Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

HUDSON

“ D addy!” Colby whispers loudly from the end of the bed. I jolt awake, my heart racing. Since becoming a dad, I've slept lightly—the sound of a pin drop could wake me.

“Hey, Bee,” I grumble, half-panicked. “Are you good? Hurt? Sick?”

“No. I'm so hungry!” he whines, climbing onto the bed and plopping down on my chest, wrapping his arms around me. “Starving!”

I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it's just past five in the morning. Sometimes he wakes up earlier than usual when he goes to bed early. For once, I wish he wouldn't have. That extra thirty minutes of sleep would’ve been invaluable.

My head pounds from the fifth of whiskey I stupidly drank with Emma last night, but I don’t regret it. I wanted her so badly that I’m still aching for her today. I swear she stole my soul because I haven’t felt the same since I learned she was back in Merryville.

“My stomach is mad! It's growling!”

“Okay, okay. Eggs and bacon?” I ask, flicking on the lamp beside the bed.

“Green eggs and ham!”

“Alright, if that's what you want.”

Since we started reading Dr. Seuss, he’s requested it several times. He only enjoys eggs when they resemble slime. I know it sounds disgusting, and it took some getting used to, but now I think I could eat them in any color.

Colby hops down and runs out of the bedroom. The sound of his feet pattering across the hardwood floor in the hallway makes me smile.

“Foooooooood!” he yells as he bounces downstairs. The creaks in the stairs will come in handy when he’s a teenager sneaking out.

This kid has an endless supply of energy in the mornings, and sometimes I wish I could borrow just a sliver of it—far better than coffee.

With my feet on the floor, I rub my face, already exhausted before the day starts. Drinking last night was foolish, but I appreciated the liquid courage it provided. It sparked a candid conversation with Emma, one I wouldn’t have had sober.

When I go downstairs, I find Colby standing in front of the fridge, peering in. He’s on his tiptoes, carefully removing the carton of eggs.

“You're cooking with me today?” I say, placing my hand in his messy hair.

He nods enthusiastically, and I fetch a stool from the pantry for him to stand on. One day, he’ll be taller than me, and I’ll cherish these moments. Mama always said kids grow up fast, and I should’ve believed her.

As I brew coffee, I grab the food dye he loves while he gets himself into position. “How many eggs would you like?”

“Two for me.”

“Two for me, too,” he echoes.

“So how many is that total?” I ask.

“Four.” Colby carefully cracks the eggs into a bowl. I scan for shells before adding a couple of drops of green coloring. He won’t finish two eggs, but I usually take care of what’s left on his plate.

“Great job whisking,” I tell him.

He grips one side of the bowl tightly and stirs with the other hand.

“Rawr,” he exclaims, putting more muscle into the task.

Some mornings, Colby loves helping with breakfast, while other times he prefers watching cartoons on his tablet. Regardless, our routine is to spend time together before I take him to school.

“Strawberries or pineapples?” I ask as I pour myself a cup of coffee and a glass of milk for Colby.

“Pineapples!” he exclaims, waving the whisk in the air. Unfortunately, some eggs drip onto the floor and counter, prompting me to quickly wipe it up.

Once we have pineapples on our plates and the ham sizzling in the skillet, we turn our attention to the eggs. “Remember to keep stirring once it’s in the pan, okay? Make sure the handle is pointed outward and be careful because it’s hot.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies with an exaggerated nod.

When I was his age, my grandma let me help in the kitchen. Some of my favorite childhood memories are baking with her during the holidays. I cherish those moments and love sharing what she taught me with Colby.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Mmhmm!” he replies eagerly.

I pour the mixture into the skillet, and Colby stirs, ensuring it doesn’t stick. Over the past year, he’s learned to scramble eggs to perfection; I think he could give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money.

“Good job, Bee. Those are going to be fluffy.”

“Like fluffy clouds,” he says, grinning widely.

When the eggs are done, I place the food onto our plates. Colby climbs onto a bar stool, and I slide his meal in front of him. He picks up his fork and takes a bite.

“Yummy! These are the best in the world.”

“You did great,” I tell him. “Best egg chef I’ve ever met.”

“Mmhm,” he agrees. “I get to go to school today?”

“Yes, and I have a present for Davidson.”

“Ooh! He’s going to be happy. Can I get a puppy for my birthday?”

“Hm. I’m not so sure about that,” I reply, taking a bite of the bright green eggs.

He pops a chunk of pineapple in his mouth and smacks his lips.

