Chapter 31
LEAH
I’ve been preoccupied with coming up with a reply to Hudson’s very thorough advice for my friend. Now I have a new obsession.
He likes me? After knocking out his tooth? Being downright mean? Sending those hateful emails? Not that he knows about that … yet. It’s only a matter of time. He mentioned he contacted the police originally and they confirmed that I’m harmless, but are those emails forgivable?
If someone were trolling me, I’d probably have trolled them back.
But not Hudson. He’s so good. A unicorn to my prowling, snarling cat of the night.
He even attempted to play matchmaker so I’d get my happily ever after.
However, that’s not all. This week, they have back-to-back away games. I find myself wishing I’d gone with Chuck. Then on Tuesday, I find a box of chocolates in my employee locker at O’Neely’s with a card signed, Because you’re so sweet. Xo Hudson
Emerson reads over my shoulder. “So romantic.”
“There’s no way Hudson thinks I’m sweet. I’m sour like a lemon.”
My coworker laughs. “He must see something special in you.”
I offer her a chocolate.
“See? You’re generous. Sweet.” No sooner does she take a bite than she’s waving her hand in front of her mouth.
“Are you okay?”
“They’re spicy,” she says as she shoots water into a glass from the soda sprayer.
Chewing, I notice a hint of a kick and read the box and the different flavors. “He got me hot chocolates. You tried the Cubanelle, which is relatively mild.”
Emerson looks at the box. “And you ate the habanero, which is the spiciest.”
“Must be used to it.”
The next day, I get a dozen orange roses at work with a note that says, These roses are orange and nothing rhymes with orange. Xo Hudson.
Of course, everyone thinks this is the most romantic thing ever.
On Wednesday, I get a stuffed animal camel. Emerson has to nudge me toward laughter when she says, “It’s because it’s hump day.”
“He’s so cheesy.”
“Not as cheesy as the mozzarella Cook is making today. I say you and me get a plate after our shift and discuss these developments.”
There’s not much to say because I’m not sure how I feel.
It’s exciting to receive all of these gifts, but if I didn’t have to work to get this month’s rent covered at my dump of an apartment, I would’ve been at the game with Chuck.
He said if I don’t start going with him again, he’ll find a new travel buddy.
Talk about cheesy, my brother is the king.
However, I miss him and seeing the Knights … and a certain goalie.
On Thursday, there’s a box waiting for me at my apartment.
I’m shocked it wasn’t stolen, but delighted to find a collection of Jane Austen’s novels that aren’t Pride and Prejudice.
As with the other gifts, there’s a note.
I read P&P. I fancy myself Bingley, but I think you’d disagree.
However, I think I shall start using words like supercilious and writing letters to you. Xo Hudson
I stay up way later than I should because just one more chapter. Halfway in, I find myself rereading the same line over and over.
Hudson, who flooded me with thoughtful gifts this week and replied so kindly to the email he didn’t know I sent with genuinely helpful advice, and who saw my vision for Happy Hockey Days and the museum, read Pride and Prejudice, wants to start writing me letters.
There’s just one problem with that. He already is.
Closing my eyes, I psych myself up to tell him the truth.
from:
to: Hudson Roboveitchek
date: October 19, 10:52 PM
subject: Coming Clean
Dear Booger Butt,
Your advice was received and appreciated.
My friend hasn’t made a decision because there are multiple factors involved and several of them have gotten tangled up in a complicated mess.
I imagine you’d suggest taking a practical approach and untangling the simplest thing first, but I think the situation has moved beyond easily identifying what that is.
However, I have another question for you, per this individual.
What do you suggest my friend do when someone is being exceedingly nice and they don’t deserve it?
A pie in the face was one recommendation I received.
Actually, I imagine you’d suggest making an apology in this instance.
However, I’m still curious to hear what you have to say.
If you’re wondering why I’d want your advice, given I’ve told you that I hope you get stuck in quicksand, it’s because you seemed to forgive me when you could’ve written me nasty letters in response all of these years. That says a lot about a person.
