He shook his head. “It means that we need to take some time apart.”
“What? No!” I’d thought my heart had hit rock bottom before. Apparently there was a whole chasm left for it to fall into—a chasm so dark that it obliterated my previous notion of darkness. And the cold and the ache of that place made every pain I’d ever felt pale in comparison. The death of my parents, my journey from crazy to sanity, even the betrayal from Hudson when he didn’t choose me over Celia—those were flesh wounds next to this.
“It’s for the best,” he said as he retrieved his jacket from across the back of the couch.
It seemed I needed to say something—anything—to make him stay. But I couldn’t figure out what that would be. All I could hear were his words repeating over in my head—time apart. Because why? Because I’d needed him to be honest?
This couldn’t be happening. “You tell me you care about me more than you can stand and now you want to break up with me?”
He glanced over at me, his eyes filled with sadness. “No, not break up, precious. Just take some time apart. Time to figure out how we want to deal with this.”
His words were compassionate and sweet, but they weren’t enough to mollify my hurt and anger. “You mean time for me to get my shit together.”
“Both of us, Alayna.”
I swiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. “I don’t know where you get your definitions, but that sure sounds like breaking up to me.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“I don’t want to call it anything. I don’t want it to happen!”
“I hope it will be temporary.” He swept past me, careful not to touch me as he did. He grabbed his briefcase from the hall then patted his pockets, apparently satisfied that he had what he needed.
Oh my god. He was really leaving. Really, really leaving. “Hudson!”
When he turned to me, I rushed to him. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.” I clutched at him.
His body remained cold and impassive, his eyes not meeting mine. “I’m doing this for you, Alayna. For both of us.” His words were warm, though he still wouldn’t look at me or touch me. “I can’t bear that I’m hurting you, and it will destroy me if I lose you. But there are some things that I can never tell you. And now we’re at an impasse, as you said. Because you say you can’t go on not knowing and I can’t go on without your trust.”
“I do trust you. I’ll learn to live with this if I have to. I’ll figure it out. I just can’t lose you!” I was desperate, making promises there was no way I could keep.
Finally, he connected his eyes with mine. “You’re not losing me. We’re simply stepping away. Maybe I can…”
He trailed off and I grasped onto whatever alternative he might be offering. “Maybe you can…what?”
But he had none to offer. “I don’t know. I need time.” Gently, he unwrapped my fingers from his clothing and pushed me away.
“But where are you going? This is your home.”
“It’s your home too. I’ll stay at the loft.”
Without looking at me, he stepped toward the elevator.
“Hudson! Don’t do this. Don’t leave.”
He reached out as if he were going to touch me then pulled his hand back. “This isn’t forever, precious. But I can’t watch you like this.”
“Like, what? Like crazy?” While I’d always feared that Hudson wouldn’t be able to take me at my worst, I’d begun to think he’d be with me always. Like he promised so many times.
I’d been wrong. Again. “Yeah, I’m crazy. This is who I really am, Hudson. You see it now. Here I am, exposed. It always scares people away, but I never thought it would scare you. Yet here you are running. No wonder you think I can’t handle your secrets. Because you probably think I’d react just like you are now. But I’m not a coward, Hudson. I can take it. I won’t run from you.”
His face fell. “I’m not running from you, Alayna. I’m saving you.”
“From what?”
“From me!” We stood in silence as his exclamation rung through the foyer. Then he hit the elevator button. “I’ll talk to you later. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Hudson!”
“I…I can’t, Alayna.”
He stepped inside the elevator, his focus fastened to the floor as the doors closed.
Then he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
After Hudson left, I cried so long and so hard that it seemed like I should have passed out from exhaustion. But I didn’t. I tried curling up in bed, but it felt too big. And no matter how many blankets I had, I felt cold. Eventually, I wandered out to the library where I had a few more shots of tequila to warm up and turned on a movie from my AFI’s Greatest Films collection. I chose Titanic. I was already heartbroken, after all—might as well wallow in it.
Sometime before the ship sunk, I passed out on the couch. I woke the next day with swollen eyes and a splitting headache. My first thought was that I needed caffeine. But there was no smell of brewing coffee in the penthouse, and that’s when I remembered that Hudson wasn’t there. Every day before he left for work, he set the Keurig to brew for me. This simple missing gesture threatened to start a new round of tears.
But maybe he’d called.
I fumbled around for my phone and found it buried in the cushions. Fuck. It was dead. I’d been too consumed with grief to charge it for the night. After setting it up at the library charging station, I made my own coffee and found some Ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet.
I showered then, hoping the warm water would relieve the swelling of my eyes. Perhaps it did, but I didn’t feel any better. Afterward, I stood with a towel wrapped around myself and stared into the steam-clouded mirror. This was what it was like to see Hudson now—through this fog, knowing that something more lay underneath. If only it were as simple as stretching my hand out and wiping away the condensation to see the man beneath. If only he’d let me in, maybe it would be that easy. Maybe then my touch could finally bring him into focus.
But it wasn’t that simple. Instead, all I could hope for was a message or a missed call. I dressed and settled back on the couch to power up my cell.
There was nothing.
So I sent one to him: Come home.
When I didn’t have a response after five minutes, I considered sending another. He was at work. I shouldn’t bother him. But I was supposed to be important. If he still cared at all, he’d answer me.
I battled with myself over it. In my past, obsessive texting and calling had been my biggest weakness. For more than a year after I started therapy, I didn’t even allow myself to have a phone. The temptation was too great. In the height of my obsessing, I could fill a voicemail box within an hour. Paul Kresh had to change his number after I texted him nonstop for three days straight.
Even with Hudson, I carefully weighed each message I sent him. I didn’t send everything I was thinking. It was hard, but I had managed to stay in control.
Today, I didn’t give a fuck about control.
I typed a new message: Are you going to avoid me now?
Five minutes later, I sent again: The least you can do is talk to me.
I sent several more, delaying each by a span of three to five minutes:
You said I was everything to you.
Talk to me.
I won’t ask about it if you don’t want to.
This isn’t fair. Shouldn’t I be the one who’s mad?
I was about to start another when my phone vibrated in my hand with a received text. It was from him: I’m not mad. I’m not avoiding you. I don’t know what to say.