23. Eva
EVA
The car barrels down the road, its engine growling like a wild animal. The vibration runs deep through my chest.
The windows are tinted, but sunlight still finds its way in as we drive along a narrow two-lane road somewhere in southwestern Michigan.
It takes a long time for my thoughts to come together again. They arrive slowly and unevenly.
Maya won that argument.
That’s the first clear thought that stays with me.
I can still picture her standing over me at the clinic, arms folded, voice calm and completely immovable.
“You’re not doing this drive without something stronger,” she said. “You won’t make it.”
I argued.
No strong meds. No losing control. No drifting in and out of consciousness while Hudson drives me somewhere ‘up north’ without telling me why.
Maya didn’t budge.
And now?
I’m not sure whether to hate her for it or thank her.
The world blurs softly at the edges.
My thoughts always lag behind reality. My body feels heavy and strangely weightless at the same time.
The pain is still there, but the medicine dulls it and keeps the worst of it away.
At least the nausea has eased.
I’m stretched out in the passenger seat, reclined as far back as it will go, one hand resting lightly on my stomach.
This sucks.
The meds seem to have made me talkative. Suddenly, I’m a real chatty Cathy.
My brain has decided that if I can’t control my body, I don’t need to filter my thoughts either.
I turn my head slightly and study Hudson’s profile.
Still the same.
His jaw is tight, eyes focused, and his hands steady on the wheel, like this is all normal for him.
I clear my throat.
“I can’t believe you’ve driven this long with no music.”
My voice comes out softer than I expected.
Hudson barely glances at me.
“I didn’t think music would be helpful.”
"Well," I say, suddenly caring about this, "I think music helps. Especially when I’m trying not to think about how bad this would look on social media."
I shift in my seat and wince a little.
“And right now? Huge fan of not thinking.”
He doesn’t respond.
Rude.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” I ask.
Still nothing.
I squint at him.
“Do you even listen to music, or do you just sit around in silence thinking tortured thoughts all day?”
Before he can answer, I reach toward the radio.
His hand catches my wrist immediately and pushes it away.
“Not now.”
“Wow,” I murmur. “That’s aggressive.”
“I’m driving.”
“You’ve been driving for, like, seventeen years,” I say. “I think you can handle a little background noise.”
“No.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of how stubborn he is.
“Oh my God,” I gasp softly. “Are you a Swiftie?”
He exhales through his nose.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I continue, warming to the idea. “You don’t want me turning it on because you’re afraid Taylor Swift will come on and expose you.”
“Expose me to what?” he mutters.
“Your feelings,” I say, very seriously. “You’re afraid she’s going to tell you to shake it off, and you’ll just…spiral.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond.
We drive a few more miles before I break the silence again.
“Is this a Mustang?” I ask suddenly.
“Yes.”
"It’s vroomy," I say, nodding as it matters. "I have a vroomy car too. A red Charger. It’s fast."
I pause. "We should race sometime."
“You should sleep.”
"I don’t want to sleep," I mumble, pressing the button to sit up straighter. "Every time I fall asleep lately, I wake up somewhere new. It’s unsettling."
“That’s not how sleep works.”
“It is lately.”
He doesn’t argue with that.
Smart man.
“You know,” I say slowly, “I think you’re really mean, but also nice sometimes.”
“I’m not nice.”
“You’re nice to Lucian.”
“He’s different.”
“So you hate everyone else?”
“Mostly.”
That makes me smile a little.
“What about your teammates?”
“What about them?”
“You hate them?”
One corner of his mouth twitches slightly.
“Not hate.”
“Do you even like hockey?”
“Enough with the questions.”
I sigh heavily. “One more. Where are we going?”
“Jesus,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Up North.”
That could mean anything.
With Hudson, it probably means somewhere remote with hardly any people. It sounds like the perfect place to hide a body and let nature take care of it.
Feeling a little woozy again, I decide to rest my eyes.
And then I’m gone.
I wake up when Hudson pulls into a gas station to fill up.
He says nothing as he gets out, swiping his card at the pump before starting to fill the tank.
“No, I don’t need anything, thanks,” I mutter to myself. “I’ll just drag my broken ass across the parking lot. It’s cool. No big deal.”
I’m still quietly bitching to myself when the driver’s door opens again.
Hudson slides back into the seat, handing me a plastic bag. Inside, there are several cold drinks and a few snack options. I just stare at him.
“What?” he asks. “Nothing in there you like?”
“No, there is,” I say. “Thank you.”
He shrugs and starts the engine, but doesn’t pull out right away. He seems to ponder something.
“Do you, uh, need to use the restroom?” he finally asks.
Well, now I feel stupid for sitting there muttering to myself about not being asked if I needed anything.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t have much in my system so…”
He nods. “Just tell me if you need to stop again.”
Something twists unexpectedly in my chest.
I shove it down immediately.
So what? He bought snacks and asked if I needed the bathroom.
It’s the bare minimum of human decency and shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.
And yet somehow it does.
He said it himself. He isn’t nice.
When people tell you who they are, you should probably believe them.
I reach into the bag, pull out the electrolyte drink and pretzels, then hand the rest back to him.
Hudson takes a soda and some chips, then finally pulls back onto the road.
We eat in silence for a while.
Then, without a word, he reaches over and turns on the radio.
Heavy metal pours through the speakers: loud guitars, rough vocals, enough noise to fill the space between us.
Not exactly my thing, but better than silence.
The drive stretches on forever after that.
At some point, we cross a massive suspension bridge. I open the window and let the cool air hit my face, marveling at the vast dark water as we cross one of the Great Lakes.
I’ve never actually been this far north before.
