Hudson

Chapter Twenty

Before

“Why can’t I just ditch tonight after the actual rehearsal? That’s the important part, right?” Chandler had been trying for twenty straight minutes to get out of Mirabelle’s wedding rehearsal dinner.

My mother tested the temperature of the curling iron¸ her mind clearly more on her task than on her son’s complaints. “I don’t understand why you’re so eager to abandon us.”

He’s fifteen, I wanted to tell her. That was reason enough.

“Because it’s boring!” He flung his hands out, exasperated.

“Chandler!” my mother warned, covering my sister’s ears as if she might be offended by the word boring. As if blocking the sound after the fact could undo that it had been heard.

But boring…that I could agree with, even though I hadn’t been fifteen for nine years. The entire family had spent the last week of August at Mabel Shores preparing for Mirabelle’s wedding weekend. Five days of nothing but social interaction. I was close to going insane. At my sister’s insistence, I’d agreed to not bring any work. It was a mistake. With my mind unoccupied on business, my thoughts returned again and again to my other addiction—the game.

Celia and I were between schemes at the moment—part of the reason I was so eager to concoct a new one. Every guest that walked through our house that week, every visitor, was a potential subject. What could I learn from her? I’d ask myself. Or him? Or them?

Somewhere I recognized that my obsession was getting out of hand. Our experiments had grown more and more complex, more intense, more frequent. Often even my work hours were infiltrated with daydreaming about the next project, the next scam. The week away had made me realize just exactly how consumed I’d become. I felt like a junkie who hadn’t scored in a while—jittery, agitated. On edge.

Needing something to occupy my time, I’d resorted to joining Mirabelle in my mother’s room as Sophia made her presentable for the evening’s rehearsal.

Chandler leaned against the doorframe. I could sense he was on the verge of giving up but not quite. “No one will miss me,” he said quietly.

“I’ll miss you.” My mother didn’t even try to make it sound like she meant it.

My brother and I exchanged a glance. I wasn’t close to Chandler—eleven years of separation made it difficult, not to mention I wasn’t the type to bond. But we were still family, and in that we shared the basest parts of our existence. We had the same parents, the same upbringing. We both knew that he could sneak away from the dinner and our mother would never notice.

Mirabelle knew this as well. Having remained quiet for the bulk of the conversation, she spun to face Chandler now. “I’ll miss you! So for one night, Chandler, can you forget about your friends and stay? For me?”

There wasn’t a person in the world who could say no to Mirabelle Amalie Pierce. The subject was dropped. Chandler left the room with a huff, but he’d stay for the night’s extravaganza.

It occurred to me that Mirabelle could have simply asked him to stay from the very beginning and saved the entire debate. I supposed she’d been giving Sophia a chance to be the mother. It was amazing, really, that she continued to do so. I started to wonder what it would take for Mirabelle’s faith to be broken and then caught myself. Those were the kind of thoughts that led to experiments. And no matter how desperate I was for a fix, I wouldn’t play on Mirabelle. I couldn’t.

I forced myself to concentrate on the scene at hand for distraction. Mirabelle sat at the vanity, my mother stood behind her, working on her hair. She was even, near as I could tell, sober. A memory flashed through my mind, or rather a collage of memories. Times that my sister and I had sat around my mother’s feet as she primped in front of that same mirror. She’d sit there for ages, dolling herself up. I’d watch as she applied her rouge, plucked her eyebrows, straightened her hair, and every time, I’d think how beautiful my mother was.

Though it had been a frequent occurrence, I’d seemed to have forgotten. Those had been good moments. There had been good times.

The memory inserted a warmth to the present, like a light had been focused on us, brightening the ordinary moment into something meaningful.

“Good thing your hair only hits your shoulders. We’d never get ready in time otherwise.” Even my mother’s complaining seemed less dreary.

“I should have cut it. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about this at all. I’m thinking I’ll get a pixie as soon as the honeymoon’s over. Thoughts?”

I bit back a smile. My mother hated short hair on girls.

“Are you trying to kill me?” But I noticed the hint of a smile on Sophia’s lips as well. “I still don’t know why you didn’t hire someone to do your hair and makeup tonight.”

Mirabelle shrugged. “I didn’t think I’d need to get made up tonight. I’ll have enough of that tomorrow.”

I studied her in the mirror, and I saw her lie. She’d hoped for this—for Sophia to insist on making her up instead. She remembered those times too, and Mirabelle, forever romantic that she was, had hoped to recapture it. She’d succeeded.

