Chapter 31
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
HUDSON
W ilde tries to leave without me again, but he should know by now how persistent I am.
Apparently as much as he is because he also refuses to let me drive.
We reach his place, and he gets out before I can open his door, but it doesn’t make a difference to me.
It’s not until he climbs up to his front porch, me right behind him, that he hesitates.
It takes a moment of indecision before he turns and holds his keys out. “Drive yourself back. Ziggy can take the truck to get home and come see me tomorrow.”
“Yeah, no.”
“You can’t walk in the rain.”
“I’m not planning to.”
It takes Wilde an embarrassingly long time to get to the point I’m making. “Well, you’re not coming inside.”
“Yeah, I am. I have to get you settled. ”
It’s like he takes that as a personal offense. “I can settle myself.”
“Can but won’t.”
His jaw locks like he’s praying for patience. “No one is allowed in my house.”
“But I’ve been in there before.”
“And I didn’t allow it.”
I climb the last step so we’re both standing on the little porch. “What’s your problem?”
“Well, the one and only time someone has been in my house since it was built, they broke one of the few things that are special to me. So maybe that has something to do with it.”
I … did what? Guilt tries to shrivel up my gut.
But while I feel bad about that—even if he did smash our shit up—this rule was clearly in place long before me. “I promise not to mess with anything else. Happy?”
He doesn’t answer, which means I’m wearing him down. Testing that theory, I step toward his front door and rest my fingers on the door handle. Wilde doesn’t try to stop me, so I turn the knob and push my way inside.
It’s as small as it looks from the outside. One room that holds a kitchen, living room, and small table to eat at. There are two doors opposite me that I’m assuming are a bedroom and a bathroom.
The place might be small, but I’m taken off guard by how cozy it is. He’s got a teapot that’s covered in something knitted, and there’s a patchwork quilt thrown over the back of his couch. I walk closer, running my fingers over the stitching. It’s soft and well loved.
“This is nice.”
He limps closer. “Nan made it.”
“Where is she? ”
“Dead.”
Well, that’s a fun answer. “Mine too.” And because we’re already here, I figure I might as well push my luck. “Your parents?”
Wilde’s gaze latches onto the quilt. “Dunno.”
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know either,” I confess.
Thunder punctuates those words, but it sounds further away than before.
“Dad’s fucking his way across Canada. I think he’s trying to bone every woman in North America.
” Wilde has no reaction to that. “Mom’s so high half of the time she legitimately has no clue where she is. ”
“High?”
“No one noticed she was abusing benzos until it was too late. She ended up in the hospital during my senior year, which scared me enough to make some changes myself.” It’s almost a cute family story, how we went to rehab together.
I walked away okay, but when we got out and Dad was in a different state instead of waiting to pick us up, I think she lost all motivation at that point.
She doesn’t want to be better. “Anyway, it’s gotten to the point where whenever she tries to give them up, it’s more pain than it’s worth, so she’s stopped trying.
She’s happy, living in that fog. Or at least I assume she is.
” The way she’s so unfocused and slurs her way through any conversation makes it difficult for me to even want to be around her.
Not that I don’t love her, but with how weak I’ve been lately, she makes me feel guilty for having those thoughts at all.
“If she’s that messed up,” Wilde says, “why would you be tempted to go back to …” He’s struggling through every word. “That?”
“Most people assume it would be the opposite. And maybe it’s true for some, but my issues and her issues have always been separate in my mind. Even though we both just want to escape. ”
I expect him to ask about that, but he doesn’t. Wilde slowly pushes his jeans off and throws them through one of the open doorways. “My favorite pair,” he mutters. “Figures.”
“Buy some new ones.”
“City boy …” he throws back, but there’s no bite behind it for once. “Most people around here know how to sew. Someone will patch them up for me. Just gotta work on getting the blood out of them first.”
“Shouldn’t you do that now, then?”
“Probably, but it will have to wait until morning.” He grimaces as he eases down on the edge of his couch. “Driving took it out of me.”
“I told you I could drive.”
“And I told you no .”
“But you were happy to let me take your truck …” I try to figure out the difference. “So, it’s not your truck you’re protective of … it’s yourself?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“I don’t trust anyone else to drive. Now, drop it.”
