Page 2 of Dear Adam
My parents would love it if I married Hudson, and take every opportunity to throw us together to make that happen.
Adam recently told me a story about how Hudson had gone to dinner downtown and had to send his meal back four times before they drizzled the sauce on it correctly.
“‘It’s a simple thing to do,’” Adam had imitated Hudson’s voice perfectly. “‘But they just couldn’t get it right. I guess that’s why they make minimum wage and I don’t.’ And then he winked at me, Aly. Hewinked.”
“That sounds about right,” I’d said with a snort.
The memory pulls another groan from me.
Hudson is nearly fifteen years older than I am and incredibly entitled with his old, southern family money, but heisundeniably attractive. He's got the perfect chiseled jaw and smooth skin, not a pore in sight. I’ve even questioned what products he uses because I would kill for skin like his.
Today, Hudson is wearing a button up with a little whale on the pocket, slacks, and loafers sans socks. I grew up in the south and have lived here all my life, but I still couldn’t get past the leather loafers without socks. In what world was it ever okay to do that?Especiallyin the south? It getshothere. Now all I can think about is if his pinky toes are chafing and how bad his shoes must stink.
I look down at my own attire and run my hands along my wrinkled sundress I tie-dyed with my best friend, Emma, a few summers ago. I don’t own anything that lives up to Mom and Dad’s standards of pearls and shirts with collars, so I picked out the one clean thing from the mound of laundry piled in the corner of my bedroom I thought would suffice.
But that’s part of the problem. Hudson probably spends a good portion of his salary on skincare and nice suits. My entire paycheck goes to renovations on my cottage. Whatever is left goes into a little piggy bank. Like, a legitimate piggy bank. It’s pink, it oinks when you slide anything in it,andyou have to bust it to get the money out. I’m not proud of it, but I was short on cash a few weeks ago and so desperate for an iced vanilla latte that I managed to turn the pig upside down and shake out a few quarters with the help of a nail file I shimmied up in there.
“Hey, boss man,” Hudson says, sticking out his hand for Dad to shake.
“Hudson!” Dad cries, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you.”
“Didn’t you two just see each other Friday?” I mutter. I catch Adam’s eye and we both roll our eyes at the same time. I stifle a laugh but stop cold when Hudson slips an arm around my shoulders. Adam’s jaw flexes and he cocks an eyebrow. I wiggle out from underneath Hudson’s arm, and awkwardly shake his hand instead.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, and tucks my hair behind both my ears. Like…all of my hair behind my ears. Not just a piece. My ears are completely exposed and that, my friends, is one of the worst feelings in the world. I shudder and quickly shake the strands loose.
Ever since the day Hudson walked into Dad’s office for a job and charmed him with his excessively useless knowledge of every pro golfer since the nineteen eighties, it’s been a constant battle between my parents, Adam, and me.
“Adam, if you paid a little more attention to Hudson, you might be able to make a few more sales. Really take note of the way he’s so personable with the clients.” Or, “Alyson, Hudson would make a fantastic husband. You’d never have to worry about money and you could get out of that nasty little cottage and live somewhere proper.” Or my personal favorite which we hear at least twenty times a week, “Hudson is just the best, isn’t he?”
Sorry, Mom and Dad, that we are such utter disappointments.
I don’t even know if it’s Hudson himself that turns me off so badly or the fact that we hear about him and his greatness nonstop. He might actually be a good guy and we’re just not giving him a chance. But, if I hear one more thing about how wonderful he is…I think we both might snap.
“Hi Hudson,” I say through a forced smile.
“Aly, let’s get Pretzel’s things switched over into your car while we’re out here.”
Pretzel is Adam’s one-year-old wiener dog. A couple days ago, Adam told me he was going out of town for work and asked me to watch her. I wasn’t keen on the idea, considering the last time I watched her, when she was only a few months old, she managed to find the bag of my new panties I had picked up at the seven for twenty seven sale and chewed the crotch out of every single pair. I found her with a pair draped casually over one ear, the other ear turned inside out.
Then she puked the panty pieces all over my shoe.
Even thinking about it now makes me shudder.
“How long do you need me to watch her?” I asked Adam.
“Ten days or so,” Adam had coughed out.
“Ten days?” I’d screeched. Money signs had blurred my vision as I thought about all the new underwear I’d have to replace. “Where are you going?”
“I have a client that wants to wine and dine me before I sell him a boat,” Adam had joked. “He’s in Santa Monica, and I figured while I was there, I could see Levi for a few days.”
“I guess I can watch her,” I’d conceded. “But remind me to make sure all my underwear are somewhere safe. Pretzel has a real taste for bikini cut.”
In the background, Pretzel had yipped, almost as if she was agreeing with me. Weirdo.
We’d agreed to trade off today, since Adam was leaving in the morning.
Adam heads toward his truck and I practically skip behind him, happy for any chance to get away from the awkward situation from moments before. I channel all the twin vibes I can possibly muster to send him a silent thank you.
