21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Trey
I watch Hudson quietly get up and storm off down the hall after the comment his mother made. I’m not sure if I should go after him or if he’d want me to, considering he looked pretty pissed even though he was clearly trying to hide it.
Part of me wants to make sure he’s okay, but Carol’s voice pulls me back to the here and now.
“He seemed a little better today.” She pouts. “I thought he was making progress, but these fits may never go away.”
I blink, trying to process her words as Tom shoves a piece of pie into his mouth. I can’t touch the last pieces of mine, trying to make sense of what is going on.
“What made you think about sharing the article with Hudson, exactly?” I ask, needing to make sure I’m not leaping to conclusions. Because it sounded like she was telling Hudson because…
“Because of his autism,” she says nonchalantly. “The article was so informative. Truly. I thought it might help him to see other adults like him—”
“Hudson’s autistic?” I hear the blunt shock in my voice, and Tom raises an eyebrow as Carol nods, picking at her pie like this is just a normal conversation—maybe for them it is.
“Of course,” she says with a little laugh.
“Hudson never said anything.” I turn to look at the empty hallway, my heart aching in my chest to get up, but my legs are frozen. I can’t move.
“You couldn’t tell?” Tom asks between shoveled bites of pie. I purse my lips as I attempt to eat a piece of cheesecake, if only to buy myself a moment to process… this.
Not Hudson being autistic, but that he didn’t tell me.
Why didn’t he tell me? Does he not trust me? We’re supposed to be best friends, and this feels like something you’d tell your best friend, so… why didn’t he tell me? I wrack my brain trying to figure out why he’d keep something like that from me. It hurts—a lot.
I shake my head. “No.”
Tom looks at me in surprise.
Carol sighs, stabbing a piece of her pie. “Well, I suppose now you know. He’s not like you and me. There’s things he’s just not capable of, things that he just can’t—”
Her words don’t feel harsh or judgmental, despite their bluntness.
In fact, it’s the opposite. She sounds like my mom every time we see each other, honestly.
And that’s what kicks me back into the present.
Into this moment. Because I know what it’s like for people to have unfair expectations.
The words come out of my mouth without a second thought.
“I beg to differ,” I say, taking a bite of my last dessert.
Carol looks at me in question.
“I’m pretty sure Hudson is capable of anything,” I add. “And maybe he’s a little upset that people think the opposite of him.”
Tom whoops a second later, cheering for the touchdown, just as Carol gets up and collects the plates, the moment gone but not forgotten. I feel him before I see him. It’s like the temperature in the room completely shifts, or maybe that’s just me.
I turn to see Hudson in the hallway, his body stiff, his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look at me. His lips are pressed into a hard line, and I feel the tension emanating off of him.
Tom’s words echo in my brain. You couldn’t tell?
I know they weren’t meant to be shitty. Some people just don’t understand that they’re being offensive.
I look at Hudson, standing here in his parents’ house, dressed up in a tight-fitting Wolves polo and khakis, his golden-brown hair shining under the incandescent lights.
I try to picture what Tom meant, but I can’t.
I don’t see anything but Hudson. My hot, smart, sexy as hell friend who I can’t stop thinking about.
And it has nothing to do with him being autistic.
I get up without a second thought and head over to him.
“Hey.” I clear my throat as Tom heads over to the TV in the living room, a fresh beer in his hand, and the sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen.
Hudson doesn’t look at me. I wish he would, though.
He grunts out a sound and his shoulders tighten.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice low.
“Fine,” he grits out. But I can tell he’s not.
Then he clears his throat, loudly.
I look from Hudson to the dining room table and make a split-second decision.
“Hey, Carol?” I call, and she comes back into the room.
“Yes, sweetheart?” I don’t miss how Hudson tenses up in her presence.
“Can we get some dessert to go? I think I’m feeling the effects of that tryptophan,” I say with a practiced laugh.
“Of course,” she says with a bright smile.
Hudson glances up at me, but when I turn to look at him, he looks away. It hurts more than it should.
It takes her two minutes to box up his dessert into a Tupperware container that she hands to me as Hudson all but sprints toward the door.
“Thank you,” I say as Hudson throws open the door, not bothering to say anything. “For having me.”