“Manners,” I remind him, and he immediately stops. “So, when school ends today, Mimi will pick you up.”

“Today?” he asks, surprised.

“Where’s Donna?” he continues.

I explain what happened yesterday.

“Donna moved away, Bee.”

“Like my mama?”

That question pierces my heart, leaving me momentarily speechless. It’s not something I can easily answer.

“Donna had to help care for some babies, and since you’re a big boy now, I thought you’d be okay with it.” He has a big heart, especially for kids smaller than him.

“Oh, right! I’m going to be five, and then Santa will come and bring me lots and lots of presents,” he says, grabbing the glass of milk I made for him.

He grins and raises his eyebrows playfully before taking a sip.

Colby loves Christmas, and I’ve gone out of my way to make it extra special. My parents do too, since he’s their only grandchild. Hopefully, Claire and Jake will change that soon.

On Christmas Day, my parents always prepare a big dinner, and we watch football, play games, and indulge in too much pie. Spiked eggnog is typically involved as well.

“Presents stacked to the ceiling!” he exclaims, lifting his arm high. “Up there. And there. And there. Is Mr. Stinky going to deliver me a birthday card this year?”

Oh no. I almost forgot about that silly little elf. Colby named him after finding him squatting with a pile of chocolate-covered raisins. I thought it was funny, but now I'm stuck with Mr. Stinky for several more years.

“You never know what Mr. Stinky is up to. But after Mimi picks you up from school, you'll be hanging out with her until I get off work.”

“Can I go with Emma and Claire?” His face lights up at the thought.

“Claire has to work today,” I reply, leaving out Emma's name. “Also, Mimi has some fun activities planned. You'll see Claire again, I promise.” I give him a confident nod, and it seems to satisfy him for now.

“Okay. Aunt CeCe is taking me for ice cream, too.” Colby stabs his eggs with his fork. “Strawberry is my favorite, but you have to put water on them first, then use a knife to take the grass off the top.”

I chuckle. “Thank you for mansplaining how to wash strawberries.”

“And slice them like this. Psh Psh Psh,” he says, tapping his fork on the plate.

His mind is racing this morning; he must have slept incredibly well. I'm almost jealous. I tossed and turned for hours with thoughts of Emma before finally drifting off. I can’t escape her in my dreams either.

After a bite of ham, he sets his fork down. “I'm done, Daddy! Stuffed like French toast.”

“Kid, where are you getting these jokes?”

“At school. Davidson has an older sister who tells us things. She's about to be seven and has pretty hair, too.”

“And what's her name?”

“Evie,” he replies, and I swear I see his eyes sparkle like they’re filled with heart emojis.

“Don’t you think Evie is a little old for you?”

His face twists, clearly offended. “No. Evie is smart. She knows things—big kid things. Her favorite color is pink, and she has a bike with sparkly streamers.”

“Oh wow. Maybe I can meet Evie's parents to see who I'll need to share my grandkids with.”

“Evie is seven years old, Dad. She's going to drive soon,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Okay, enough about Evie.” I stack our plates and quickly clean the kitchen while he watches. “Go get dressed. Brush your teeth. Wash your face.”

“Can I watch my tablet?”

“Do what I asked first, and then you can for a little while before school.” I glance at the clock over my shoulder as he darts up the stairs. “Clothes. Teeth. Face.”

He mockingly repeats my instructions in a deep voice. He can repeat them as much as he likes if it helps him remember.

I hear the faucet turn on, and I move toward the edge of the stairs.

“Brush your teeth and wash your face!” I remind him, knowing he didn't bathe last night because he fell asleep too early. He's not filthy, and I won't fight him to get into the tub in the morning; that always ruins both our days.

As I pass his room, I see him in bed, dressed and watching his tablet.

“We leave in thirty minutes, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Once I’m dressed, I find Colby asleep in his bed. His iPad is blaring with sound effects, and I’m amazed he can sleep through it all.

“Come on, Bee. School time,” I gently say, stopping the show. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes,” he responds, kicking out his foot.

“Shoes. Up. Let's go,” I urge, hoping he comes to life once he’s fully awake. His sleep schedule is a bit off, so I’ll have to work extra hard to reset it throughout the week. Moments later, he follows me downstairs. I grab his lunch kit from the counter and hand it to him.

He picks up the pace and starts humming a song about frogs, probably something from the cartoon he watches. I glance at him and smile. “I’m proud of you.”