Perhaps I owed my sister’s optimism more credit.

“Thank you for being here, Hudson,” Mirabelle said when she caught my eye with her reflection. “It means a lot that you can share this time with me.”

Normally, I’d shrug her off. But the nostalgia made me strangely willing to chat. “I have to admit, this isn’t my thing. Yet, I’m glad I’m here too.” I hadn’t realized it until just that moment. She didn’t need to know that.

My mother took a strand of Mirabelle’s hair and wove it around the curling wand, seemingly oblivious to our conversation as she concentrated on her work.

“I’m sure you have a spiel waiting on the tip of your tongue, though,” Mirabelle said, touching up her lipstick. “How love is a myth and marriage the bane of all evil.”

I chuckled at the accuracy of her statement. “Not to mention that you’re barely old enough to drink. Quite young to be signing off your entire life.”

Her face fell slightly. She’d wanted me to deny my disdain for the practice of romantic union, and I’d enforced it instead. Oh well. It was honest. What was I supposed to do? Lie?

So I wasn’t the type to put on niceties. But I could find another way to be supportive. Mirabelle had always been a bit of a Pollyanna. She’d make the best of anything. Maybe marriage actually would work for her. “I trust you know what you’re doing, Mirabelle. Don’t mind me.”

“I usually don’t.” Her grin was back, and I felt my shoulders relax. I hadn’t even realized I’d been tense. “And I do know what I’m doing. Adam is the best thing for me. He makes me happy. I make him happy. You know. It’s all a bunch of happy.”

Blah, blah, blah. It was what all the lovebirds said. Then a bump in the road, and everything fell apart. Love was so easily manipulated. So easily redirected. How could it ever be real? How could anyone be willing to give up their life for something so unreliable?

How could Mirabelle?

She must have read my thoughts in my expression because she added, “I mean, I know it won’t always be top of the world. There will be hard times. But none of that matters as long as we have each other.”

“Excuse me while I roll my eyes.”

“You won’t know until you find it yourself, Hudson.” She was the only one who ever spoke like I might find my own one true love. It was kind of charming, actually.

“But did you have to get married? Couldn’t you shack up together for a while first?” Like, until the euphoria faded, and she realized the ridiculousness of the notion of happily ever after.

“Nope. I have to get married.” She widened her eyes as she applied mascara to her lashes.

“Mirabelle!” So my mother was listening.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me, little sister?”

Mirabelle laughed, pausing her makeup application. “I’m not pregnant, you ass. I’m in love. And yes, I still have to get married. Because when you love someone,” she met my gaze in the mirror and said without a flicker in her confidence, “their world interests you more than your own. So much so that you disappear into them, and the only choice you have is to merge your life with theirs. Because otherwise, you cease to exist at all.”

It was more mumbo jumbo. But it struck me—somewhere deep inside me, a place that I didn’t recognize, reverberating in my bones and tingling through my nerve endings. So I let it sit and settle and didn’t refute.

A few silent moments later, it was my mother who spoke. “I couldn’t wait to marry your father. Did I ever tell you that?”

I froze, and I sensed Mirabelle did too. My mother never spoke about the past. Never anything pleasant, anyway. We’d grown up assuming that her marriage to our father was based on business. Jack’s father’s company had just gone under, but the Pierce name still held weight, and my father was an innovative thinker. The Walden family, on the other hand, had money and investments with no one to groom for takeover. Sophia Walden’s union to Jack solved a lot of problems.

We’d never been led to believe that there was love involved.

“No, Mom, you haven’t told us,” Mirabelle said quietly, and I could feel her silently urging Sophia to go on.

“We were more in love than anyone should have the right to be. It scared my father, I think. When we announced our engagement, he nearly had a heart attack. ‘How will he ever provide for you?’ As if my trust fund didn’t give me enough money to provide for myself.”

Sophia didn’t look up as she spoke, her focus pinned on a lock of hair that refused to lay the way she wanted it to. “But Daddy took Jack out for ‘a talking to.’ And when they came back, it was decided that we could get married as long as your father took over the Walden companies. It was a win-win as far as I was concerned. Our worlds were becoming entwined in every way possible.”

I noted her use of the word worlds and realized that had been what had spurred her trip down memory lane. My mother had also moved her world to be with Jack Pierce. Or Jack had moved his world to be with her. Such a strange thing to try to comprehend. It was easier for me to imagine my parents having sex than to imagine them being in love.

