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A small, reckless smile broke across my face before I could stop it. “You know what?” I said, my heart hammering. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

9

HUDSON

NOBODY CAN ACCUSE A HOODIE OF AMBITION

I had never stood in front of my closet and wondered what my clothes said about me before.

Most mornings, I made decisions based on weather, work, and whether I expected to end up under the hood of someone’s truck. Jeans worked for most situations. T-shirts worked until winter, when I switched them out for long-sleeved shirts and heavy sweaters. Boots were useful in all conditions except weddings, because Julie had informed me they sent the wrong message.

I hadn’t realized footwear communicated anything at all.

Now, I stood in my bedroom holding two nearly identical shirts and considering whether one of them suggested I had put in effort. Utterly ridiculous.

It was movie night, not a date.

Sloane would be there, sure, but so would half the pack, several children, Grandma Ruth, Aunt Karen, my mom and stepmom, and whatever food Julie had decided a projected film required. There would be no privacy, and there was a strong possibility that someone would spill popcorn on me before the opening credits.

Still, I changed shirts twice.

The dark gray one fit better, which made it feel too intentional. The blue one had a small paint stain near the hem, which made it look as though I didn’t care how I looked.

I folded both and put them back in my closet.

A hooded sweatshirt and jeans made sense. The temperature would drop once the sun disappeared, and nobody could accuse a hoodie of being overly ambitious.

I pulled it on and studied myself in the mirror. I looked exactly the way I usually did. Great.

My phone sat on the dresser. I picked it up, then felt a quick drop of disappointment when the screen showed only messages from the main group chat.

Sloane and I had texted less than usual this past week.

She had spent most of Monday handling a client who changed the entire direction of a project after approving the final draft. Tuesday disappeared into revisions. I had been occupied with the council on the Millstone development proposal and two pack members arguing over access to storage space.

We still checked in with each other. She reminded me to eat lunch. I asked whether she had eaten breakfast. She sent me a photograph of toast with one corner burned black and asked if I could see the resemblance to Elvis in the scorch mark.

I sent her a picture of a bowl of chili Julie made and received the response:

Sloane: Are you eating dinner or disposing of hazardous waste?

Hudson: It’s chili.

Sloane: I hate to break it to you, but that color doesn’t exist in nature. It looks like it’s actively plotting to set your esophagus on fire.

The same ease remained between us, but I missed our longer conversations.

Seeing her at the reunion had made every private exchange feel more real. I knew what happened to her face before she laughed. I could picture the small crease between her eyebrows when she was worried she had said too much. I could still see the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks when the light caught her the right way. I knew she moved her hands when she told a story and looked away when a compliment took her by surprise.

She had been more beautiful than anything I’d constructed in my head, but that was only part of it.

She had fit. Not perfectly, of course. There had been moments when she seemed uncertain or withdrew into herself, though that made sense after years away. Still, she had sat on the floor with Caldwell, laughed with Patty, handled Trevor without encouraging him toward property damage, and survived Grandma Ruth’s inspection of her in public.

The fact that she’d agreed to come to movie night had to be a good sign.

I opened our text thread. The last message was from the previous night.

Sloane: Should I coat myself in bug spray tomorrow, or am I about to be the primary concession stand for the local mosquito population?