Chapter 29
LEAH
While I do my nightly revenge bedtime internet browsing, I get stuck in a noisy thought loop, analyzing and rehashing the dumb, dumb, dumb date with Grimaldi and everything that happened afterward.
I was joking when I suggested that Hudson and I get married at the fair. Obviously. Only clowns have carnival or circus-themed weddings, right? No offense to anyone, but … it doesn’t seem particularly romantic.
I stop in my social media scrolling tracks.
Even though I’ve told everyone I know that I’m looking for a hockey player for my happily ever after, I never once seriously considered the wedding.
You’d think with my love for the sport, I would’ve wanted to skate down an icy aisle, have my groom dress in his team uniform, and go all in on hockey-related foods and snacks, and our multi-tiered wedding cake would resemble the Stanley Cup.
These aren’t bad ideas, come to think of it. Why on earth would my family, or even Margo for that matter, think a black cats, top hats, and golden hour-inspired wedding fits me?
Perhaps I don’t know myself as well as I thought, though, because I’ve been so fixated on the goal—the destination—I haven’t paused to consider the journey along the way. Which is right now. Tonight with Hudson.
However, I’m smart enough to realize that I’m not ready, especially if I can’t even communicate with the guy.
Even though I’m lying down, my spirits dip, flattening me like a puck and I go down a sidebar of thought about the disc-like shape of a puck versus something puffier or more ball-like. My brain, I tell ya.
Not surprisingly, I come back to thinking about the Cobbiton Harvest Carnival and spending time with Hudson. There was something uniquely empowering about suggesting we get married rather than have it be arranged by my family.
Or not at all.
Hudson has hardly protested, so is he onboard, or is he terrified Abuela will curse his love life? Could be that he’s just going with the flow.
My thoughts scramble when I turn back to the videos on my phone as I swipe, swipe, and swipe some more, not able to turn off my brain by exploring posts about “The latest diet combined with five key supplements for increased energy and stamina” or “How to write and publish a book in seven days or fewer.”
I mean, I suppose it’s possible. But what about falling for your alleged enemy in thirty days or fewer? Or how to untangle your confusing feelings for beginners? Or how to talk to the guy you’re not sure you have feelings for and your parents somehow got it in their heads that you should marry him?
Now that’s a clunker.
I mean, we could elope.
But I couldn’t imagine saying my vows without my family present.
Does that mean I can imagine saying them with Hudson in the first place?
The sensible thing would be to put my foot down and tell them we’re not tying the knot.
Letting out a long-held breath, I resolve to use my words … to my family first. The nagging feeling that it’s Hudson I should talk to gets real pesky, real fast.
I do my best to distract myself with my phone, but the noise in my head is louder and there’s no volume button.
Even though I pretended not to hear him, he said I looked beautiful. He’s not supposed to drop bombs like that when I’ve been filling his inbox with hate for years.
Taking the old-time photos was fun and we laughed together rather than at each other, which felt good.
And let’s not forget when Grimaldi was being an idiot, Hudson used fighting words to defend my honor and tucked me into his side, possessively, affectionately.
Isn’t all of this what I’ve longed for?
Hudson Roboveitchek, of all people, had to be the one to deliver. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
Now what?
I can’t answer that question, yet my mind won’t shut up. Per the recommendation of a social media expert, I decide to make productive use of my scrolling time and look up #ArrangedMarriage stories.
From what I see, usually, it works out.
There are a few disasters, including a high heel that gets thrown and lands in the cake, prompting a food fight. Of course my family indulged in that kind of unhinged behavior.
My feed gives me wedding-cake-baking videos next.
I tell myself I’m craving chocolate, not Hudson.
I do my best to convince myself that he did not make me blush. I haven’t blushed since … Okay, fine. When he said I’m beautiful, I turned the color of a beet.
As we spend more time together—on and off the ice—I can’t escape the scent of evergreens. Could I be pining?
Maybe the problem is that I’m not listening to what my thoughts are telling me or the answer to my endless questions catches me off guard?
Sitting up in bed, I devise a plan. I’ll take baby steps toward communicating with Hudson.
Opening my email app, I debate coming clean about my identity.
If I confess that I’m his secret adversary, he’ll probably tell my parents and anyone who will listen that I’m psycho and that neither he nor anyone else should marry me, no less date me.
I table that plan for now, but hate and love are opposite sides of the same coin, so I could just inquire about this situationship.
That’s what I’ll do.
Taking a deep breath, I begin to write.
from:
to: Hudson Roboveitchek
date: October 5, 1:01 AM
subject: Situationships
Dear Soup Sandwich,
Have you ever missed a detour in the road, driven straight into a construction site, and then off the edge of a bridge that had no guardrails? I recall once suggesting that’s a route you take.
If I could take it back, I would.
I’m going to admit something here and I hope you don’t take it the wrong way. The note in the yearbook and then the night I sent you the first email, I was using it as a diary of sorts. Kind of like therapy, if you must know. I never meant to press send.
Despite the fear of guilt and regret, it did feel good to get all of that off my chest. Then, as you know, these messages continued. Anytime I’ve struggled, I turned to emailing you so I didn’t let my claws out and scratch anyone in real life.
