A surprised laugh escapes me, something light and unsteady. “No, I guess he doesn’t.”
I exhale, studying his face, the way he’s still rolling all of this around in his head. I reach for his hand, running my thumb across his knuckles the way I used to when he was little. “I know this is a lot.”
Hudson shrugs, his eyes flicking away. “Yeah.”
I squeeze his hand gently. “What do you think about it all? How are you doing?”
He shrugs again, but this time, it’s slower. More thoughtful. He’s quiet for a long stretch, and I let him be. Let him sit with it, let him figure out what he actually wants to say. Finally, he shifts in his seat, scratching the back of his head before meeting my gaze again.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s weird, I guess.” He pauses, picking at a stray thread on the table runner. “I mean, I never thought about having a dad before. Not really.” He glances up at me. “It’s always just been us,you know?”
I nod, my throat tightening. “I know.”
He looks back down, still picking at the tablecloth. “So I guess it’s just…a lot to wrap my head around.”
I exhale softly, reaching for my water glass, taking a slow sip to steady myself. “I get that.” And I do. God, do I. “And you don’t have to figure out how you feel all at once, okay? There’s no right or wrong way to feel about this.”
Hudson nods, but I can see the wheels still turning in his head. He’s chewing on this, dissecting it in that quiet, careful way of his.
A beat of silence.
Then—“What if I don’t like him?” His voice is small, hesitant.
I blink at him, surprised, my chest aching at the uncertainty in his tone. “Then you don’t like him,” I say simply. “And that’s okay.”
His brow furrows. “Yeah, but…what if he doesn’t like me?”
The question guts me. I feel it in my ribs, in my heart, in every single cell of my body. I reach across the table and cup his cheek, making him look at me.
“Hudson,” I say, my voice firm but gentle. “That is not going to happen.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer before nodding, but I don’t think he fully believes me yet.
I tilt his chin up a little more, making sure he’s really hearing me. “Anyone who doesn’t like you is a damn fool, Hudson.”
He smirks. “You always say I can’t say that word.”
I arch a brow. “Well, I can say it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“When you turn thirty-five, you can say it.”
He snorts at that, shaking his head, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. “You’re not even thirty-five.”
“Damn straight. I still got some youth left in me. Now, go take a shower before dinner,” I tell him, ruffling his hair as I stand.
“Fine, fine,” he says, dragging himself up from the chair. He heads for the stairs, pausing on the first step. “But if you’re making crap withvegetables, I’m gonna complain.”
I roll my eyes. “Go.”
I listen for the sound of the bathroom door closing upstairs before blowing out a long breath, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples.
Jesus. Okay. That could’ve gone worse. I glance at the clock.
Shit. How is it already this late?
I rush through the kitchen, wiping down the counters, straightening up the stack of mail I keep meaning to go through. I swap out the hand towels, light a candle, then check on the chicken parm baking in the oven. Hudson’s favorite. I even made the garlic bread from scratch because, if nothing else, at least dinner can be something easy tonight. Something good.
