“You’re military, right?”
Hudson’s jaw tightens even more, his lips thin, and I can see his eyes flash with some emotion I can’t quite place. He looks almost grim. “That’s correct, but again, I must ask that all questions be directed towards Ms. Ar-”
“Right, yeah no, you said that. But the thing is, Mr. Banks, I don’t actually see anything about you anywhere.”
The Times or not, I have no idea what this guy is going on about. I step up to the mic ready to cut him off; “Excuse me, Marc, but I think we should move on to oth-”
“I’ve looked you up, Mr. Banks; public record and all that and I don’t see anything.”
Hudson’s face is white and drawn tight, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his breath; “I’m not sure what you’re implying-”
“Sir, I’m implying that there’s simply no record of you being in the U.S. Military.”
Hudson’s face goes dark, his lips thin, and the hushed murmur has barely begun to spread through the crowd before he turns and abruptly leaves the stage. Donald is smiling his showman smile as he steps to the mic and says something about no further questions, but I’m already rushing off after Hudson. He’s gone by the time I get backstage, and my heart sinks as his phone goes right to voicemail when I try calling his cell. Whatever happened back there hit him somewhere deep, and somewhere where his armor doesn’t protect him, and all I want to do is tell him I don’t care and that whatever it is I’m here for him.
Of course, I have to find him first, in order to tell him that though, wherever it is he’s gone to hide that he thinks is safe.
I freeze, and just like that, I know exactly where he is as I run out the backdoor and hail a cab.
23
Hudson
P A S T
“Shit, man.” Logan shakes his head and looks at the floor; “I’m sorry, brother; I’m real sorry to hear that.”
I’m not, though even I get that it would be weird to say that out loud.
“How-” He coughs uncomfortably; “Shit, sorry man, that that’s none of my-”
“Booze.” I shrug and look up at him with a wry grin; “Apparently what they say about apples and distances from trees is pretty spot on, huh?”
“You’re not your father, Hudson.” Bryce says quietly.
My father was mean, fall-down drunk who I stopped talking to the day after my high school graduation when I enlisted. The only reason I even know about the neighbors finding him is because of a Google alert I set up for my old hometown newspaper’s online obituary report. I know Bryce is right; I’m not my father, but it’s still this grim fucking reminder about mortality. Besides, the man I actually think of as any sort of actual Dad-figure in my life was the Old Man, and I’ve already grieved for that father.
For a weird, brief moment, I think about calling Reagan, even though I know that door is shut. I want to call her and tell her, and just talk to her about her Dad and Dads in general. I want to hear her voice, even just once more, but I know calling would be a useless venture.
“Do you wanna call someone? A sponsor maybe?”
I know Logan is being serious, but I laugh out loud anyways; “No, man. I’m good.”
P R E S E N T
I’m sitting in my living room, in the dark, staring at a bottle when the front desk buzzes up that she’s in the lobby, and I’m ashamed to say I almost pretend I’m not home before I finally grumble a confirmation into the phone.
I don’t turn when I hear her come in, not even when I hear her footsteps pause as she walks into the room. I just stare at the bottle of scotch sitting like some sort of monolith in front of me on the carved wood table.
“Are you ok?”
Her voice finally breaks the spell the amber liquid holds over me, and I turn to her, seeing the worry etched across her face; “That was nothing, back there, it was just-” I trail off and force a smile at her instead. I’m not comfortable feeling this exposed to her, knowing that the emotions and the baggage I usually cram down somewhere deep inside are threatening to rip me apart while she’s right in front of me, and the thought of that is almost more than I can stomach.
“Look, this is nothing,” I nod at the bottle; “I’m not going to actually open it or anything, I just- I don’t know, I just like to look at it sometimes. I guess it helps in some weird way when I can stare it in the face and know I’m not going to let it get to me.” I shrug as I look at her standing there in the doorway of the dark room, silhouetted by the low light from the kitchen behind her.