“Of course it is.”
I walked away before she had a chance to bring up some random grievance.
The collection of explanations remained absurd and contradictory. Still, every version agreed on one important point: Sloane wasn’t related to me.
It shouldn’t have given me such a wonderful feeling of victory, but it sure as hell did.
Our private messages changed after that, though I doubted Sloane noticed why. I stopped measuring every response, allowing myself to answer whenever I wanted rather than waiting several minutes to appear normal. Admittedly, that was a rather ridiculous strategy to begin with.
She shared pieces of her life with me, like her graphic design job and how her parents were distant. We talked throughout the day in pieces. A photograph here. A message there. Sometimes hours passed between responses. Other times, a short exchange turned into an entire evening without either of us acknowledging the late hour.
She sent me a picture of a client brief requesting a design that felt “nostalgic for the future.”
Sloane: I may need to change careers.
Hudson: What careers are you considering?
Sloane: Shepherd. Lighthouse keeper. Mysterious woman who owns an antique store and knows everyone’s secrets.
Hudson: The third seems competitive.
Sloane: I have very little retail experience, but I’m excellent at mysterious silences.
Hudson: I don’t believe that for a second.
Sloane: You’ve never met me.
Hudson: You send long arguments about menu typography.
Sloane: Typography matters.
Hudson: I know. You explained it for forty minutes.
Sloane: And you’re welcome.
She was funny but not in a performative way. Her humor came sideways, buried inside observations she seemed to think were obvious. Sometimes I caught myself rereading messages because I liked the rhythm of her mind.
Several days after my investigation into our nonexistent blood relationship, she asked why I had disappeared from the chat most of the afternoon.
I’d been dealing with a broken water line at one of the Carpenter houses, then I’d mediated an argument between two teenagers over access to a running trail. After that, I’d had to sort out Grandma Ruth’s washing machine, because it had started making loud banging noises, and she was sure it was trying to communicate with her.
In a way, it had. The error code flashing on the small screen indicated an unbalanced load.
Hudson: Busy day.
Sloane: Define busy.
Hudson: Plumbing, conflict mediation, appliance interpretation.
Sloane: I’m sorry, appliance interpretation?
Hudson: Grandma Ruth’s washing machine was blinking.
Sloane: What did it say?
Hudson: Start washing one blanket at a time, not twelve.
Sloane: Did she accept the translation?
Hudson: She said machines have become judgmental.
Three dots appeared, disappeared. It was a while before they returned, as if she was hesitating to send what she was typing.
Sloane: Do people always call you first?
Nobody had ever asked me that. People noticed that I helped and thanked me. Sometimes they apologized for needing something, though usually only after I’d already solved the problem.
Hudson: Usually.
Sloane: Do you like that?
My first response formed automatically. Of course. I took pride in it. Being useful mattered. The pack needed reliability.
Eventually, my mother would retire, and the pack needed to trust that their leader would be there when needed.
All of that was true.
It wasn’t the whole truth.
Hudson: Most of the time.
Sloane: And the rest?
I rubbed my thumb over the side of the phone.
Sloane was Loany. The woman who had spent years traveling alone, avoiding pack life, existing outside all the obligations I’d accepted. In my mind, she belonged to temporary places, and she had a freedom I couldn’t imagine claiming for myself.
I expected her to tell me to stop complaining. Or to say I had chosen the responsibility. Both would have been fair.
Hudson: Sometimes I get tired of being the first number everyone calls.
The message sat there. I almost deleted it, though she had already seen it.
Sloane: That makes sense.
I waited. When nothing more came, I typed: Hudson: That’s it?
Sloane: Were you expecting a lecture?
Hudson: Maybe.
Sloane: About what?
Hudson: Duty. Responsibility. Appreciating that people trust me.
Sloane: You can appreciate being trusted and still feel exhausted by what everyone does with that trust.
I read the sentence twice.
Hudson: People need help.
Sloane: Yes.
Hudson: If I can provide it, I should.
Sloane: Maybe.
Hudson: You’re very supportive.
Sloane: I’m trying not to insult your entire belief system.
I laughed under my breath.
Sloane: My point is… helping people doesn’t make you immune to being overwhelmed.
Hudson: I’m not overwhelmed.
The lie looked weak even on the screen. She didn’t call me out, though, which I appreciated.
Sloane: Okay, I invoice people for typography. But you’re out here playing emergency dispatch. What is your actual day job, Hudson? Or are you just a full-time vigilante savior?
Hudson: Property management and community logistics, mostly. Plus, as the future alpha, I’m expected to know every square inch of our land and keep the peace before my mom officially hands over the reins. So, I handle the maintenance, contractor scheduling, zoning issues, and whatever structural crises pop up.
Sloane: Future alpha? Wow, look at you giving corporate-monarchy titles to neighborhood board duties. So, you’re a landlord with a savior complex and an aristocratic title.
Hudson: I prefer the term proactive custodian.
She’d been away from the pack for so long, she didn’t know the version of me who’d been raised to inherit leadership. She didn’t understand the weight attached to my surname or the expectations people had had for me since childhood.
The next afternoon, she asked if there was anything she could do to help. The message came through after a cousin returned my jumper cables because they’d borrowed them from the person I had originally helped.
Hudson: With what?
Sloane: The overwhelming parts.
Hudson: Do you know anything about water lines or wildlife zoning?
Sloane: No, but I’m a fast learner.
I leaned against the truck door.
Hudson: I don’t think there’s anything you can do from wherever you are.
That answer bothered me after I sent it. It was practical. Still, wherever you are emphasized something strange about our relationship. We communicated every day, yet I couldn’t picture her surroundings. I didn’t know what town or state she was in, what her home looked like, or the places she visited in her day-to-day life.
I had a profile icon and a name. And an ever-increasing log of messages that were starting to mean far too much to me.
Sloane: I could check on you.
Hudson: You already do.
Sloane: No, I mean deliberately.
Hudson: That sounds ominous.
Sloane: Daily reminders to eat, drink water, take a break. You know, basic maintenance of the Hudson machine.
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