“My father wanted Jack to take over as soon as we were married. Since I wanted a short engagement, Jack spent a lot of that time at the office with Dad. I didn’t see him nearly as much as I would’ve liked. Our wedding day, though.” She sighed softly. “It was the happiest day I could imagine. There Jack was, in his tux. So handsome. I kept wishing the ceremony would hurry and get finished so I could jump him.”

“Mother!” Mirabelle feigned embarrassment. It was the sort of story she got off on. Even if it was coming from her parent.

“I was young once too.” Sophia’s face was bright, happier than I’d ever remembered seeing it.

“Then I hope you had a wonderful honeymoon.”

My mother’s wistful smile vanished at Mirabelle’s words. “Well, it started out well. But Jack had to leave the day after we arrived in Bora Bora. Company problems. He was in charge now. You know. If a wife had to be left alone on her honeymoon, then that’s what had to be done. The story of our lives after that.”

Mirabelle dropped her gaze. If I had to guess, she was fighting back tears. She was an easy crier.

Interesting, though, was how my mother’s words affected me. I’d always seen my mother encased in a hard shell of bitterness. Now, she seemed to shift in my view, and from this new vantage point, I saw something else surrounding her—something warm and tender. Approachable, even. A woman that she once was.

How fascinating would that study be? To examine where she came from to how she ended up. Maybe it was another scenario Celia and I could recreate. Another game we could try to play.

God, always the game…

My mother set the iron down. “But the wedding day was beautiful. And yours will be too.” She combed her fingers through the last curls she’d made then took Mirabelle by the shoulders. “Look at yourself. You’re just lovely.”

Mirabelle did as she was told. She smiled at her reflection, apparently pleased with her appearance. Or she was pleased with the experience. She reached up and patted one of Sophia’s hands. “Thank you, Mom. For everything.”

For the smallest space of time, while I watched as this mother and daughter shared a seemingly ordinary moment that was anything but ordinary, I sensed that there was something to life that I was missing. A color adjustment, perhaps. A flavor that I simply hadn’t been introduced to. A sound that hadn’t found its way to my ears. Something…more.

But that was mumbo jumbo too. If I needed proof, I only had to look back on the results of my experiments. How I lived—emotionless and free—that was all there was that was real. There was nothing more.

I discovered that evening that rehearsals were as draining as actual weddings. Though I’d attended a few out of obligation, I’d never been involved in them as Mirabelle had involved me. She’d convinced Adam to make me the best man. I was in the damn wedding party. It was the most hypocritical situation I could imagine myself in. All night I was asked, “Aren’t you so happy for Mira? Doesn’t she make a lovely bride?”

As happy as I can be and she’s lovely all the time could only be said so many times before responding grew wearying. In between the fake conversations and polite smiles, I imagined the schemes I could work. That one in the too-tight skirt—would she still be drooling over the dick who’d brought her if I convinced her the best man was into her? The waiter who kept flirting with Adam’s sister—would he cheat on his wife (he clearly wore a wedding ring) if she returned the attention? I knew I could get Mirabelle’s bridesmaid to slip away with me—we’d fucked occasionally in the past—but could I arrange for her fiancé to catch us?

It was maddening how many times I had to remind myself that Mirabelle’s wedding was off limits for my experiments. So many times, in fact, that I stopped listening to myself. And when the bridesmaid in question took a seat next to me, the tug to attempt my play was too strong, the buzz overwhelming all reasonable thought.

I placed my hand on the back of her chair and leaned in. “You wouldn’t have chosen that seat, Melissa, if you didn’t mean to get something from me.”

She twirled a ringlet of hair around her finger and sat forward so I could easily peer down her dress. “And what exactly would I want from you, Hudson?”

“From the way you’re shoving your chest at me, I’d say you want me to fuck your tits in the pool house.” Under the table, I slid my hand up her skirt. “But don’t worry. I’d give your cunt proper attention as well.”

Her breathing picked up, and her eyes dilated. “I’ll go out first. Wait five minutes to follow.”

Perfect. “Be naked when I get there.”

I waited until she was out of sight before I tracked down Timothy, her fiancé. He was an intern in a law firm that would fall all over themselves to get Pierce Industries business. “Timothy, I have some off-the-record legal I might want some help with,” I told him. “Would you mind meeting me in the pool house in fifteen minutes?” An image of Melissa pushing her porn-size tits together while my cock thrust between flashed in my head, and I amended my request. “Make that twenty minutes.”

