Page 8 of What About Us
I let out a groan, and Wren and Ginger bust up into a fit of giggles. “There wasnotongue, and you two suck.” I whack Wren with a throw pillow.
Once they’ve finally composed themselves, Ginger asks, “Where’s that man of yours?” Only her head and shoulders are visible on the screen. She clicks her tongue and calls to her dog, Baxter, and then the sound of kibble hitting a steel bowl fills my ears.
“He’s out running errands,” Wren says.
“I’m surprised he let you out of his sight,” she jokes.
“Oh, trust me, he left me with strict instructions to not let her get on a ladder or breathe wrong,” I say.
Wren elbows me lightly. “Be nice.” I snicker. “The boys with Peter?” Wren asks, biting into her half-eaten piece of pizza.
Ginger’s twin boys, Tate and Jordan, are almost five, and are the cutest little guys I’ve ever met. Well, technically, I haven’t met them in person yet,but they’re coming to visit this summer, and they’ll all be staying at Timber Haven. Paige will absolutely adore hanging out with them.
Ginger rolls her eyes and huffs. “No. He canceled at the last minute.Again.” She’s irritated, but the look on Wren’s face tells me there is more to it.
“Aw, I’m sorry, Ginger. Have you talked to him about it?”
“Not since the last time. I will, though. Something is going on with him. I’m just not sure what,” she says and shakes her head.
I lean in so that my face fills the screen again. I don’t know much about Ginger and her ex, except that they split amicably. But something about this conversation feels private. “I’ll let you know if I have any problems with the website. I gotta go get the guest bed made up.”
Ginger waves goodbye, and I leave Wren on the couch to finish her conversation.
Chapter 3
Finnley
Six Months Ago
It’s dark in theroom when I open my eyes to the sound of a muffled voice. When I roll over and look at the clock, I realize it’s just after two a.m.
After bringing Paige home from the hospital this afternoon, Hudson was exhausted. He’s been a nervous wreck the last two days. Not that I can blame him. Having your six-year-old daughter collapse at school and be rushed to the hospital, only to be diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes would be scary for any parent.
It had taken some major convincing on my part to get him to lay down and take a nap when we’d finally arrived back at his condo. And after he’d settled Paige into her bed to rest, he’d ended up falling asleep on the couch watching a soccer match. Chances are, that nap is the reason he’s up now.
Settling back on my pillows, I try to fall back asleep, but the longer I lay there, the louder Hudson’s voice gets. He’s not yelling, but he’s normally so levelheaded that it has me sitting up in the dark, straining to hear who he could be talking to. I have a pretty good idea, and it has me gritting my teeth.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and shove them into the sweatpants I discarded when I climbed into bed hours ago. Crossing the room and cracking open the door, I step out and pad past Paige’s room. There’s a small lamp in the corner, illuminating the room with dim light, and I see she’s still tucked in tight, her face relaxed in sleep.
Continuing down the hallway, it’s quiet, but I can see the glow of Christmas lights from the living room spilling across the end of the hall. It’s then that I hear Hudson sigh. When he comes into view, I see he's sitting on the couch, with knees wide and elbows propped against them, and his phone pressed to his ear.
He must have gone to bed at some point because he’s changed out of the clothes he had on all day and swapped them for a pair of sweatpants. His chest and feet are bare. The Christmas tree is still lit in the corner, casting a glow over the room and bathing him in a golden light. It’s a strange contrast to the tension I can feel in the room.
“It’s the middle of the night, Tristen,” he says, raking a hand through his hair and settling back against the couch. Nothing gets under Hudson’s skin quite like his ex-wife. He’s quiet while she speaks on the other end of the phone.
“She’ssleeping.” He pauses and lets out another sigh. “Maybe if you made more of an effort to remember what time zone your daughter resides in, you’d know that.” His tone is snippy, but I can’t blame him. He's been trying to reach Tristen for two days with no luck. “No. I’m not waking her up. You can call back in the morning.”
As he explains Paige’s diagnosis to her, I stay in the shadow of the hallway. Not because I’m hiding, or because Hudson would be at all upset that I’m listening—he’ll likely tell me about the conversation in the morning, anyway—but because I suddenly can't seem to swallow over the lump in my throat as tears prick myeyes.
He sounds so tired, so worn down. I hate that for him. And I hate that Tristen is once again making something about her. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, but I can tell the careful façade he’s constructed to keep Paige calm is starting to crumble.
I know the kind of man my best friend is. He’s funny, kind, and warm; he would literally give anyone the shirt off his back. He’s a hard worker, a fantastic dad, and despite his ex-wife leaving him, he was a great husband. I should know, he is a stark contrast to my own jerk of an ex-husband. Plus, I’ve known him half my life. If anyone is a good judge of his character, it’s me.
Hudson would have done anything for Tristen. And I do meananything. Even selling his bar, uprooting their daughter, and moving to France for her so that she could pursue her dream to dance.
I’m the only one he told that he was willing to follow her. I’m the only one in his life that knows she turned him down. In the end, she said she wasn't in love with him and had maybe never been. The way I see it, he was a convenience to her, and after she got pregnant, their life together had become a burden. So, she left. The bitch.
That was almost three years ago. The fact that he hasn’t been able to reach her to tell her about Paige isn’t an isolated event. She’s bailed on Paige multiple times since their divorce, between promising to call and never following through, and planning trips to see her, but canceling last minute. Her disregard for time or her daughter’s personal needs is just the tip of the iceberg where Tristen Moorehouse is concerned.
