Chapter 4
Rolling over, I breathe in the scent of cinnamon and citrus.
After weeks of daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss her, touch her, taste her, my senses are buzzing with her proximity.
The fact that she’s taking up space in my bed and not in my dreams is a reality I haven’t entirely accepted yet as I reach out to pull her close.
But instead of finding the warmth of her body, I’m left with nothing but cold sheets.
Opening my eyes, I see the light on in the hallway and listen to the sound of her footsteps against the hardwood floor.
“You jonesing for coffee already?” I ask. My head is in that liminal space between drunk and hungover as I check the time. It’s early—barely six. I’ve gotten maybe two hours’ sleep, not nearly enough for my body to metabolize the remaining alcohol in my system.
Pushing myself out of bed, I make my way to the kitchen, stopping when I see that the door to the bathroom is open and an array of items are scattered on the floor—Katherine’s things—and the sight sobers me like a cold shower.
“Mira?” I ask, right before I hear the front door slam.
My heart pounds as I run, barefoot and shirtless, down the hall.
The elevator is already making its descent to the lobby as I open the emergency exit door and sprint down the stairs.
All those years of traversing mountain terrain have prepared me for this as I jump two at a time, hoping to shave off enough seconds to catch her.
As I throw open the door, the security guard offers a shake of his head and I know that I’ve missed her.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
Despondently, I take the elevator back up to my floor, ruminating on all the things I could have done differently.
I should have told her the truth at the bar, the door, anywhere between Finn’s and my bedroom.
And when we got back to my place and she slipped off her jeans, exposing a pair of black lace panties that matched her bra, I could barely formulate thoughts, let alone explain my unorthodox living situation.
Before I started dating Katherine I’d only slept with one other girl, and when I found out that sharing a sleeping bag at wilderness camp was more of a rite of passage than a legitimate proclamation of feelings, I was heartbroken for a month.
So no matter how much I liked Mira, or how badly I wanted to get her off, the thought of sleeping with her without being upfront about my situation felt disingenuous.
Using all the willpower I could muster, I excused myself to the bathroom.
I had to tell her the truth. That I was still living with my ex.
That I was about to be a CEO. That I had real feelings for her.
When I exited the bathroom, I found Mira half-asleep on my bed, an arm underneath the pillow, and this premature ending to the night felt like a gift from the universe.
I even optimistically DoorDash-ed a carton of eggs in the hopes of waking her up in the morning with a batch of my signature pancakes.
Seeing the eggs now, carefully placed in the entryway of my apartment, I want to throw them against the wall.
Retreating to my bedroom, I grab my phone from the charger and open my text chain with Mira. My fingers hover over the keys as I contemplate what to say.
I know what this looks like . . .
I can explain . . .
I’m single. I swear . . .
Everything I type sounds like complete bullshit.
Another excuse from another asshole. But I have no idea how to explain the situation without writing a dissertation on the last three years of my life.
This is definitely a conversation I need to have in person.
And on any other day, I would go sit at the bar and wait for her to show up.
I’d wait all week if I had to. But today, I have a plane to catch.
Panicked, I call the only person I know who might have practical advice for this situation.
The FaceTime chimes as Lilah answers it with an aggressive “This better be an emergency.”
She’s still in bed, the camera held up above her head, the dim light of her phone exposing her sleeve of delicate floral tattoos.
“It is,” I say, hoping she can discern the desperation in my voice.
“You know you can have condoms delivered, right?” she groans, pulling the covers over her head.
“Why would I call you for that?”
“I asked you to bring me cranberry juice for my UTI a week ago. Thought this might be a tit-for-tat situation.”
“It is not,” I reply, shuffling over to the dresser to throw on a shirt. It’s a tie-dye green-and-black tee from Elite’s annual Adopt-A-Highway cleanup.
“I think I fucked it up with Mira,” I say, my voice on the verge of cracking.
I should be calling Lilah with good news, sharing my excitement about what happened last night—omitting the more scandalous details, of how she felt like velvet between my fingers or that I had to name native bird species when her teeth bit against my neck to keep from exploding against her in the kitchen, which were secrets only for me.
