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Chapter 55

HUDSON

The incessant buzzing sliced through the haze of my hangover like a knife. At first, I didn't recognize the noise. I slapped at my bedside table, assuming it was my phone. With every passing second, I realized it wasn't my phone. It was the door. I pulled a pillow over my head to block the noise.

Another buzz. "Dammit!"

I threw the pillow across the room. My head pounded mercilessly as I groaned, the taste of alcohol still lingering on my tongue like a bitter reminder of the night before. Fuck. What fresh hell was this?

My stomach turned over. I was sure I was going to puke. I rubbed my temples, trying to make it all stop. The stomach. My head. My eyes. Fuck, my hair hurt.

"Go away!" I shouted into the empty room.

Whoever was at the door was going to earn my wrath. No one even knew I was back in Manhattan.

I stumbled out of bed, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and my mind foggy with the remnants of last night's debauchery. How much had I drunk? I couldn't even remember—a sure sign that it had been far too much. But I wasn't in jail or covered in puke, so that had to count for something.

Then, just to make sure, I looked back at my bed to make sure there wasn't a strange woman passed out in there. Thankfully, the bed was empty.

I made my way through the sprawling expanse of my penthouse, the floor seeming to tilt and sway beneath me as I walked. I cursed myself for indulging in yet another night of excess. My time on the wagon had been short-lived.

At last, I reached the front door, the buzzing of the buzzer still echoing in my ears like a relentless drumbeat. "What?" I croaked, my voice dry and crackly as I pressed the intercom button, my hand trembling with the effort.

"It's Zayn," came the reply, his voice tinged with concern. "Let me up."

I hesitated for a moment, not in the mood for company or conversation, but eventually I relented, pressing the button to unlock the front door and allow him entry. How in the hell did he know I was home?

I looked down and discovered I was wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. I didn't remember getting undressed last night. I didn't remember getting home either, so that wasn't a surprise.

I made my way back to my room to put on some pants before my brother showed up. I reached for the jeans on the floor and pulled them on.

"Hudson?"

I walked into the living room, not bothering to button my jeans. Zayn was standing in the middle of the living room. His eyes took in the mess that surrounded us. I looked around, seeing it for the first time. It was a testament to my wild night. I saw the judgment in his eyes. It was nothing new.

"Did you throw a party last night?" he asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and concern.

I cringed, shaking my head in response. "No, this was all me," I admitted, the weight of my own actions heavy on my conscience. I wasn't in the mood for judgment or a scolding.

"I see," he said.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"You called me several times last night," he said. "You don't remember?"

I grimaced. "No. Sorry."

"I thought I better come and check on you," he said. "I tried calling you back but it went straight to voicemail."

I looked around. "I don't even know where my phone is."

"What's going on?" he asked. "I didn't know you were back in town."

"I just got back yesterday," I said.

"Why?" he asked. "I thought you were going to be there for another week."

"Things changed," I muttered.

I walked to the fridge in search of water. Or anything cold. My hand closed around a bottle of chilled water. I chugged it straight from the bottle, feeling the cool liquid easing the dryness of my throat. I winced as it hit my stomach, but I took another gulp.

"Well, apparently so," Zayn replied. He took a seat on one of the barstools. "Want to talk about it?"

I sighed heavily and leaned my hip against the countertop. The coolness of the granite was soothing against my bare skin.

"I don't know," I sighed.

"Where's Diana?"

"I would imagine she's in Cold Springs," I replied.

"Is it over?"

"Yes. It has to be."

"What the hell happened?" he asked. "Last time I talked to you, things were good."

"They were," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Until they weren't."

Zayn looked at me. "What does that mean?"

"We just weren't on the same page," I muttered, hating the confession. Hating even more that it wasn't the whole truth, but Zayn didn't need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"What page was wrong?" he asked evenly.

I shrugged nonchalantly, trying to keep my emotions under control. "The usual stuff. Our future, what we want out of life."

And there it was, the crux of the problem.

"What did she want that you didn't?" he asked.

"Diana wanted more than I could give. She wanted marriage, stability, a home filled with tiny feet and laughter. She wanted the white picket fence dream and all the trappings of a domestic life."

"And you didn't want those things?" Zayn asked.

I shook my head, my hand gripping the water bottle tightly. "Not yet," I said quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the floor, unable to meet his gaze. "And maybe not ever. I'm not exactly the marrying type."

"Because you prefer to party," he said.

I didn't blame him for the comment. I felt the same way about myself. "I left her for her own good. I know I'm a fuck-up."

"Hudson—"

Before Zayn had a chance to scold me too heavily, my phone began to ring, the shrill sound echoing through the room. I looked around, trying to find where the noise was coming from.

"I would guess the couch," Zayn said.

I found it stuffed between the couch cushions. I looked at the screen and grimaced. "Shit."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Diana's brother." I sighed. "I better take this."

