Twenty-Six
Rowan
The clinking of a spoon against a mug pulls me out of sleep.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, and for a few blissful seconds I have no idea why my mouth tastes like death or why my head feels like it's trying to split in two.
Then last night comes back all at once.
The alcohol. The crying. The phone call. The complete breakdown.
I close my eyes.
God, Dad was right.
I called Hudson in the middle of the night and dumped twenty-six years of family bullshit into his lap, then made him come looking for me because apparently humiliating myself over the phone wasn’t enough.
I forced him to play hero while I played the victim.
And judging by the sound coming from my kitchen, he’s still here.
Fantastic.
After brushing my teeth, I pull on my paint-stained jeans and a black tank top because if I dress for work, my body has to believe I’m going to work. And if I’m working, I don’t have to think about any of this.
Hudson is in the kitchen when I walk out, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. He’s still wearing his black button-down from last night.
I stop in the doorway. “Thank you for last night. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you like that, and I definitely shouldn’t have dumped all of that on you, and I’m going to work now, so…”
“Rowan—”
“Why are you still here?”
He takes a sip of coffee. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“I don’t need a morning check-in, Hudson. You don’t get to stay overnight and make yourself at home like I’m some unstable patient.”
“I stayed because you fell asleep in my arms while sobbing.” His voice is devoid of any anger. “And I made coffee because I needed caffeine.”
“Well, I’m fine.” My cheeks burn with humiliation. “I had too much to drink, I threw myself a pathetic little pity party, and now it’s over.”
I want him to argue with me, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sets his mug down and watches me lash out like a cornered animal. His refusal to take the bait only makes me angrier.
“I’m going to my studio,” I bite out, turning on my heel. “Lock the door on your way out.”
I grab my keys and practically march to the warehouse.
My mother’s canvas is where I left it last night, staring back at me.
Two minutes later, the studio door opens again.
Hudson steps inside, holding his coffee in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.
I turn around, incredulous. “What are you doing?”
He walks past my easels, sets his coffee on the side table, and drops his laptop bag onto the couch in the corner.
“I have work to catch up on. The light in here is better than your kitchen.”
“I told you to leave.”
“And I’m choosing to work here. You can paint, you can ignore me, or you can shout at me, but I’m not leaving.”
“Why?” I demand, my hands shaking at my sides.
Without a word, he advances toward me.
I swallow hard. “Why can’t you just leave?”
“Is that what you want?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My chest is rising and falling too fast.
I turn away from him, trying to settle myself, but his hand catches the inside of my elbow.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks again.
I stare at him, throat too tight for words.
His thumb moves in slow circles against my skin.
I close my eyes, defeated. The anger drains from me all at once, leaving me hollow and raw. My eyes sting as the defensive armor I’ve worn all morning crumbles to dust.
“No,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “But it’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
We’re close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
“That you know so much when I know so little about you,” I say. “That you got to see me break last night. That I’m somehow comfortable enough with you to just hand it all over.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “When the hell did that happen? When do I ever talk to head doctors?”
That gets the faintest twitch from his mouth.
“You got in here.” I tap two fingers against my temple. “And I hate it.”
The impenetrable composure he always wears softens, revealing something deeply worn beneath.
“My brother’s name was Ethan,” Hudson starts. “He was twenty-five and struggling, but he was good at hiding it. He was brilliant and completely silent about how much pain he was in. He was my best friend, and I had to cut him down when he took his own life.”
A cold shudder runs down my spine.
“It’s why I left emergency medicine. I swore to myself that I would spend the rest of my life learning to read the warning signs, so no one else would ever slip away undetected.”
Oh, Hudson.
I don’t reach for any of the phrases people offer when they don’t know what else to say. We both know none of them work.
“What was he like?” I ask instead, leaning against the edge of my work table.
He blinks, surprised. “What?”
“Ethan,” I say. “Tell me about him. What was his favorite movie? What made him laugh?”
A small but genuine smile touches the corners of his mouth.
“He was obsessed with terrible eighties sci-fi.” His eyes drift, lost in a memory. “He used to force me to watch Tron at two in the morning.”
“Was he annoying about it?”
“Deeply.”
“Good. I like that. What else? Not the ending. Just about him.”
“He was loud. Funny. Terrible at keeping secrets, which used to drive me crazy when we were kids.”
I can’t help but smile. “He sounds like a nightmare.”
Hudson nods, chuckling under his breath. “He was.”
“I think I would have liked him.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Will you tell me more?”
And he does.
For ten minutes, Hudson talks. He lets his brother be in the room with us, not as a tragedy but as a living, breathing person who was deeply loved.
When he’s finished and looks like he’s been stripped bare, I close the distance between us and place my palm over his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath his shirt.
“He would be so proud of you. The man you are. The way you care for people. I know he would be proud.”
He stares at me, his gaze searching my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat. Ever so slowly, he cups the back of my neck and pulls me in, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head.
I become painfully aware of the warmth of his palm against my neck, the steady rise of his chest beneath my hand, and how easy it would be to tilt my face up another few inches.
“Since you’re staying,” I say before we cross a line we can’t uncross, “are you going to put those muscles to use and help me, or are you just going to sit there looking pretty?”
He barks a laugh, but steps back and rolls up his sleeves. “Tell me where you want me.”