CHAPTER 17
So this is being high.
Noodle had decided that High Willa was his very best friend and had curled up companionably against her stomach, snoring with soft little wooshes, and it was the cutest thing she had ever seen in her life. Also, how had she not noticed how insanely soft his fur was? She could pet it for hours.
She actually may have petted it for hours. Time was feeling a little squishy at this point.
Honestly, being high wasn’t that different from being drunk, in her opinion. Of course, it had been a long time since she’d actually been drunk, now that she thought about it. She’d never felt comfortable losing control, definitely not with people she didn’t trust. Steven had been the bon vivant of the two of them, and he’d been the one who liked alcohol—wine, whisky, you name it. Not to excess, he’d point out, and she’d agree. But ... perhaps more than the average guy.
His drinking was like everything else about him: extra.
Still, she remembered being drunk with friends, so long ago. She and her friends from college had partied after they’d passed finals. She’d also gotten tipsy with them during Saturday mimosa brunches now and then, when Steven was out of town and she was going to stay at somebody’s house. She remembered the feeling of warmth, of easy laughter about the smallest, silliest things. The cocoon of I’m with my people .
She also remembered waking up puking on the rare occasion in college, and the headache that followed. She really hoped that wasn’t going to happen here, especially since she could not seem to stop eating. But she wasn’t sure if weed involved a hangover.
Hudson walked over with yet another plate of food for her. She was fairly certain it was her third helping, but she didn’t care. She made grabby hands at him, and he laughed as he handed it over and then took his place next to her. After they rebuked Noodle, he moved to pout for a second before trotting after Kimber, who was eating a burger with Bruno.
“I have literally never had goat cheese Brie before,” Willa said happily as she smeared it on fresh bread. “And this is your own blackberry jam, with homegrown jalape?o? Are you kidding?” She took a bite, groaning before he could even answer. “If you aren’t selling these things at your farm stand, I am going to cry.”
“Kimber’s working on it,” Hudson replied. He was looking at her with an amused smile.
They were sitting under a maple tree, on a spread-out blanket in a corner of the backyard. She sighed, leaning against the trunk.
“Kimber’s smart. And a good cook. Your mom too,” she added.
“Thanks. I’ll tell them.” His smile widened. “It’ll mean a lot coming from a chef like you.”
“Oh! I’m not a chef,” she protested, like muscle memory.
“You went to culinary school and stuff, right?”
“No,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I did get a degree in food science, though. Also, I did work in restaurants. Sort of. It’s a little complicated, and it was a long time ago.”
He tilted his head. “But ... you’re writing a cookbook?”
How to explain? Especially to someone not from her weird world? “That’s not being a chef, trust me. That’s more like ... I don’t know. Being a technical writer or something.”
He still looked puzzled. “I’m sorry. You can tell me to, y’know, fuck off if this is too personal, but ... do you like to cook? Because it seems like you do.”
She stuffed a bacon-wrapped fig in her mouth to buy herself some time. It was filled with feta and an almond, and she wanted to cry over how good it was.
“It’s been a long time since I really enjoyed cooking,” she admitted finally. “Honestly, it’s been a long time since I even cared about eating.”
She registered the concern on his face, but the effects of the cookie were enveloping her. It was like watching herself from a long way away, dispassionately. She sensed that she might regret some of her actions later, but she couldn’t seem to register enough motivation to stop herself, or even care.
That’s Future Me’s problem.
“Does that make the cookbook thing, um, difficult?” he asked, then nudged the plate at her.
“Ooh, olives.” She hummed happily and popped one in her mouth. Then she ate some nuts and spread honey on another round of baguette. “Yes. The cookbook thing has been really, really hard. It would’ve been hard even if I wasn’t writing for a ding-dong whose claim to culinary fame is posing shirtless as he licks whisks.”
Hudson let out a surprised snort of laughter. “And he makes money that way?”
