Chapter 15 Mira
I hold it together until we make it back to the lodge before I promptly vomit in the first bush I see. Between my anxiety, the embarrassment, and the stench of the river, my stomach is wrecked.
In a feat of what I can only call heroic stupidity, Hudson decided to jump into the river after me, throwing a life preserver over my head, a completely unnecessary act considering I was still wearing one. Although the flotation device might have saved me, it did nothing to protect my camera bag.
On the ride home I assessed the damage to my equipment: my cameras, my batteries, and my flashes, all waterlogged.
Fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of gear ruined in a single moment.
But the worst part isn’t the insurance claim, or the fact that I let Hudson make an ass of me yet again, it’s that I’m going to have to tell Meredith that I won’t be able to shoot her wedding after all.
Discarding my camera bag in the trash barrel outside the Activity Center, I can’t help but wonder if this is all Phoebe’s doing. If ruining my business wasn’t enough for her and she hired Hudson to ruin my life.
I’m still dripping when I make it back to the Big Barn. My boots are covered in mud and I’m pretty sure there’s an allogenous plant congealed in my curls. I must look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon as I stomp around to our patio to discard my soiled shoes.
I wish I had somewhere to go to be alone, to lock myself away and hide from this shitty day, from my shitty circumstances, but as I turn the doorknob, I know that I’ll never find peace here, or at least not with Hudson always circling me.
My footprints stain the linoleum floor as I make my way to the bathroom, eager to remove the stench of river water from my skin.
Turning on the shower, water gushes out, the pressure excellent as I stick my hand underneath to wait for it to get warm, but it never gets above freezing.
After a minute I twist the nozzle in the opposite direction, but somehow it only gets colder.
“It doesn’t work,” Hudson says, his voice startling me.
“I’m sure you don’t know how to turn it on correctly,” I argue, trying again. I’ve visited enough hotels and Airbnbs to know that hot and cold nozzles aren’t always labeled correctly. And sometimes all it takes is a little finagling to get it going.
“I promise you, there’s no hot water,” he assures me, running a hand through his auburn hair.
He’s being his usual approachable, attractive self, the same guy who encouraged me to let my guard down the first time.
Men like this should be marked to show they’re in long-term committed relationships.
Perhaps they could grow a unibrow or expel a foul body odor that can be detected only by those they’re planning on cheating with.
“Why do you think I came in here with a towel earlier?” he asks, and I’m reminded that thanks to the silk shirt Vanessa loaned me I’m equally exposed.
“Hooking up with one of the party posse?” I reply, holding one arm over my chest.
“Mira,” he says. He’s very close to me all of a sudden. His earthy scent is deceptively comforting, like freshly cut grass after a shower of summer rain. He stares down at me, the green of his irises flickering like gemstones in the river.
“Cold water is good for you,” I reason, moving away from him so quickly I slam my back against the sink. “It resets the nervous system.”
And since I am still lusting after a liar with a girlfriend, mine definitely needs another reset.
“Now if you wouldn’t mind giving me some privacy.”
“Wait,” he says, palming the door I’m about to shut in his face, “I need to tell you something.”
“What? That you’re riddled with STIs? Don’t worry, I already made an appointment to—”
“Mira, we didn’t sleep together.”
The admission knocks me back as I take a beat.
“But I remember . . .”
“We fooled around a little, but you fell asleep when I went to the bathroom. I woke you up and gave you one of my shirts, which you mocked mercilessly for a few minutes”—he laughs in reminiscence—“but nothing happened besides that, I swear.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say, closing the door.
Stripping down, I step into the shower, allowing the cold water to rattle my bones and bring me some much-needed clarity.
As grateful as I am that we didn’t cross that line, it didn’t change anything.
Because no matter how I feel about him, or how I thought that we could be something, or how deep down I want to know why he’s still bothering to make it up to me, there’s one undeniable fact I can’t ignore. Hudson has a girlfriend.