He agreed. Of course. And I was off for a night of what I loved best—scheming and sexing. My dick stiffened as I snuck away from the stage where dinner was soon to be served. I’d barely made it five feet, however, before a familiar voice called to me.

“Hudson?”

I spun right around at the sound of Mirabelle’s voice. “Uh, yeah?” Even though she couldn’t have any idea what I was up to, I felt guilty all the same. Thankfully, it was dark enough here that she couldn’t see the bulge in my pants.

She stood just at the edge of the stage. “Where are you going?”

“Just stepping away for a bit of a breather.”

“The fuck you are.”

If I didn’t catch that she was angry from her swearing—Mirabelle rarely said anything coarser than asshole—then I’d surely be able to tell from the bright fury sparking from her eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t. I’ve been watching you. I saw you talking to Melissa. And I know you’ve been with her before. Then she goes off, and you get all whispery with Tim? This is my wedding weekend, Hudson. I can’t even look at you right now.”

She knew, she had to. There was no other reason for her to be outraged. Honestly, attempting to play her friend was shitty on my part. But, like any addict, I continued to deny. “Mirabelle, I really don’t have any idea what this is about.”

“You know what? Fuck you.” Her small frame shook as she crossed her arms in front of her. “Fuck you, and I don’t want you here anymore right now. I want you to leave.”

The pool house counted as leaving, right?

“But so help me God, if you fuck with my friends tonight or tomorrow or during any of my wedding stuff, I will never be able to forgive you.”

“Seriously? I—”

“Yes, seriously!” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want you here right now. Go.”

I wanted to argue more, but what exactly could I say? She’d pegged me correctly. And it wasn’t my intention to ruin Mirabelle’s rehearsal. “Fine. I’ll go.”

She kept her eyes on me, so heading to the pool house now was out of the question. I pushed past her instead and snagged a bottle of Scotch from the bartender before storming toward the house. I didn’t allow myself to think. Not until I got far enough away that I didn’t do anything I’d regret.

Getting off the premises, however, proved problematic. The driveway was too packed to get my car out, so it looked like I was on foot. There was nowhere for me to go if I went toward the highway. So taking a path on the side of the house opposite from the party, I crept down to the gazebo at the edge of our land. Though it had a nice view over the ocean, it was rarely used. Too far from the convenience of household help, I supposed. Mirabelle and I had used it a lot growing up though. It had made a nice escape when Sophia grew too difficult—or drunk—to tolerate.

It seemed fitting that I ended up there.

The stairs creaked as I climbed in the rotunda. I settled on the wood bench and undid my tie. The breeze came in and out like the waves of the ocean below. I nursed my Scotch and let the shit settle in my mind.

God, Melissa with her double G’s and tight pussy. Right about now, she was probably pissed and about ready to throw her clothes back on. Then Timothy would show up. They’d likely think I set it up that way, for them to find each other and fuck each other’s brains out. I’d never thought I’d be jealous of that prick of a guy.

But disappointment and irritation at the forced end of my fun didn’t last long. Their disappearance left space for a heavier emotion—shame. I felt certain that Mirabelle wasn’t aware of the extent of my games, that she thought she’d just caught me fucking around with an engaged woman. It wasn’t really the biggest of deals. Except I’d let her down. I’d hurt her. That realization was not one I wanted to dwell on. It was too raw, too uncomfortable. Like an ice-cold wind slicing across my skin, stinging and chafing.

I let the Scotch burn through the chill and searched for something else to occupy my mind. Soon I found my thoughts returning to the disclosure from my mother earlier. It was strange to think about what her life had been like once before. That she’d been a happier woman. That she’d believed in her future with my father. Was it so simple to say that her entire life had been ruined because her father had wanted her betrothed to prove himself? That, in turn, Jack—out of love for his new bride—threw himself into doing just that? That the time apart the work caused led to the estranged relationship, the drinking, the cheating?

And if events had been different, if they’d managed to find the balance in their worlds and maintained a healthier relationship, would I have still been the way I was?

It was pointless to dwell on it. There would never be an answer.

Likely, my parents would still have been fucked up even if he’d stayed for the whole honeymoon. And I would still be exactly like I was. Why was I complaining, anyway? It was my superpower, wasn’t it? Not feeling.

Lately, though, it didn’t seem like a superpower. It was more like a distraction. A constant whirring in my head that begged for explanation. Pushed me to examine and study and scheme. Drove me crazy. Or was I already crazy to begin with?

Wasn’t that the question of the century?

