Hudson

“You okay?” I find Mari on the front steps of the house after dinner that night. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

She glances up. “Between you and my parents, I can’t really get a word in edgewise.”

I chuckle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Your parents love me. You should be happy.”

“It’s fine that they like you, Hudson, but promising to design my father’s shed? Promising my mother you’ll send her tickets to Hamilton?” She turns away. “You don’t have to buy their affections. And you certainly don’t have to weasel your way into their hearts with gifts and promises.”

I take the spot beside her, the concrete cool and gravel-pocked beneath my hands.

“I don’t understand what all of this is about, Mari. Everything’s going well,” I say, watching her from my periphery.

“Too well.”

“So …?”

“Don’t hurt them,” she says. “Keep your promises. All of them.”

I laugh. “That’s all this is? You don’t think I’ll keep my word?”

“You’re not exactly known for being kind and generous,” she says. “At least not since I’ve known you. Kind of makes me feel like this whole thing is disingenuous.” She places her hand out. “I mean, I know this is pretend. But my parents? They’re real people with real feelings.”

I take her hand in mine. “It’s sweet the way you worry about them. But I can assure you, Mari, I have every intention of keeping my promises to them. You don’t have to worry.”

“And if you don’t?” she asks.

“I will.”

She inhales, releasing it slowly as she peers toward the sunset as it falls beneath a playground in the distance.

“I need a walk,” she announces. “You want to take one?”

Mari rises, dusting off her hands.

“You’re barefoot,” I say.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to roam the streets barefoot.” A slow smile curls her lips. “You should try it.”

“The concrete will tear up the soles of your feet.”

Mari shrugs. “It feels so good though. Just try it. Trust me.”

I hesitate and she drops to her knees, pulling at my laces and forcing my shoes off. When she’s done, she tosses them in the grass.

“Come on, city boy.” She tugs on my arm and I follow her down the driveway to a broken sidewalk laced with weed-filled cracks juxtaposed with lush, green lawns that have been tended for decades.

“Is this the kind of thing you do for fun in Orchard Hill?” I tease.

“Don’t make fun. It’s not polite.” She nudges me as we pad along the concrete. I won’t admit it, but it does feel nice … if only in a strange way. It’s almost … freeing. “So what else do you do around here?”

“Um.” She swings her arms, taking long, slow strides. “We usually just hang out with each other. Friends, family. Most of my extended family still lives around here. My grandparents and two aunts and one uncle all live in, like, a five-block radius.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.” She glances at me, smiling. “Do you think that’s weird?”

“Not weird. Just different,” I say.

“I never realized how different Orchard Hill was until I left,” she muses. “Nobody locks their doors around here. You could probably walk into just about any house you wanted.”

“That’s insane.”

“I know! But there’s hardly any crime. Everyone knows everyone. It’s just a more trusting community, I guess? Now, knowing what I know and having lived in the city for a few years, I would never. But that’s how it is here. It’s the norm.”

We turn the corner, climbing a small hill surrounded by mid-century modern homes and quaint little ranches. In the distance appears to be a block of estate-type homes: Victorians, European Romantics, and turn-of-the-century Queen Annes. I’m sure back in the day, those housed the town’s doctors and lawyers. I can only hope their current owners have restored them to their former glory.

“Where’d you grow up? You told my parents you were born in Manhattan, but is that where you were raised?” she asks.

I pause. “I attended boarding school in Connecticut from kindergarten through eighth grade. In high school, my parents sent me to a prep school—which was just another boarding school. Headed to college after that. I’m not sure that I was really raised by anyone other than teachers and school administrators.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She pouts and we mull in our respective silences. “Sucks you didn’t have a traditional childhood.”

“Yes,” I say with a bittersweet chuff. “It does … suck.”

“Must have been awful,” she says softly, “being sent away as a child and not understanding why.”

“My parents always said it was in my best interest. It was for my future. They were doing it for me.” I shake my head. “They weren’t doing it for anyone but themselves. They wanted to be able to go yachting in the Maldives and skiing in the French Alps at a moment’s notice. A child would’ve made their life … complicated. It was easier to send me away, where I would have round-the-clock supervision, three square meals, a world-class education, and plenty of socialization.”

“That’s what they told you?”

“We always had our summers in Montauk. That was our family time.”

“That’s all you got from them? A few months of the year and then they shipped you off again?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s terrible,” she says, exhaling. “Sorry. I don’t mean to judge your parents.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve judged them my whole life.” I huff. “They are who they are. There’s no changing them. There’s no taking back what they did.”

“Is that why you pour yourself into your work?” she asks.

I glance ahead. We’re getting closer to the street with the antique houses. They’re all I can think about. I don’t want to discuss my childhood anymore. I don’t want to talk about—or think about—the fact that I may or may not have abandonment issues as a result of never truly feeling wanted by my parents.

It’s neither here nor there. Truly.

“See that white house?” I point north. “It has a triangular pediment set against a hipped roof with dormers. It’s a Queen Anne.”

“Oh,” she says. “We always called that the Pauley House. It’s haunted. Or that’s what everyone says. Some kids died there in the 1920s. Drowned in the pool when the nanny was supposed to be watching them. So sad.”

“How tragic.”

“What about that stone house? I always thought it looked like a castle,” she says. “When I was a little girl, I’d ride my bike up and down this street and pretend that I was a princess and that was my house.”

“That’s a European Romantic,” I say. “You can tell by the asymmetric composition and the half-timbered accents. The light stone is fairly typical too. Sometimes you’ll see stucco.”

Warm drops of rain begin to pepper the sidewalk, dampening our clothes in the process. A clap of thunder groans in the distance. Spring is nothing if not a temperamental woman: loving on you one minute, chasing you off the next.

Without saying a word, we turn back, leaving the picturesque street in the distance, and by the time we’re halfway home, the rain picks up and begins to pour. Rustling leaves in the ancient oaks above us do little to protect us, and by the time we reach the front door, we’re both soaked.

Standing in the foyer, we lock eyes. Mari laughs, her hair sticking to her cheeks and neck, and rainwater pools at our bare feet. My shoes are in the yard, but I’m not concerned with them right now.

I can’t stop looking at her, all wet and vulnerable.

This may be a fake relationship, but this woman is as real as they come.

My eyes fall on her lips, my hands aching to reach for her chin and angle it just so.

“I’m going to go change,” she says, as if she picked up on my intentions.

Dashing up the stairs, she disappears around the corner.