30. Hudson
In some ways,it felt like Hudson had slipped into some alternate dimension for the past four weeks, and only now was tentatively reentering humanity.
Had he googled ‘what is a manic state’ just to make sure he hadn’t fallen into one? Maybe. When he told Lane that, Lane had just laughed, and told him that next time he could just ask him. Which was all well and good, but he wasn’t just going to send Lane an email in the middle of the week with the subject line ‘am I currently in a manic state’? Because then he would start worrying that he would have to call 911 or something.
But art was pouring out of him at a rate that honestly terrified him. He didn’t think he’d ever produced work of this quality this consistently in his life, and somehow he’d found himself on a hamster wheel he was scared to get off.
“Have you been sleeping?” Naomi asked him one night.
He wiped the hair out of his eyes and blinked up at him. “Huh?”
“You. Sleep. Question mark.”
“Yeah, I’ve been sleeping.” Like shit, but he had been sleeping. A combination of having too many ideas and his brain deciding it didn’t want to pause for rest at all and sleeping alone meant that Hudson hadn’t been enjoying the quality REM sleep all of his doctors would prefer he had.
Marcus and Renee’s sexcapades had seemed to slow down a little, so at least he didn’t have to sleep with earplugs in anymore.
“You sure? Because every time I’m in here, you’re also in here.”
“Then should I be asking you if you’re sleeping?”
“Oh, definitely not.” Naomi waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sleeping like a baby. Apparently, all I needed for sleep was fresh air and crickets? Who knew that shit would work?”
“They have settings on white noise machines that are called ‘countryside’ or whatever,” Hudson replied. “Won’t help with the fresh air part.”
“Damn this fresh air bullshit,” Naomi said. “Because why am I sitting here contemplating moving up here?”
“Don’t tell Jan and Xylo that,” Hudson said. “If they find out, they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”
“Listen, the only thing keeping me in the city right now is my stupid crush on the barista,” Naomi said baldly. “I haven’t really been feeling good there recently.”
“And it’s not just the weather?”
“I’m from Georgia. It’s always like that.”
Hudson shuddered. “More power to you.”
“That’s what air conditioning is for.”
“You can’t air condition the outside.”
“So don’t go there.”
“That’s…not really how it works.” Hudson leaned back against the wall. “Do you think I’m going too far?”
Naomi dropped down onto the floor next to him. “What do you mean?”
“Some days I’m not sure if this is one step below a murder wall. Or a shrine.”
“Okay, for future reference, when asking the question, go with shrine, not murder wall. Murder wall makes it sound like it’s a leading question.”
“Okay. Shrine?”
Naomi pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t call it that, but I can kind of see why you would think that.”
“Well, shit, that’s not good.”
“I literally just said I wouldn’t call it that, Hudson.”
“What would you call it?”
“A tribute?”
“Still creepy.”
“A love letter?”
Hudson sighed. “I mean, yes. But also.”
“Not to ask too many questions about your relationship,” Naomi began. “But does she know you love her?”
“Uh.”
“Oh.” Naomi sighed. “Okay. So if we’re going to be looking at it like that…I still wouldn’t say murder wall, but I can understand why you would be concerned about creepy.”
“Fuck.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think other people are going to realize just how much it’s all inspired by Alana. Especially if you, uh, massage the truth about your inspiration a little bit?”
“I’m pretty sure my best friend already knows.”
“Hold up. Your best friend doesn’t know you’re married?”
“Oh, no, he definitely does. I don’t think he knows that I’d prefer to stay that way. Except then I asked him to write a song.”
“He knows,” Naomi said. “Is it the melody you’ve been playing on repeat?”
“Sorry about that.”
“Tell your friend he can go fuck himself, because I have cried to that goddamn song more times than I’d care to admit. He definitely knows, Hudson.”
Hudson sighed, stared at the current piece he was working on.
It was called Regret, because he was original like that. He’d used branches from trees he’d picked up on his many, many forest rambles, and dipped them into epoxy so they wouldn’t fall apart, and then he created leaves out of pages and pages of his medical bill statements that he had painted with watercolor, and then Mod Podged for a more glossy sheen. There was an open condom, curled up, like a sad little animal, tucked into a corner, and two coffee cups, lids off, one full, the other empty.
He didn’t think there was a way for people to look at it and not be able to see, in startling clarity, what had happened in Connecticut.
But other people didn’t know, he reminded himself.
He just didn’t know if Alana would know.
He didn’t know if he cared if she knew or not.
Was it reductive and a little childish and honestly, not his best work? Yes to all three of those. But he had made it, and he was proud of it.
That had to count for something, right?
Today was board member day, and Hudson hadn’t been able to sleep for shit the night before. Sure, they had talked a big talk about letting the artists here roam free creatively, and that whatever they created here was going to be wonderful, but at the end of the day, these were all people who were trying to use the artists at the cabins as marketing and good PR for their organization and their community.
Which meant the ‘make whatever you want!! Everything will be great!’ was a crock of bullshit.
“I feel like I’m back at art school,” Hudson whispered to Naomi while they stood outside their shared studio space and waited for their turn. They’d made an executive decision to do a proverbial brushes down, walk away from the art moment when they’d found themselves fidgeting with things that did not need to be fidgeted with.