“Hudson?” Mirabelle’s soft call startled me out of my spiraling speculation. I didn’t answer, but she continued toward me anyway, climbing up the stairs and then leaning against the arch of the entry. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.” Though her demeanor was calmer than it had been, I wasn’t happy to have been found. It surely meant there’d be talking. Fuck, how I hated that. I couldn’t exactly send her away though. And it had been my actions that led to this. Consequences.

The light was out in the gazebo, and Mirabelle blocked the moon behind her, so I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. Was she still mad? Hurt? Or did she come to apologize?

Finally, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and said, “Mother’s drunk.”

Huh. Not even focused on me, then. “Are you surprised?”

“No. I was hopeful, though. She’d had a good day.” Her tone was melancholy, and I knew if I could see her eyes, they’d be sad.

I didn’t understand sad. But I didn’t like it when Mirabelle was. I tried to be consoling. “Parties are the easiest time for her to drink without anyone noticing. Everyone’s drinking.”

“True.”

She stepped forward and sat on the bench next to me. That meant she was staying. It didn’t leave much chance of escaping more reprimand from the earlier incident.

“You should be with your guests.” I took a sip from the bottle of Scotch and tried to appear nonchalant about my suggestion to leave.

She wasn’t biting. “You’re my guest.”

“You have more important guests than me.”

“I don’t think so.” She mirrored my posture, looking out over the ocean. “Besides, we need to talk.”

I pretended not to know what topic she thought should be discussed. “If you need last-minute marriage advice, you know what I’ll say—don’t get married.”

“You’re an ass. And no. I’d never come to you for marriage advice. You’ll come to me, though. I’m calling that now.” She swung her foot in a rhythmic sway that seemed in time with the ocean waves.

“Uh-huh.” The hell I was ever getting married. Though marriage seemed more likely than falling in love. Telling that to Mirabelle would be another impossible conversation. Really, any way I looked at it, there was an uncomfortable discussion about to take place.

I decided to dive in and get it over with. “Look, we don’t need to talk about earlier. Lapse in judgment. That’s all.”

It was so quiet I could hear her swallow. “No. We don’t need to talk about earlier,” she agreed quietly, much to my surprise. “But there’s something else.”

Well, that had been easy. With her soft disposition and her somber mood, I had a pretty good guess at what she wanted to say instead. The typical, I love you, you’re a good brother even though you tried to drown me when I was seven and screw my bridesmaid at my wedding rehearsal, all the bullshit things that sweet, naïve sisters say to their siblings on the eve of superficially important occasions like their weddings.

But she stunned me again. “Hudson, I need to talk to you about an intervention.”

Really? Tonight? I’d wondered how long before someone tried to sober up our mother. I did not think it would happen in the middle of my sister’s wedding. “Shouldn’t Chandler and Dad be here? They have just as much effect on our mother as I ever would. If not more.”

“Not for Mother.” She stopped the swing of her feet. “For you.”

I laughed. “This probably seems unconvincing when I’m drinking straight from the bottle, but I’m not an alcoholic.” Sure, that was what all alcoholics said. Still, I’d never gotten drunk or sloppy. It was hardly believable that Mirabelle really thought I had a problem. I laughed again. Seriously? “Besides, aren’t there supposed to be lots of people at these things?”

“Well, they’re supposed to be formed of a group of people that the addict—that’s you—loves and will listen to. I happen to think that I’m the only one who could possibly say anything that matters. At least, I’m hoping that I can say anything that matters.” She was so solemn, so intense.

I sighed and tried to address her with equal earnestness. “I don’t have a drinking problem, Mirabelle.”

She chuckled politely. “I don’t think you have a drinking problem, Hudson. Get real.” Her somberness returned. “But I do think you have a problem. A very different kind of problem.”

My heart skipped a beat, my mind immediately jumping to the game. There was nothing else that I did, nothing else that I had in my life. But how could she even know about that? There were occasions that my experiments had come back home. Tonight, for example. The result of a few bad choices on my part. Perhaps that’s what she meant?

I played ignorant. I was ignorant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I took another swallow of my Scotch. It didn’t calm me the way that I’d hoped.

“Let’s not dance around it, Hudson. I don’t know the word for it anyway. There might not even be one. But I’m aware. I see it. I see what you do to people. How you…handle them. Like earlier tonight, but this is hardly the first time. Or the fifth. Or even the fiftieth, I’d bet. It’s cruel behavior. It’s destructive. And I don’t just mean to the people you do it to. But to you. It’s destroying you.”

They were the only words I had, so I repeated them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice was weaker than before, though. I had zero conviction.