“Yup. Millions of followers,” she confided. Although she sensed her voice might be a bit loud, sharing this little detail. Is it a secret if you’re yelling? her clear internal voice asked, almost bored. “Now, I have to come up with a bunch of recipes for him. And they have to make sense together. They have to be stuff he can flex around and presumably cook safely without a shirt—”
“No bacon, then,” Hudson joked.
“I know , right?” she agreed. “And the theme’s sexy . Everything’s got to basically scream sex. And he’s got to be able to be sexy making it. Whipping, yes. Skinning a chicken? Probably not so much.”
Hudson started laughing, rolling on his side. She grinned helplessly at him.
He really was a good man. Her rational, silent internal voice pointed out that she trusted him. She wouldn’t be in this position if she didn’t somehow trust him and his family.
A little, tiny tug of worry occurred, but it wasn’t strong enough to pierce her current feeling of disassociation, which was so much more ...
Familiar.
She pushed the thought aside. It was so much better to just eat cheese and avoid reality for a while. She’d probably print that on a T-shirt if she remembered this tomorrow morning.
Of course, part of her really hoped she wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow morning. “But what do I know?” she said, reaching for more food. She was going to make herself sick at this rate, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself: it tasted so good, and she just wanted to keep consuming . It was about experiencing the tastes more than it was an actual hunger. Everything was just ... enhanced , so outrageously extra . “I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed sex, or knew what was sexy. I am probably the worst possible person for this project, but here we are.”
She closed her eyes and sighed around a fresh raspberry, savoring the taste as the fragile fruit disappeared on her tongue. When she opened them, she blearily saw that Hudson was sitting up and staring at her. Not with judgment or disgust. A bit of surprise, and a sort of should-we-talk-about-this expression. She was very familiar with it, having seen about a million variations since Steven’s death.
“It’s not a big deal,” she quickly reassured him. “I mean, finishing this is going to be difficult, but as to actually having sex in my life, it’s not a huge component. It’s like ... like being ...” Her cloudy mind struggled for an analogy. “It’s like being a vegetarian. It’s not like I’m going to die without it, and I can come up with plenty to work around it.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Darlin’, you’ve obviously been eating the wrong meat,” he said in that rumbly voice of his, eyes bright.
“I don’t suppose you can, though,” she added.
The chuckle stopped abruptly, and he swung his eyes to hers, flashing with ... hurt? Irritation?
“Because I’m a guy,” he asked carefully, “or because I’m me?”
She sighed, reaching over and patting his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. He glanced at her hand, and she wondered if it was perhaps too hard, so she stopped, opting to rub his bicep— Wow, bicep. That is a bicep, right? The upper arm thing, her impaired brain rambled happily—and try to explain herself.
“Bit of both?” she finally said. “This lady in the kitchen hinted that you didn’t get involved with women from the island. She wasn’t being, like, bitchy or possessive about it,” Willa quickly interjected when Hudson winced. “And there was Kimber’s, um, manwhore comment.”
Hudson groaned, face-planting into his crossed arms on the blanket.
“I am not judging at all,” she added. “I know plenty of people who have plenty of sex, with all sorts of partners. As long as it’s safe and consensual, I figure to each their own.”
He finally emerged, propping himself up on his arms to look at her. “I guess you haven’t really dated since your husband died.”
She felt that, piercing even the haze of the weed cushion. “Too much to deal with,” she admitted. “We ... there were debts, even before he was sick, and him being sick just made it worse. Then he ...”
She swallowed hard. She didn’t say it.
She didn’t need to.
“It was sooner than we thought,” she finally continued. “Then my great-aunt died, and she’d made me executor, which was unexpected. But I’d also just gone through executing an estate, and I guess it was all fresh? I had that skill set, right there. No time or interest in dating. Or sex.”
She let out a long sigh, lying on her back, looking at the stars. There were so many, even with the slight orange haze of light pollution from the mainland. It was beautiful, she thought.
