking that my mind can’t comprehend that they are drawn in a sparkly pink ink.
A girl tucked into a ball, backed into the corner of an empty room.
A hand, with every knuckle broken and twisted.
Eyes lacking all emotion.
And the things she has written.
We are over. WE ARE OVER. I don’t want any of you here. I want to be left alone. This thing that was between us, I don’t want it anymore. You all ruined it. Ruined me.
Is that how she really feels? That we ruined her?
Is she only saying that because we showed her what was missing, then took it away? Our absence was only ever supposed to be temporary. We were always coming back to her; we’d just needed to protect everyone involved. All our futures had been on the line.
But she hadn’t known that. We hadn’t told her that.
I hate you. I hate all four of you.
I don’t think I can ever forgive you.
Involuntarily, my hand clenches tightly around the empty glass at the memory of those words.
How did we fuck up so royally? It was so fucking clear to all of us that she had been in the system, and while none of us had firsthand knowledge of what that was like, it’s obvious our girl has been continuously let down by the adults in her life.
We are no better than them.
Our relationship was too new to withstand the stress of a temporary separation, and the lack of communication on our part will forever be a scar on my soul.
But not all her entries are filled with the venom of the first. Some are simply long, rambling thoughts, memories of her life. There are several entries about a Mrs. Mitchum, her high school art teacher.
She caught me red-handed, sneaking into the art supply closest for what must have been the third or fourth time. I turned around, arms loaded with pencils, paper, and whatever else I’d managed to snag, and she was standing there in the doorway to the classroom, a canvas bag held out toward me.
I was so startled to see her there, I dropped everything, shoved past her, and got my ass out of there.
That night, I went back to the group home and packed my bags, fully prepared to be picked up by either my social worker or the cops.
I fell asleep in the clothes I’d been wearing and my backpack clutched tightly to my chest.
It took me over a week to work up the courage to try again. I was out of paper and my pencil was down to a stub. I was desperate to replenish it all. When I made it to the closest, the same canvas bag that she had offered me was sitting on a shelf, already stuffed full of supplies.
Of course, she was waiting in the doorway for me again, but this time I didn’t run.
Instead, she asked to see my art, and because I felt like I owed her, since I’d been stealing her stuff, I took my falling apart sketch pad out and handed it over.
I have never been so scared about anything in my life, not even with Tray.
She didn’t blow smoke up my ass and tell me I was the most talented artist she’d ever seen. Instead, she pointed out how if I’d darkened the shading or used finer lines, I could have found more substance within my art.
From that day on, every lunch I didn’t have to spend with Tray, I spent with her. She saved me. She’s the reason I even considered getting out. She’s the reason I made it out.
Tomorrow, I will ask the others their thoughts on trying to find kitten’s Mrs. Mitchum, so I can thank her for everything she did for Emery, and I will see to it that her art department never needs for anything. And if Emery is amenable to the idea, I’ll facilitate a catch-up between the two.
And then there are the entries that are responses to the notes I provided with each of my gifts. Each and every single one, besides the first, put a smile on my face.
First, there was her confusion about why I was continuing to send her gifts.
Hudson, you do know we broke up, right? You don’t have to keep sending me these gifts. I get that these are rewards or whatever, but I don’t need them. Not that I don’t appreciate them, but isn’t it considered weird to receive gifts from an ex?
And then it transitioned into a more playful tone, among her sharing of memories.
I just want you to know that Blue is a good snuggler. He doesn’t take up too much space in the bed, and he doesn’t fight with Rocky for my cuddles.
And not to mention her frustration with the vibrator.
That setting is mean. It’s not even worth using! Not that I’m going to use it. It’s going to get buried at the bottom of my drawers. I’m not even going to take it out of the packaging.
We both know how that turned out.
But the one thing I’m puzzled about is that she kept swapping between two names for me.
Hudson.
And Viper.
She has only ever said Viper once in my presence, but I’d been sure I hadn’t heard it correctly.
I thought it had been a part of her incoherent mumblings during her orgasm in the fitting room during her shopping spree on our first weekend together.
I’d always meant to ask her about it but had forgotten until I read it in her journal.
Am I Viper?
She also references Daddy, Hunter, and Angel.
Daddy is clearly Derek.
I would have said Angel was Xavier, but the more I’ve read about them, I’m sure he is her Hunter.
So, that leaves Angel for Darcy. I have a feeling she is probably imagining a dark, fallen angel, rather than a pure-white-halo-wearing one. Not that Xavier fits that part, either.
But it was one of her latest entries that tore me apart at the seams and left my blood pooling on the floor.
Sometimes I wish I could time travel. I always thought that if I could, I would go back to the night of the car accident that took my parents and throw a tantrum or pretend to be so sick we couldn’t go to wherever it was we were going that night.
But lately, I’ve been thinking, I’d go back to our weekend together and I’d find a way to tell you I’m a student.
Find a way to have a conversation with you all and to come up with a plan together, so we all knew that the last time we kissed goodbye in the apartment wouldn’t be the last time we chose each other.
I wish there was a way to tell her we choose her every goddamn day. I want to tell her she is ours and we know we fucked it all up, however unintentional. But with how well she is blocking us from gaining any access to her whatsoever, I’m not sure I will ever get a chance to talk to her again.
Unless I can find another way to communicate with her.
Glancing down at my lap, I stare at the beautiful engravings in the cover and trace my finger over the grooves of the design.
Maybe…maybe our communication doesn’t need to be verbal.
A buzzing fills my chest as I reach for the chain of the lamp on the side table beside me and give it a tug to turn it on.
Light floods the corner of my living room.
Standing up, I go to the kitchen, turning on more lights, find a pen, and then stride over to my dining room table before taking my usual chair.
I open the journal to her last entry, then I turn the page and hope I am making the right decision.
Kitten,
Thank you so much for sharing your journal with me. I feel like I have learned so much about you, so I thought it was only right that I teach you about me.
I’m 35 years old, and the second youngest of our little group.
I have a younger sister who works in the city, and my parents are married and retired in Florida.
I used to be a financial manager, making the rich richer, until I decided that I wanted to be a part of educating the next wave of financial experts.
I continue to write until I have filled up four whole pages, only pausing when I need to decide how to end my note to her. The pen hovers just over the page for several seconds before I make my decision.
Yours,
Viper.