“You do know. And you don’t have to say anything. I don’t need to hear excuses or details. What I need is for you to hear me.” She fell down on her knees in front of me and grasped my empty hand between both of hers. “Hear me, Hudson. You are not who you think you are. There is more in you than you suspect. More to you than the mind games that I think absorb your life. I see it. I feel it. And not because I’m a hopeless optimist, but because this other part of you is very, very real.”

I started to pull my hand away, a jerk reaction, but she held it steady. “Don’t. I won’t let you break away from me, Hudson. You can’t. I’m invested in you, even if you aren’t invested in yourself. And I’m about to start a new life. One that might possibly push me further away from you, and here’s the thing—I can’t go if I don’t know you’re okay. I can’t move my world from yours until I know you aren’t going to destroy your own.”

My throat tightened. It felt like I should say something, but there weren’t words. And inside, where I usually felt empty, my chest burned. Uncomfortable, like indigestion, but even more constrictive. Like something was stirring around in there, stealing the space to breathe, about to explode out of me.

Mirabelle dug her fingers into my skin, her nails pleading as much as her words. “So will you do it? Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me you’ll quit. Tell me that you’re going to try. For me, if for no one else. Please, tell me.”

I could tell her to fuck off. I could tell her whatever she wanted to hear just to get her off my back. I could try to explain to her what the game really was, so that she could understand that it wasn’t actually a problem.

But the truth was that it was a problem. The experiments had become an obsession. I lived and breathed for them. And none of them, not a single one, ever taught me what I really wanted to know, which was why the hell I felt so goddamned empty.

So I said the only word I could. “Okay.”

“You mean that?”

I nodded, speech not easy through my clenched throat.

Her face crumpled, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she bit her lip. She nodded a few times. Finally, in a choked voice, she said, “Thank you.”

She crawled up into my lap then, her legs to one side, and hugged me, like she used to when we were younger.

I let her.

I even hugged her back. Reluctantly at first, and then with a bear-tight grip.

“Thank you,” she said when she finally broke away. She scrambled off my lap to the bench beside me. She dabbed again at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cry. I figured you’d take me more seriously if I remained together. But, that’s not me, I guess. Anyway. You have an appointment tomorrow.”

“An appointment tomorrow? With who?”

“A psychiatrist. Dr. Alberts. He’s an expert in experiential avoidance and a bunch of other big words that basically mean ‘aloof.’”

Other big words like sociopath?

“He’s situated in the city,” she continued, “but he makes house calls, and he agreed to come out here to meet you at ten. I arranged it before tonight even happened, Hudson. So don’t think I’m just reacting to this one incident.”

That she’d had this planned all along left a sour taste in my mouth. I hated that she’d formed an opinion about me, and then I’d proven her right. It was almost as though she’d played her own game, formed her own hypothesis, and she’d guessed correctly. Having the tables turned wasn’t my idea of a good time.

Besides that, I’d agreed to being intervened, so to say, but I’d thought it would be on my own terms. I could decide the course of my treatment. Not her. I used the obvious for my protest, “It’s your wedding day.”

“And this is my wedding present. From you.” She was even giddy about it.

“My wedding present was to not work all week.” But I already knew I’d meet with her specialist.

“This is another wedding present. You got me two.” She swiftly pecked my cheek. “Thanks, big bro.” And I was the master manipulator.

“What have you done to me, Mirabelle?”

“Good things, Hudson. I’ve done good things. Just wait and see.” She stared at my profile for several seconds. I felt her gaze like it was her hands that touched my skin. When she seemed satisfied with what she saw, she said, “But I’m going to go back to the party now and let you stay here and mope or mull or whatever really boring antisocial thing it is you like to do. Brood. That’s what you do.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Well, whatever you do, I’ll leave you to it now.” She stood, her skirt swirling in the light breeze. At the stairs, she looked back. “Ten tomorrow morning. In the study. Dr. Alberts is coming. Be there.”

“Where else would I be? Organizing the flowers with Mother?”

“Good point.” She gave me another bright smile, this time adding a wink. “I love you, brother. Thanks for making my wedding everything I ever dreamed.”

There it was. The typical words for the occasion. It made me smile a bit as well.

She blew me a kiss then skipped off into the night.

I sat on that bench for a long time after. I sipped my Scotch. And I cried. Sobbed for the first time that I could remember. There was no feeling behind the tears, just release. It was cathartic. It was a start.

Maybe it was even the beginning of the road to more.