I realize I’ve been zoning out again as I hear Chet’s horrible little weasel laugh.
“So I say, that’s how you putt a par-three, baby!” Donald erupts in laughter right along with him, and even Reagan is humoring him with a smile; the kind of smile I’ve barely seen tossed my way in days.
“Am I right, Hudson?” Chet winks at me; “Yeah this guy knows what I’m talking about!”
I have no fucking idea in the world what he’s talking about.
“Hey so Hudson, remind me what it is you do over at Archer Holdings? You were a fighter pilot or something, right? Currahee!” Chet pumps his fist in the air like he’s at a football game or something.
Seriously, punching this asshole in the face right here and right now would be an act of mercy.
“I was a Marine, actually. And Currahee is the 101st Airborne; Army.”
Reagan gives me a look, and I begrudgingly plaster a nicer, totally disingenuous look on my face; “I make sure the money flows in the right direction at Archer and just pretty much fix problems.”
Chet grins and elbow’s me in the arm like we’re buddies; “Fix things, huh? So, you think you can fix this girl’s phone so she can call me back sometime?” Chet laughs hysterically at his own joke, with Donald right there with him clapping him on the back.
No, but I can fix how fucking straight your teeth are in about five seconds, dickwad.
But Reagan is laughing too, even though I know she can’t stand this clown either. She’s touching his arm and leaning into him, and I wince as a photographer flashes a quick shot of the two of them like that which I’m sure will end up on some stupid blog somewhere involving “romance on the campaign trail” or some other bullshit that Donald and Erika cook up.
I want to hate all of this; all the fucking pageantry and the concocted narratives, and I definitely want to hate Reagan having her picture taken with this fucking guy. But deep down, I get it. I look around at the college volunteers clearing chairs from the front lawn; I see the campaign posters with her face on them, and the boxes of buttons and t-shirts with her name emblazoned across them, and I get it. Chet’s obnoxious, and vanilla, and a total talking head, but he fits the part. This is who she should be with, I think darkly to myself; not some fucked up broken toy soldier like me, with all the shit I’m still carrying around on my shoulders. This girl is fucking incredible, but her being with a guy like this just makes sense, and I’m fucking delusional to think otherwise.
She laughs again at something stupid he says - the sound so perfect and so pure and good - and I can’t; I’m just done.
I’m barely aware of Donald asking me where I’m going as I just walk away; away from the lights and the camera and Reagan and Chet.
Chapter Fourteen
Reagan
P A S T
I’m still trying to breath; still trying to get my racing heart to calm down enough for it to drop out of my throat and back into my chest where it belongs, even five minutes after he went back inside. I just kissed Hudson; I mean, holy shit. And not just any old “kiss” either; not some chaste princess-movie kiss, but a searing-hot, gravity-defying kiss that still has me grinning like an idiot and trying to feel the floor beneath my feet. Or did he kiss me? Does it matter? Does anything else in the world matter right now after that?
Ten minutes after, I’ve calmed myself a little more, but I’m biting my lip nervously as I start to wonder about what comes next. I mean am I really going to do this with him? I mean it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything; well, not technically at least. That dubious technicality involves a spectacularly brief encounter with my date to senior prom. But this is Hudson we’re talking about; Hudson with the dangerously charming smile, Hudson with the practically legendary history of women trailing after him. I’ve been drinking, but I’m hardly drunk anymore; maybe from that kiss, but not from wine. But I’m worried now that there was a boldness and a confidence in me that I’m not used to when I pretty much dragged him up here, and now I’m starting to wonder how much longer that boldness is going to last me without his lips on mine.
Fifteen minutes after he went inside, I decide I can’t just stand here out on the terrace tapping my feet, so I find myself walking back into the house. He’s not in Quinn’s room, not where I told him to look for condoms, and he’s not in mine, where I’m secretly hoping to find him waiting for me. Walking back downstairs is like slowly re-immersing myself into reality, as the shadowy murmuring sounds of family and mourners sucks me back into the now. I’m scanning the room for him, thinking maybe he got drawn back down for some sort of emergency or to help someone, but I’m still not seeing him.