Well, today something happened that threw me for a loop. My default setting would’ve been to open this app and let you have it. Tell you all the ways I hoped you suffered when really, I was intending to channel the frustrations I experienced in real life into a healthy outlet.
In fact, I’d been counting on the fact that this email address was long dead and gone. Then you replied.
It was surprising.
Trust me, you don’t want to find out who I am, but if you feel like writing back, I’d like to hear your thoughts on something. Here goes: if, say, you had a friend who was presented with a situation that could lead to a wonderful opportunity or be a total failure, what advice would you give?
Just asking.
And thanks for taking these emails on the chin.
Sincerely,
Your Secret Adversary
I worry that I revealed too much, but it’s too late. I pressed send and there are no take-backs.
I was intentionally being vague and didn’t exactly apologize, but this is progress. I think. I mean, I could’ve just not emailed him and destroyed the evidence. However, I once followed a series of posts from someone who was getting bullied online about digital forensics which was fascinating.
I digress.
The next morning, I wake with a little tremor in my chest. I emailed Hudson and it wasn’t a hostile missive.
Did he reply? I open my email and it’s just the usual collection of online shopping discounts, a hair product subscription renewal that I’ve been meaning to cancel, and a list of ten ways I can spice up my love life with mature singles in my area. No thanks.
I have work tonight, but Mami is starting early on the annual fall tamale-making extravaganza, which gets repeated for Noche Buena on Christmas Eve and then again in the spring for Easter. Unlike the traditional kind from Colombia using banana leaves, we keep it local with corn husks.
When I get home, the scent of onions, pepper, garlic, and spices greets me at the door and the kitchen welcomes me with a marinated masa hug.
So does Mami, Valentina, Dani, Dad, and on down the assembly line. Rolling up my sleeves, I take my place at the counter beside my oldest sister. Music is playing, everyone is talking and laughing, and for a moment, I forget about checking my email every five minutes.
Then Dani asks, “Is this whole arranged marriage thing because Hudson needs his green card?”
I frown and gawk. “Mami, is that true?”
She shakes her head. “Hudson’s mother moved to this country from Sweden when she was pregnant. While I have no idea whether she filled out the paperwork—doubtful, that woman was as flaky as Marsha Simmons’s pie crust—he was born here, so it’s not a problem.”
I tell my sister, “Also, technically, that would be considered a marriage of convenience.”
“In that case, wouldn’t there need to be something in it for you?” Valentina asks.
Taking a defiant stance, mostly because Hudson never replied to my email, I say, “Well, I’m not marrying him.”
“I already took time off work,” Uncle Isaac calls from the family room.
Valentina adds, “Grant is looking forward to it.”
I tip my head to the side. “He is?”
“He’s from Boston, so he is the OG Robo fan.”
Huffing, I say, “Do you all realize how insane this is?”
“Your cousin Daphne was a mail-order bride,” Mami says.
“She was? And they’re still together?” Chuck asks, sampling the contents of the sauté pan on the stove.
Mami slaps his hand. “We don’t know the details, but Daphne and Eric are happily married, so do the means matter?”
“The funny thing is, Robo doesn’t seem terrified of this.” My brother gestures to the room at large.
Dani asks, “Is that funny or concerning?”
The mention of a mail order makes me burn with the desire to check my phone, however there’s an unspoken rule about no devices in the kitchen.
“Mami, I thought you didn’t like the boys next door,” Dani says.
“That Hunter was a bad apple, but Hudson was always so sweet. When you were all little, I’d see him with those big brown eyes and that song about the puppy in the window would always get stuck in my head.”
“So are you doing this because you want to give him a home?” I ask.
My mother doesn’t answer.
Uncle Vicente strolls through the kitchen, eyeing progress. My mother hands him an apron. He shrugs it on and, not missing a beat of the conversation topic, says, “We’re doing it for hockey.”
“How does that work?” I ask.
The discussion explodes with all the reasons why arranging my marriage with Hudson is a great idea.
Above the clamor, I say, “I don’t think this is common practice in Colombia, Sweden, and definitely not America.”
Dad glances over my shoulder and pecks me on the cheek. “It is in Smithland.”
I jerk my head back because he’s the last person on the list I’d think would avidly play along with this. Mami and Abuela, they’re nuts. My sisters are conniving, but Papi is all in, too.
I go to Bathroomland only so I can check my email. Sure enough, he finally replied.
from: Hudson Roboveitchek
to:
date: October 5, 11:17 AM
subject: Re: Situationships
To My Secret Admirer,
I know.
Sincerely,
Your Secret Not-Adversary
And that’s it. I know.
What does he mean by “Not-adversary?” Does he think I like him? Hardly. The whole point of my emails is for me to have someone I can direct all my frustration to, so it doesn’t come out in real life. How could he possibly think I’m anything but his nemesis?
When I get home that night, the Star Wars theme song plays from somewhere in the apartment. While I don’t get maverick, rogue interstellar smuggler vibes from Hudson, those famous words spoken by the Han Solo character to Leia after she professed her love for him echo in my mind.
I know.