The drive back to Hudson’s is quiet. There’s no music, no sound except his heavy breathing.
He doesn’t speak, and though I want to break the silence, I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know if I should. Things feel strangely delicate right now, and I’m not sure why.
I mean, yes—I’m pissed too. Pissed he didn’t tell me.
Pissed he won’t look at me. Pissed at myself that I didn’t know somehow, even though there’s no way I could have guessed.
I mean, some things make sense, but… How would I have known?
I don’t go around pinpointing the things my friends do and turn them into a diagnosis.
In college, we spent most of our time on the field or at parties and clubs when we weren’t studying or in class. And sure… he felt different when we saw each other in New York, but I just thought something was bothering him, that he’s older and more mature, I didn’t think—
I look at him as a hundred things go through my head—things I can’t seem to wrap my brain around.
The way my heart beats faster when I look at him or the way my dick seems to have a mind of its own when he’s around.
But it’s more than that, too. Memories fill my thoughts along with feelings, both familiar and new.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice hard and full of bitterness.
Shit, that’s twice now he’s caught me staring at him like a space cadet.
“Like what?”
Hudson’s gaze narrows on the road, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.
“Like I’m not the same person.”
“Hudson, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know. I see the way people are judged and labelled.”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask defensively.
Hudson pulls into his driveway, throws the car into park, and scrambles out of the car.
I open my door and jump out, Tupperware in hand, as he storms toward the front door.
“Huds, come on…” I call out.
He doesn’t answer me.
I follow him inside, closing the door softly.
When I get to his living room, I find him at his kitchen counter, palms pressed against the granite, shoulders hunched. Frozen like a statue.
I head for the refrigerator, opening it to put the pie away, and just before I close it, I grab us both a beer. I feel like we both could use a drink right about now.
I pop the cap and slide him his, wordlessly, and settle at his side. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, but I feel his eyes on me as I pop my cap and take a long sip.
“Why?” I ask carefully, trying to hold back the emotions.
For a moment, I think he’s not going to answer me. Or worse, tell me to fuck off.
I shift next to him, my arm brushing his. When he shifts a little closer, I feel a sense of relief.
“Why, what?” he bites.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, picking at the label of my beer.
Hudson takes a long drink of his beer.
“Is it because you don’t trust me?” I ask, the bitterness and hurt forcing its way out of my mouth.
“No,” he says plainly, shifting away from me. I should let him go, but I can’t.
It’s like a compulsion, a desperate need to feel his skin against mine, his warmth. And something tells me he needs it, too.
So I move toward him, even as he walks away.
“Hudson…” I call out.
He shakes his head, heading for his living room.
“Hudson!” my voice elevates as my pace picks up to catch him. I’m not letting him get away.
Not now.
Not ever.
“Answer me!” I call out as I all but chase him down the hall. He heads for his bedroom, moving to slam the door in my face, but I catch it with my free hand and push it back.
“Hudson—” I grab his arm, and he turns around to throw me off. I see the beginnings of tears in his eyes, the familiar set in his jaw.
It reminds me of when I surprised him at work. How he’d turned into someone else instantly.
But we got through that, and we can get through this, too. I’m sure of it.
More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.
“What?” he snaps. “What do you want me to say, Trey?”
“How about the truth?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Why? What’s the point? Why does it matter?” His words are cold, harsh.
“Because that’s what best friends do.”
Hudson laughs, but it’s not sweet or fun. It’s drenched in sarcasm and bitterness.
Then he turns around, his gaze finds mine across the divide between us.
I take another step toward him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask again, almost begging.
Hudson slams his beer down on the dresser so hard it spins and rattles until it settles on the wood.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“It matters to me,” I say, holding his gaze. His face contorts into an expression of pain that makes my heart ache. “You’re my best friend—”
“No, it doesn’t!” he yells, cutting me off.
I stand still as his eyes fill with tears.
“Hudson—”
“It doesn’t fucking matter!” he yells again, shoving me. He’s breathing heavily, and I just stand there, letting him feel his anger. “I’m still the same person!” he says, staring at the floor. “I’m—”
I take two small steps toward him, and reach out to settle a hand on his hip.
“Look at me,” I tell him.