Colby laughs as we head to the truck. “Little frogs. And big frogs. Some are as big as hogs. Ribbet.”

“That would be huge,” I say, holding out my arms to illustrate the size.

His eyes widen. “Daaaamn.”

“Don't say that,” I respond, trying to stifle a smile because I’m proud he used it in the perfect context. “That's a bad word. I know I say it too. I shouldn’t. If I do, tell me not to.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

As we near the truck, he reaches for the door. I buckle him into his booster seat, and then we’re off.

Christmas music plays on the radio, a staple year-round in Merryville, but now the temperatures are finally cooperating. Magic is in the air.

It takes us forty-five minutes to get to the elementary school. I had forgotten that this week would be busy with tourists arriving, and the traffic is a nightmare.

When I pull in, I find a spot near the main office.

Every day, I make it a point to walk Colby to his classroom—no matter what. I’ll cherish these moments while I can.

Ms. Barker, his teacher, greets him with a smile as he hangs up his backpack. I bend down, hug Colby, and hand him the gift for his friend. “Give this to Davidson, okay?”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“Love you, Bee. Have a good day.”

As I walk down the elementary school hallway—the same one I attended as a kid—the classrooms feel smaller, yet they still smell the same as they did all those years ago.

Before returning to the farm, I stop by Main Street Coffee where my cousin works. As I walk in, she greets me with a shit-eating grin.

“There's Mr. November now.”

I scowl at her. “Excuse me?”

“Hudson,” she snaps back. “You don't need to get your Grinch panties in a twist, okay? I'm just teasing you. What do you want to drink?”

“Two hot cocoas.”

Her brow raises. “Two? Oh, it’s already like that?”

“Large with whipped cream and a side of shut the fuck up, please.”

She snickers, clearly enjoying getting under my skin. “That'll be $13.98.”

“For two hot chocolates? Geez.” I roll my eyes playfully at her and swipe my card, even adding a five dollar tip.

A few minutes later, a different barista approaches the counter, holding my drinks. “Two hot chocolates for Mr. November?”

I glare at my cousin as I take them.

“Have a great day, Bella,” I say, deliberately avoiding her nickname.

“I'll have the last laugh, I promise!” she replies confidently.

Once back at the farm, I hop into my golf cart with the cocoas and drive to Jake's. It's barely past seven-thirty when I tap on the window of Emma's room.

Moments later, she pulls back the curtain, standing there in a T-shirt and panties. Her auburn hair is a wavy mess, and I catch myself wishing I could thread my fingers through it.

She narrows her eyes at me, as if she can read my thoughts, thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

“Open the window,” I say, keeping my voice low.

She struggles a bit but finally slides it upward.

“What are you doing here?” she asks groggily.

“Hung over?” I reply.

“A little,” she whispers back.

“I brought you a hot cocoa. Thought you’d enjoy it.”

She smiles. “Is this an olive branch?”

“A fresh start,” I say.

Emma lifts the cup to her mouth, and I notice something written in neat, cursive handwriting on the bottom. It’s Bella’s.

HUDSON JOLLY WANTS TO FUCK YOU!

My mouth falls slightly open, and Emma notices.

“What? Is my tit out?” she asks.

“No, no, your tit is—“ I clear my throat, realizing Bella is going to pay for this.

“My mother will have Colby today and tomorrow, so I thought if you're bored, you could meet me at the pavilion at noon.”

A pretty smile spreads across her kissable lips.

“I'll be there. Thanks for the hot cocoa.” She glances at the name on the cup. “Mr. November.”

Before I can explain, there's a knock on the other side of the door. I hear Claire's voice, though I can’t make out what she says.

“Have a great day,” I whisper. “See you soon.”

“Bye,” she replies, closing the window and shutting the curtain. I hop back onto the golf cart and drive away, unable to stop a cheesy grin from spreading across my face.

As I reach the end of the street, I lift my cup to check the message on the bottom.

HUDSON JOLLY WANTS TO EAT YOUR ASS!

Hudson

You’re gonna wish you hadn’t written those crude things on the bottom of the cups.

Bella

Oh, did she see it?

Hudson

I delivered them to Pastor John this morning for Mawmaw as a favor.

My cousin sends a wide-eyed emoji, fully aware that she’d be in trouble if this got around town.

Bella

Please don't get me fired!

Hudson

I guess we'll wait and see what happens.

It’s a lie, but I’ll let her stew in embarrassment until I can properly return the favor. Meanwhile, I hope Emma doesn’t see it because that could get awkward.