I drop it, even though I really, really don’t want to.
I’m slowly collecting pieces of Wilde that I didn’t know existed, and one day, I’m convinced I’ll have enough to make a whole picture.
His lack of trust, the way he hated me drawing attention to his beard, but he shaved anyway.
And I know why he shaved. Because I said I hated his beard.
So he did something to impress me without wanting me to be impressed.
If I stand around for much longer, I’m going to keep pushing him for answers, which is a fast way to be shown the door.
He’s given me way more already than he normally does, and I get the feeling that where Wilde is involved, I have to be patient.
So I leave him behind and follow his jeans into the other room.
I automatically hit the light switch, even though I’m not expecting anything to happen, and when the small light overhead flickers on, I stare at it.
“You have electricity ?” I shout.
Wilde grunts, which I’m assuming means yes. This is perfect. All this time, I thought there was nothing up this way, and they’ve been living comfortably while we’ve been suffering through cold showers or driving into Wayward and booking a motel room just to get clean.
That asshole.
I swipe his jeans off the floor in a huff and glance around the small room. There’s a toilet, a basin, and a washing machine in here, but that’s it.
“Where’s your shower?” I ask. “Bath? Whatever.”
“Outside.”
Of course it is. I sling his jeans over the basin, grab the soap, and set to work getting as much of the blood out as possible. Probably should have left these things with Booker since I have a suspicion he would have loved this job.
“What are you doing?” he calls out, like he can’t help himself.
I lean around the doorframe to meet his confused expression.
“Washing out this blood before it sets. Can’t let it ruin your favorite jeans.
” Him having a favorite pair of jeans is weird.
It’s not something I expected, and Wilde having an attachment to anything makes me even more curious about him.
He doesn’t have a lot of stuff, so I’d assumed things were worthless to him, but that’s obviously not the case.
I’m getting the feeling that whatever I broke wasn’t on the same level as some old windows.
I shut off the water when it runs clear and then sling the jeans over the edge to dry. They’ll do for now.
I wash my hands before heading back out, and instead of settling him in and leaving, I join him on the couch. “What did I break when I was here the last time?”
Silence stretches, and I know that I have to give him time to fight over answering me. It’s a personal question, and Wilde isn’t a personal man. “A pot. Vase. Thing.”
“You don’t even know what it was?”
“It doesn’t matter what it was. Gracie made it as a gift for me. I don’t get gifts often.”
“Who’s Gracie?” I ask, picturing some leggy mountain lady.
Wilde must pick up on something in my tone because he laughs. “She’s a child. One of the few who live here.” He leans back against the couch, and after a second, I mirror him.
“How many kids are there?”
“Currently seven, though Matt’s about to turn eighteen.”
“Do you know everyone?”
“Yes.” He stretches his sore leg out. “Matt was the first kid born after I moved here. We’re an extended dysfunctional family, but we work.”
“Even Lynx?”
“Even him. Everyone has their place.”
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway. “What about me?”
His steely eyes meet mine, and there’s regret there as he answers. “Every society has its disruptor.”
I rip my gaze away. I’m sitting there, telling myself that as soon as the rain stops, I’ll leave, but this conversation doesn’t feel finished. I just have no idea where to take it from here.
“Do you want to meet them?” he asks. “The others?”
The question is so unexpected that I can’t believe Wilde asked it at first. He’s been determined to keep everything hidden from me, and this is the exact opposite of that. Has he had a personality transplant?
“When? ”
“Today? Now?”
“You’re injured.”
He bites back his clear irritation at me pointing that out. “Fine. In the morning, then.”
The fact that he’s offered this at all feels like a turning point. A definable moment where he’s making an effort, so I’m going to make one right back. “Will you show me around as well? I want to know more.”
“Why? So you can see what you’re ruining?”
“So I can understand why you love the place.”
There’s a pause, then a soft “Why?”
“I don’t know. I just want to.”
He’s conflicted, but when he drags his gray eyes back to me, they’re unguarded. Almost vulnerable. “Don’t make me regret this.”
The worst part is that’s not a promise I can make.