“Is that what this feeling is?” Naomi asked. “I went to school for graphic design. We didn’t have this happen.”
“Yeah. Except for it’s usually in front of the whole class. And everyone critiques.”
“Damn.”
“Nothing teaches you to hide your feelings and compartmentalize them when it comes to your art like critiques from overzealous classmates,” Hudson said.
“That sounds deeply unpleasant.”
“I guess, but it also helps in the long run.”
“Does it?” Naomi did not seem to believe him in the slightest.
“Well, I’m dead inside, so I think so?”
She laughed, and sipped her coffee.
Hudson’s phone buzzed. It was Alana.
‘Good luck on the judging! You’re going to do great!’
‘How do you know that?’
Alana sent him a picture of her office wall, where one of his first Patreon pieces was hanging up. ‘Everyone who walks into this room is obsessed with this piece,’ she texted. ‘And you’ve only gotten better since.’
Hudson stared at his phone, speechless.
‘Thanks,’ he finally texted, which was dumb, but he didn’t know how to say anything else without telling her how much he loved her.
As if he hadn’t been doing that, over and over and over, through every piece he’d made.
***
Press Day happened when there was a week left in the residency for most people, but three days left for Hudson.
He wasn’t sure how they all found out he was leaving early, but they all had. Most just asked for confirmation, so they could reach out through the appropriate channels if they had any follow up questions, but one of the journalists seemed offended on behalf of the organization.
“They’re just letting you leave early?” he asked.
“Letting me?” Hudson repeated.
“You did sign a contract,” the journalist said. “And technically, you’re breaking it by leaving early.”
“No, the contract was modified to ensure the dates listed were the correct dates that I would be here,” Hudson responded. “But I appreciate your concern on behalf of the arts fund.”
All of Alana’s corporate email stories were coming in handy. Sure, he had worked in retail for a long time, but this was a slightly different level of fuckery.
“Do you feel like you’ve gotten as much as you could out of this experience?” the journalist asked.
“I do,” Hudson replied. And he did. Not necessarily in the way this guy maybe meant, but nothing had helped him gain more clarity about his art and what was important to him like being away from his wife for six endless weeks.
Missing her was a constant ache, and no matter how many times they texted and FaceTimed, it never felt like enough to him.
If this was practice for the rest of his life, he was done for it. But even just floating in her orbit would be enough for him, if that was all he had the chance to have.
“Really.”
“Yes,” Hudson said serenely. “I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity, and I know I’ll look back on it as a pivotal point in my career.”
He had a few other softball questions for Hudson after that, and then slouched off to go to talk to Marcus, who he looked far more enthused about.
Naomi slid into the seat next to his. “Apparently he and Xenia had a torrid affair that ended poorly, and he’s decided that he should be her personal PR machine.”
Hudson winced. “Him and Xenia?”
“Yup.”
“I hope he’s older than he looks.”
“He’s not,” Naomi responded.
“Oh, no.”
“Yup.” Naomi sighed. “If I have to make up any more bullshit about my art process, I’m going to lose it. Want to ditch and go find some shitty fast food?”
“Actually, yes.”
“And possibly a terrible souvenir. I did promise one to my downstairs neighbor.”
“I’m pretty sure I passed a little cluster of shops that had a diner and a music store.”
“Perfect.”
***
“So.” Naomi looked at him over her burger. “Are you going to tell her about your feelings, or are you going to let the art do it for you?”
Hudson sighed. “I don’t want either.”
“Then you’re going to end up divorced and sad.”
“And if I do tell her, I’m probably going to end up divorced and sad anyway.”
“That’s pretty pessimistic of you.”
“Realistic,” Hudson countered.
Naomi rolled her eyes. “For someone who just spent a whole ass month metaphorically doing nothing but writing ‘I love you’ on every canvas you’ve touched, you’re being a weenie.”
Hudson snickered. “A weenie?”
“Yup.” Naomi nodded.
“Like it’s so easy to admit your feelings to someone,” Hudson said.
“I would never say that,” Naomi replied. “Hello. Look at me. I’m tied up in knots by someone who might not even actually know who I am, and I’m too big of a chickenshit to say anything other than make polite small talk while I wait for my coffee to be ready. Takes a weenie to know a weenie.”
Hudson laughed. “I don’t think anyone’s called me a weenie since I was eight.”
“Well, then it’s about time for the resurgence.”
He sighed. “I’ll tell if you do, too,” he offered.
“Fuck.”
“Yup.”
“Ugh, I don’t want to.”
“Same.”
“But I really want you to tell her,” Naomi continued.
“Very much same, again.”
“I don’t like this accountability thing,” Naomi said. “But fine. Within a week of getting home.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
“Ugh, I hate this already.”
“Me too.”
He did, he wasn’t lying. But there was something freeing knowing that there was a deadline of sorts, even if it meant a deadline to his own destruction.
Packing up the cabin was the strangest sort of deja vu, and it took a while before he realized that it felt like packing up his last apartment to move in with Alana.
He had been half anticipation, half dread, and hell, if he wasn’t right back there now. But damn the fractions, he was also half relieved to just go home.
Home, not just Manhattan, not just his neighborhood or street or building, or apartment. Home like Alana.
Maybe everything would turn out okay.