“But things are calming down a little, right?” That note of concern, again, in his voice.
She glanced over. He was stretched out next to her, not too close, but still, close enough for her to catch the scent of his soap. Like her sense of taste, her sense of smell seemed heightened too. The air around him was redolent of almonds and honey and an underlying spice that she knew, from him working in the house, was just him .
“Have you ever been a caretaker?” she found herself saying, almost dreamily. It was like there was only her and Hudson, and he actually cared what she thought, what she was going through. Not that he necessarily did. But for once in her life, she just wanted to not give a shit. Just tell someone what she really felt, without worrying about how they’d feel, or what they’d tell her to do. Just be free , and not feel beholden or worried, or plan her next step.
“I’m a parent,” he said, his eyes glowing with warmth, his smile self-deprecating. “I was a parent of twins, unexpectedly, at nineteen. Just out of high school.”
She whistled low, or at least, she tried. His smirk suggested she might’ve screwed that up. “That’s a lot,” she pointed out. “Twins at any age would’ve been tough, but if you weren’t expecting it, and you were barely grown yourself ...”
“It was challenging,” he agreed, and she saw his expression harden. “Harder when my ex-wife left.”
She gaped. “When was that?”
“When the twins were about three.”
“Shiiiit.” She hadn’t meant to respond that way and quickly face-palmed, a little too fast, a little too hard, with no sense of proportion. “Sorry, sorry,” she quickly said as he scooted closer and made sure she was okay.
“It’s okay. I said that a lot in the beginning,” he said, with a shrug and that dimple-flashing smile, even if his eyes weren’t as bright as they usually were. “But I love them more than anything, and it was worth it. Besides, my parents helped so much—I don’t know what I would’ve done without them. Even then, though, there were days when I just wanted to punch holes in the walls. Or I’d get in my car and just yell my ass off with the windows up. Or even cry,” he tacked on, in a low voice. “It’s easier now, obviously, but for a while there, I was just ...”
He petered out, just kind of gesturing. But Willa felt like a bell had rung inside her, a resonant, glorious yes .
“You get it,” she breathed reverently. “Sometimes, it was just like treading water in the open ocean. I wasn’t really enjoying anything. I was just trying to stay afloat.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little ragged. “I get that.”
She propped her head up on her arm, mirroring him, staring into his eyes as he stared into hers. It was this crystalline moment. Magical.
So, of course, she had to crash through it.
“Once,” she said, with no transition, “Steven cheated on me.”
His eyes went wide, and his eyebrows went up.
“It was after we lost the restaurant. He regretted it immediately, and he never did again. But you know what my response was?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “I mean, not out loud. But my first gut reaction was: Good . Thank God.”
“What?” he croaked. “Why?”
“Because I was so, so tired,” she said around a yawn, “and it was one less thing I had to do.”
Which seemed to remind her body that she was still running at a sleep deficit. Even though the blanket was a bit scratchy and the ground a teeny bit hard, she sighed, cradling her head in the crook of his arm.
“Whoa, no, no,” he quickly said, tugging her up. “You’re getting couch lock, sweetheart. You do not want to sleep out here.”
“What’s couch lock?” she mumbled. Tiredness hit her like a hammer.
“It’s ... shit, I keep forgetting you’ve never had weed,” he muttered. “It’s slang. After you smoke, or whatever, you hit a point where you’re super tired and don’t want to move.”
“So tired,” she murmured in agreement as sleepiness started engulfing her like a tsunami.
She didn’t know where he guided her. Barely heard him talking to his mother and Kimber and his father. She remembered petting Noodle again, and protesting (or trying to) when they told Noodle he couldn’t sleep with her. She followed where he tugged her, making little grunts of discomfort when he insisted that she use the bathroom (by herself) and then put on a T-shirt that billowed on her.
Finally, she was able to stretch out on a very soft mattress. She felt a blanket being tucked around her. Then she sighed herself into sleep.