So officially, I’m sorry for all the nasty things I’ve written. None of them are true, but you know that, don’t you?
Sincerely,
Your Former Secret Adversary
P.S. TED is neither a Theodore nor the former Knights player, Ted ‘the Bear’ Powell. Rather, it stands for Technology, Entertainment, and Design. The more you know.
It’s late and I don’t expect Hudson to reply, but my phone dings just as I turn out the light.
from: Hudson Roboveitchek
to:
date: October 19, 11:17 PM
subject: Re: Coming Clean
To My Secret Admirer,
This is practically turning into an advice column.
But coming up with an answer is even harder without the details.
The best suggestion I can make is to be honest. First, with yourself, or tell your friend to be truthful about how she feels.
This is one of the hardest things a person can do because no one’s ego wants to admit that they were wrong about something.
Dig down and ask some important questions.
Why don’t I think I deserve for this person to be nice to me?
Put that way, it sounds pretty outlandish, but I don’t know what your friend did to think that. There’s a spectrum. Did your friend do a harmless prank like hard-boil an egg and put it back in the container or something more serious like replace their shampoo with hair dye? There’s a difference.
If they’re truly in the wrong, an apology is in order. Even if the person doesn’t accept it, your friend did their part so long as they aren’t a repeat offender. One of my coaches drilled into us to learn from our mistakes.
But I have a feeling they will, especially if it’s from the heart. Also, thanks for saying you’re sorry. No hard feelings, truly. I may have felt differently five years ago, but my situationship recently changed and the little grievances just don’t matter anymore.
On this topic, I have a question for you.
A long time ago, I did something that I think hurt someone.
I’m not exactly sure what, though. It could be that the thing I did, I don’t perceive as hurtful.
Or I genuinely didn’t know it hurt them.
Point of view makes such a huge difference.
I recently read a classic novel by a British author and have been thinking a lot about relationships.
Anyway, it’s almost like I’ve been given a second chance, but I’m not entirely sure.
Actually, I think I just realized what I need to do. Duh. It’s what we’re doing. I have to communicate. Turns out there really is something to this email journaling thing you started. Thanks for that.
Sincerely,
The Guy You Pretend to Hate
I’m stunned speechless. I mean, I’m alone except for Julius Cheeser, expanding his kingdom in the wall, but I don’t know what to say, never mind think.
How did Hudson get so smart and what does he mean about his situationship? Is he talking about us?
My head gets busy with all the what-ifs and I’m tempted to scroll social media for a dopamine hit, but I snuggle into my covers and doze off … only to dream about Hudson Roboveitchek and me growing old together.
A week later, I wake in the morning with a start and not because Rasmus rang his gong.
What did Hudson mean in his email about doing something a long time ago that may have hurt someone? Is he referring to me, his brother, or someone else? I start sweating even though this place doesn’t have heat and it’s well into the time of year when it should be turned on.
Bolting upright, Hudson said something about communicating, which has me watching over my shoulder all morning.
I have a meeting at the town hall in Cobbiton about the Happy Hockey Days event.
Thankfully, Nancy doesn’t show up to protest. But a man dressed in a period costume and a white wig scuttles toward me as I walk down the granite steps of the building.
“Miss Smith! Excuse me, Miss Smith.”
“It’s a little early for Halloween, but you get an A for effort, my good sir.”
He places an envelope in my hand. “I’m a courier and was instructed to give this to you.” He takes off his tatty hat, bows, and then scuttles away.
I turn the paper over in my hand. Across the front, it reads, Miss Smith. Inside, it reads, I’d cordially appreciate your company this evening at 6:30. Below that is Hudson’s address.
Did he finally realize that I’m the one sending him those emails or does he want to “communicate?”
All day, I obsess over what to wear. Wouldn’t it be easier if I had a ladies’ maid to help me with things like this? This level of preoccupation is so not like me.
On second thought, it’s very much in line with my character. Instead of genuinely stressing me out, a thrill of excitement rushes through me every time I think about spending time with Hudson.