"Good luck."

"Hey, Jessie," I answered.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he said, barely keeping his voice in check.

"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing my temples as if that would somehow make any of this better.

"Sorry?" Jessie spat back at me over the line. "You think sorry is going to cover it?"

"No," I replied. "I know it's not going to cover it."

"Diana's a wreck because of you. She was planning a life with you."

"And that's exactly why I had to leave," I retorted despite myself. "She deserved better."

"No, Hudson," Jessie growled, his voice intimidating even through the phone. "She deserved honesty. You should have told her how you felt instead of running away like a coward."

His words hit me like a punch in the gut. Because he was right. "I thought I was doing what was best for her."

"You don't get to decide what's best for her, Hudson," Jessie snapped. "She's not a child, she's a woman. A woman who loved you."

I swallowed hard, feelings of guilt and regret washing over me. "I know."

"Do you really?" Jessie asked sharply, his voice cutting through the silence. "Or are you so damn wrapped up in yourself that you can't see past your own fears and insecurities? Is it all about you all the time? You're a selfish prick."

"I—" I began, but he cut me off.

"You let her introduce you to our parents," Jessie seethed, his voice dripping with venom. "You're fucked up, man. You need help."

I wanted to defend myself, to explain that I had left for her own good, but the words caught in my throat, choked by the weight of my own shame. Nothing I said was going to make this better. Instead of offering an apology or an explanation, I simply hung up the phone and blocked Jessie's number. It was childish, but nothing good was going to come from any further conversations.

Zayn clicked his tongue in disapproval as he shook his head. "That didn't sound good," he said.

"Nope. I pretty much dropped a bomb on sweet little Cold Springs. I screwed over the princess of Cold Springs. I would not be surprised if they send the mob after me."

"This is messy," he said. "Really messy."

"I know," I sighed.

"Maybe Kameron was right," he said.

"Right about what?"

He paused. "Maybe you need something stronger than a small-town vacation to put you on the right path."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Rehab. It was another reminder of the depths to which I had sunk. I looked around the penthouse, the remnants of my own self-destruction practically screaming at me. I knew there was no easy way out of this mess. I had made my bed, and now I would have to lie in it, no matter how uncomfortable or painful it might be.

"No," I said. "I quit before, I'll quit again. Last night was—well, I was fucked up. I'm good now."

Zayn looked at me with an unreadable expression, his brows drawn together. "Hudson," he said softly. "I've seen you quit before, and I've seen you pick it up again. You need help."

"No," I repeated stubbornly. "I can handle it."

"You can't handle it," he countered, his voice slightly raised. "Face it! You're in no position to handle anything right now! Look at the mess you made!"

"I know!" I shouted back, feeling my already raw nerves fray even further. "I screwed up! I get it!"

We stared at each other in silence. The atmosphere in the room was bitter, thick with regret and resentment that hung between us.

"This doesn't end well," he said through clenched teeth.

I had never seen Zayn so furious, so disappointed in me. It was almost worse than the conversation with Jessie. Zayn knew me, really knew me, not just the image I projected to the world. He was the one that had supported me avoiding rehab. He knew I wasn't built for that kind of thing.

"Why can't you admit it, Hudson?" Zayn finally broke the silence, his voice quieter now. "Why can't you admit you need help? Not only for Diana's sake but for your own? You're destroying yourself and everyone around you."

I was at a loss for words. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words wouldn't come.

"I'm fine," I said.

Zayn slid off his chair. "Fine. I can't drag you to rehab, but you need to figure your shit out. The time you were in Cold Springs was good for you. I'm guessing that bridge is burned. But think about what your life was like there. Then look at this shit."

He walked out, leaving me alone to deal with my mess. The empty beer bottles were scattered around the living room along with the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

I looked around at the chaotic scene that encapsulated my life. It was all too much. The empty bottles, the lingering scent of spilled whiskey, and my brother's disappointment. My head was still throbbing. I ran my hands through my unruly hair, squeezing my eyes shut as I tried to keep the tidal wave of guilt and regret at bay.

It wasn't that Zayn was wrong. Every word he said struck a painful chord of truth somewhere deep within me. But facing that truth, facing myself and the mess I'd become, felt like staring into an abyss from which there was no return.

My eyes drifted to the bottle. I knew what awaited me in that bottle. That was what I wanted. It was so much easier. The bottle didn't have any expectations. I reached for it and took a long drink straight from the bottle.

I started coughing. The liquid burned my throat. I carried it back to the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of something to eat. Not surprising, there wasn't anything there. I grabbed my phone and ordered a couple of breakfast burritos from the local restaurant. I saw the text message icon. I knew they were messages from Diana. I couldn't bring myself to open them. I didn't want to read that I broke her heart. I didn't want to be tempted to reply to her messages. It needed to be a clean break.

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