The farther we go, the more the world fades away. Houses get fewer, streetlights disappear, and trees close in around the road.
By the time we finally turn down a long gravel driveway, it’s fully dark outside.
The Mustang creeps forward, tires crunching over stone for half a mile before a cabin appears in the headlights.
“Let me go turn on some lights and check things out before I help you into the cabin, okay?” Hudson says.
He climbs out before I can answer and heads toward the house with long, purposeful strides.
He punches in a code and disappears inside.
Warm light spills through the front windows. A few minutes later, he reappears beside the car and opens my door.
I try to push myself up. He exhales sharply and lifts me out of the car, one arm under my legs, the other at my back.
I’m too sore to object.
He carries me toward the house. The closer we get, the more ridiculous it feels to call it a cabin.
This place is beautiful.
The main room has high ceilings and a whole wall of windows looking out into the dark. I bet it’s an amazing view of the lake during the day.
The furniture is dark wood, and the big couches actually look comfortable.
A large kitchen opens off one side of the room, and a staircase leads up to a loft above.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs and another bathroom,” Hudson says as he carries me farther inside. “But you’re taking the main floor room. I’ll take the couch so I can keep an ear out.”
He takes me all the way to the bedroom, where he lowers me onto the massive, king-sized bed.
“The bathroom is through that door,” he says, pointing. “It’s stocked with basics. If you need anything specific, write it down, and I’ll get it tomorrow. Can you get to the restroom on your own, or do you need help?”
“I’m good,” I say.
“I’ll be out on the couch if you need something. Just yell. I’m a light sleeper.”
Then he leaves me alone in the quiet bedroom.
I sit for a moment, listening to the distant creak of the cabin settling around me.
After weeks of noise, the silence almost unnerves me.
No shouting. No footsteps outside the door. No fear curling through me every time it opens.
Just quiet.
I slowly slide under the covers and fall asleep right away.
Bright sunlight fills the room when I wake. For a moment, I don’t recognize where I am.
I push myself up carefully and take in the room properly this time.
There’s a chaise lounge tucked beside a massive picture window overlooking endless trees and the glittering water beyond.
There’s a narrow bookshelf full of old paperbacks. A dresser sits against one wall with a flatscreen TV on top. It’s almost too peaceful.
Then I catch a whiff of myself, and my nose wrinkles immediately.
God.
I smell awful.
When I’m trying to figure out how to shower, Hudson walks in carrying a glass of water and a bottle of pills.
“Forgot to give you pain meds last night,” he says, setting both on the nightstand.
Then, almost defensively:
“But I’m not your fucking nurse, so you’ll have to keep track of the timing yourself.”
“Noted,” I say. “Thank you.”
I push the blankets aside and carefully lower my legs over the edge of the bed.
Standing is rough.
As soon as my feet touch the floor, I get dizzy and my vision blurs. I grab the mattress and close my eyes, breathing slowly until I steady myself.
“What are you doing?” Hudson asks.
“I smell like roadkill. I need a shower.”
I start shuffling toward the bathroom slowly because every muscle protests the movement.
“Why don’t you just ask for help?” he asks.
I glance back at him.
“You just said, I’m not your fucking nurse,” I say, trying to copy his growl.
I’m out of breath and shaky by the time I get inside and close the door.
Showering turns out to be way harder than it should be.
I’m so weak that standing for long feels impossible.
I vomit hot bile twice as the bandaging on my hand falls off, revealing a mangled, bruised middle finger missing the nail entirely.
My hair needs a good wash and some conditioner. I try, but it’s hard, and I can’t rinse the soap out.
Feeling so useless, I can’t help but cry.
I barely notice when Hudson steps into the bathroom, flips on the fan, pulls off his shirt and pants, and steps under the spray with me.
He lets me lean against him while he rinses the shampoo from my hair.
The rest happens quietly.
He washes what I can't reach, helps me dry off, and settles me back onto the toilet before I can argue.
By the time I stop feeling sorry for myself, my hair is brushed, neatly braided, and doesn’t look like a bird’s nest anymore.
I reach up and touch the braid.
“Why do you know how to do that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not,” I say quietly, but I think I know anyway.
“What time is it?”
“Afternoon,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “What time did we get here?”
“Two in the morning. I would’ve let you sleep longer, but the medicine…”
“It’s fine. I was up,” I say.
“We need to get some of your bandages changed,” he says. “That finger is…”
“Gnarly,” I say, looking at it.
“To say the least.”
“I barfed when I first saw it.”
“I heard you barfing,” he says. “Then crying. That’s why I let myself in.”
“So much for not being my nurse,” I say with a weak smile.
“Yeah. I guess.”
After he changes my bandages, he helps me into soft flannel pajamas. The pants are loose and the shirt buttons up. They’ll be good while I’m recovering.
“Where did you get these?” I ask.
“Went into town this morning,” he says. “Needed coffee. Picked up groceries and some other stuff while I was out. We’re going to be here a few weeks.”
“Here,” I say. “In the Upper Peninsula.”
He nods. His expression is thoughtful. “I keep this place as a hunting cabin. Only Lucian knows I have it. Martin doesn’t.”
I force myself not to react to that name, even though panic prickles under my skin.
“He can’t hurt you here,” he says with surprising gentleness.
I meet his gaze and see the exhaustion in his face. “Why are you helping me?”
He bites lightly at his bottom lip. The gesture looks oddly vulnerable on someone like him.
For the first time since I met him, he seems unsure.
“Lucian,” he finally says.
I frown.
“He asked you to help me?”
Hudson shakes his head.
“No. He reminded me I’m not a complete monster. Or, at least, I don’t have to be.”