But the last thing I expected was to have to explain how I lost her in a single evening.
“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” she says lackadaisically. “Premature ejaculation happens to a lot of guys when it’s been a while. If you just explain you had one too many—”
“Jesus, Lilah, that’s not what happened,” I argue, sitting on my bed. Staring at the empty space she occupied earlier, I wish I could savor it.
“From the text Finn sent me last night I heard you two were practically fucking in the street. I can’t think of any other reason things would go south unless . . .”
She sits up, understanding washing over her face. “Hudson! Tell me you didn’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” I shake my head shamefully. “We were kissing and she suggested coming here and I didn’t want the night to end.”
The expression on her face is the same one she reserves for underage kids attempting to order a Long Island iced tea. “Did she freak out?”
“I didn’t even get the chance to tell her. She ran out before I could.”
“Ran out last night or this morning?”
“This morning,” I replied regretfully.
“So you guys hooked up?”
“No,” I clarify, “she fell asleep.”
“Thank God for that,” Lilah sighs. “At least she doesn’t have a reason to key your car or burn your building down. This is solid drink-thrown-in-the-face territory at best.”
“That’s not helpful,” I groan.
“I want to be sympathetic to your plight, but I told you to be upfront with her.”
“I know. And now I need you to tell me how to fix this.”
“Maybe she had to run out for a job. She works weird hours, right?”
“She did get a call,” I say, remembering the sound of her ringtone blasting through the room.
“Maybe she had one of those sunrise photography sessions or something. I’m sure she just overslept. This freakout could be for nothing.”
I bite my lip.
“What?” Lilah asks, reading my uneasy expression.
“She went to the bathroom,” I say, sneaking a glance at the products still scattered on the floor, and then I remember the decor in my living room and I’m hit with another wave of nausea. “Oh God. And the photos.”
“Yeah. You’re fucked,” she states, with the finality of a detective on a crime show.
I bury my face in the pillow and let out a frustrated sigh into the feathers.
It isn’t until I breathe in that I realize that this was Mira’s pillow, and the spike to my olfactory senses only intensifies the pain in my chest.
“What do I do?” I ask, my words muffled by the pillow.
“Not smothering yourself would be a start,” she argues as I sit up. “Look on the bright side, at least Katherine didn’t barge in. Now that would have been bad.”
“True,” I reply, grateful she left on the earlier flight.
“The woman basically declared squatter’s rights to keep herself in your apartment. Could you imagine if she found out you were into someone else? She’d freak out.”
“She’s not that bad,” I counter. Or at least she never used to be.
I met Katherine right after I moved to Raleigh from Charlotte, running into her at one of the networking events my father insisted I attend in an effort to get me out of my comfort zone.
When she found out I was new to the city she offered to show me around some of her favorite places, and I eagerly agreed.
An introvert by nature, I prefer being outside in the quiet, watching human interactions more than partaking in them, but I never complained when Katherine forced me to go out with her.
I went to dinner parties and stayed up past my bedtime at clubs with music that made my head hurt.
I changed myself to fit into her lifestyle the best I could, so when she came home and announced that she wanted to open the relationship, the words “I think we should break up” sprang out of my mouth faster than a sprinter at the starting line.
Katherine tried to save face, explaining that it was just an idea, a fad she thought might be fun to try, like buttered coffee or aerial yoga, but I didn’t believe her. I could tell that she wasn’t happy and, if I was being honest, I don’t think I ever was.
I thought I could start over, discover what I actually wanted from a partner, but our breakup was put on the backburner when, a few days later, my stepbrother and Katherine’s best friend Meredith announced that they were getting married.
Between engagement parties and family luncheons, Katherine and I were expected to be together.
And with the wedding set for June, only a few months away, we made the decision to keep our breakup a secret.
In the meantime, I hoped Katherine would pack up her things and find a new place to live. But even for a real-estate agent, finding accommodations in her price range that would accept her mediocre credit score was harder than getting into Harvard.