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That’s one way to put it. Another is I don’t know much about Sarah’s actual family because she never talked about them much, just her cousin. I know she’s an only child, though. Anyway, less is definitely a whole lot more here.
I take a breath. “So, anyway, it’s more about you and me and if we can convince the powers that be, so to speak, right?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t like how he says that.
“You don’t look happy, Hudson.”
“I want things I’ll get if we pull this off and I can’t shake the feeling someone’s waiting for me to slip up.”
“Or it’s your guilty conscience.”
If he wasn’t basically holding my hand, I’d slap it over my mouth. I’m gripping the martini glass with the other, mid air, having decided moments ago to take a sip.
“I’m not feeling guilty. Just looking at all contingencies.” Then he looks down and seems to realize he has his hand on mine. He pulls it away. “I thought we’d have a drink and relax, and I’d make sure things were good.”
If there was a mood, he’d have killed it, right there.
I go to bed that night—we wrap up after that one drink because I was adamant my bungled running away was all about wanting an early night—pleased with myself, because my vagaries have worked.
It’s not until morning my self-congratulations start to wobble, but I get out the glue and gaffa tape and bind it all together in one big ball of it’s all going to be okayness.
I work hard during the day, I’m multitasking like I’m one of my AIs I’m training and I’m into some kind of groove with micromanaging Hudson’s life.
His meetings run like clockwork and if there’s a bit of behind the scenes fixing things, I do it.
At seven p.m. he texts to tell me to go home as he’s holed up in a long-ass meeting with his brothers. And I’m feeling good, I’m feeling fine. The weather is nice and it’s not too hot either.
Thanks for everything, Scarlett, Hudson suddenly texts me. I appreciate your honesty and you going the extra distance. I’m sometimes not the easiest man.
Well…shit. My plan is working. My plan is I don’t have one, other than get through this, but it’s working. Go me.
Since it’s really lovely out, I walk from midtown West to the East side and find myself on First Avenue and East Third. There’s a cheap little bar and basic taco place that makes everything from scratch, so I stop there and eat.
There’s something in the back of my head, something that scratches at my skin that makes me itch, but I ignore it. Hudson’s probably seen the light or something and realized I’m brilliant. That’s all. I’m not used to out of nowhere praise.
And I am being honest. Sort of. In a way. I mean, he’s paying me to lie and all I’ve done is tell him a lie. Or ten.
It’s all good.
I pull out a book and get a Coke and sit back down in my plastic seat at the taco place and read.
But around nine I’m still here in Manhattan and the guilt at what I’m doing, the lies, eats at me. I’ve wandered through Tompkins Square Park. I even read about the riot back in the nineteenth century that happened there, but I only half paid attention because my brain is tallying the lies and I’m swamped.
Stupid guilt. I hate it.
It’s not until I’m walking uptown again, I realize where I’m going.
To Hudson’s place.
He might not even be there. Who knows what he’s up to with his brothers tonight. But I keep going.
I probably shouldn’t have the address. But I do, I peeked in the files I’ve access to.
All these kisses and lies are just getting to me and if something happens between me and him, happens physically—the naked, hot, sweaty kind of physically—I need it to be a clean slate, honesty. Transparency like the cleanest, thinnest glass.
It’s only really a small lie and it’s best I come out and tell him now.