Because it’s chilly and later, I’ll have to walk through my neighborhood at night, I opt for a sensible outfit, including jeans, my favorite tall boots, and a gray sweater that hangs off my shoulder, but my bare skin will be secure under a fashionable leather jacket with a belt that hangs open at my waist. It’s casual but cute.
I wash my hair then don’t have enough time to give it a blowout because I have to swing by my parents’ place.
My mother wanted help with something. I can’t remember exactly what because my mind is racing a million miles an hour about what’s going to happen when I get to Golden Bantam Lane.
Unfortunately, traffic is doing the opposite.
Letting out a breath, I tap the steering wheel because, of course, there’s construction.
Apparently, there is at my mom and dad’s house too. Several large trucks line the street. Workers hasten along the pathway to the front door and around to the back.
In case I wasn’t clear before, this place is the opposite of the duplex where I grew up and where I figured, I’d someday bring my children to visit their grandparents.
Aside from the lawn my father mows like it’s his job and the landscaping my mother tends to, finally having her own area to garden, large lanterns line the walkway leading to the house, along with pumpkins and sprays of carefully arranged autumn leaves.
Massive cornstalk bundles tied with festive ribbons flank the steps with mums and other seasonal flowers covering the front entry along with a wreath fitted with fall foliage and bows handcrafted by my friend Aleeyah, who has a studio space in the Old Mill building.
The mini-mansion came move-in ready, but there’s no telling what my mother will do once she gets an idea in her head. It looks like she saved up over thirty years of limited duplex decorating and let it rip for her first fall in her own home.
When I get inside, she’s like a circus ringleader, directing people with boxes, bags, and lots of pumpkins.
I blink a few times, trying to put two and two together. In Cobbiton, there are neighborhood Christmas decorating contests, but not for Halloween. As far as I know. Perhaps she’s starting one. I bet Nancy Linderberg will lodge a complaint.
Then Margo bustles into the room, a digital tablet aloft, telling two young guys to bring the apple cider station to the entertainment room.
My mother spots me and lifts her arms, shouting, “Surprise!”
My eyes tick and tock from side to side. “Surprise?”
“I really, really, really wanted to surprise you on your wedding day, but I couldn’t very well leave you out of what’ll be one of the most important days of your life.”
“Mami,” I say flatly.
“Okay, so, we have three top-priority questions, and then Margo has some ancillary ones that you might be able to help us with.”
“Margo?” I shake my head.
She salutes my mother. “Just following orders.” Then she winces. “Don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, but guys, this has gone too far. Did it ever occur to you that this isn’t the wedding I want?” I realize I can’t bring myself to say that I don’t want to marry Hudson because I’m not sure if that’s true anymore.
“You don’t know what we have in store. It’s like I’ve been preparing for this day your entire life.”
“But it’s my wedding day.”
She nods, though I don’t think she’s listening.
As chaos swirls around me with deliveries being made, two men and a moving dolly deliver a photo booth.
Two more carry boxes filled with Halloween props for picture taking, including a plastic skeleton hand.
I take a step back. It’s not that I resign myself to doing things their way, but I don’t have a “way.” More like a person.
I just wanted to marry a hockey player because I love hockey. And they’re tall. Plus, maybe being with someone who’s tough on the ice, would balance out the hardened exterior I’ve created.
Yet, I hear these words in Hudson’s voice. Looking around, he’s not here, but it’s like I consulted his advice column that started as hate emails and this is what I came up with.
Huh.
Mami’s expression turns soft with concern and in rapid-fire Spanish, she asks, “Mijita, are you okay?”
“Yes, actually. Mom, Margo, whatever you have planned, I trust you. I think the problem is that I haven’t been trusting myself. The wedding is going to be wonderful.”
Whether I’m here or not. I mean, I think I will be. First I have a date with Hudson.
I give them both big hugs, and then hurry back out the door. However, on the short drive over to Golden Bantam Lane, my resolve ghosts when I finally get a text back from a man I believed might actually be a ghost, keeping me frozen in the car parked outside his brother’s house.
The scariest part is that he claims he’ll do his best to get here in time.
This could change everything for Hudson and where will that leave me?