Byron: This equation is wrong.
A photograph followed.
The problem involved two cyclists leaving different towns at different speeds, because math textbooks were committed to creating unnecessary transportation emergencies.
Hudson: It isn’t wrong.
Byron: Then why doesn’t my answer match?
Hudson: Because you distributed the negative incorrectly.
Byron: I didn’t.
Mason: You did.
Byron: Nobody asked you.
Another photograph appeared, this time showing Mason’s handwritten attempt. He had made it farther than Byron but complicated the equation by introducing an extra variable.
I recognized the error, which surprised me. I hadn’t taken algebra in years, but the solution returned from whatever highly organized storage unit in my brain still held standardized testing material.
Sloane: You don’t need the second variable. Combine the travel time first, then solve for the distance.
Byron: Oh.
Mason: She’s correct.
Byron: Again, nobody asked you.
Hudson: Thank you.
Hudson: I was making that harder than it needed to be.
Sloane: That’s a legitimate problem-solving strategy. Exhaust every complicated option until simplicity feels earned.
Hudson: I’ve built most of my life around that principle.
I smiled at the screen.
When Byron sent a follow-up question, I answered it.
The conversation should have ended after I explained the final step. It didn’t. Suddenly, Hudson and I were in a private chat.
Hudson: I appreciate the algebra help. My brain cells haven’t had to look at a matrix since high school.
Sloane: Same. It’s a miracle those neural pathways didn’t completely wither away over the last decade.
Hudson: Right? There should be a law that once you hit twenty-eight, high school math is legally scrubbed from your record.
Sloane: Twenty-eight? Please, I’m twenty-six and I’ve already filed a motion to have it expelled.
Sloane: My parents believed forgetting academic material was a moral failure.
Hudson: That sounds relaxing.
Sloane: Extremely. Childhood was one long spa treatment.
Hudson: Did the spa include timed tests?
Sloane: And emotional withholding.
The message looked too honest once it had been sent. I immediately regretted it.
Hudson took nearly a minute to respond.
Hudson: I’m sorry.
There was no joke attached. No attempt to explain my own family to me or make the moment more comfortable.
My stomach twisted.
Sloane: They weren’t terrible. Just very achievement-oriented.
Hudson: Those things can both be true.
My parents weren’t cruel. I had said that to myself for years, usually after describing something that made other people’s expressions change in a way that made me realize my experiences growing up may not have been the standard. There had always been an invisible requirement attached: if they weren’t terrible, then I had no right to be hurt.
Sloane: You’re good at helping with homework.
Hudson: That was a graceful subject change.
Sloane: Thank you. I’ve had much practice.
Hudson: I help my brothers when I can.
Sloane: How many do you have?
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that. Wouldn’t Loany know all the family members? If Hudson remembered the real Loany, and they’d had any type of interaction over the years, surely she’d know how many brothers Hudson had.
I closed my eyes and prayed to the gods that Loany was truly as distant as everyone had described.
Hudson: Three. Byron, Jason, and Caldwell. Officially Stathem-Blackwells since Julie’s their mom.
I let out a long sigh. Praise be.
Sloane: I’ve identified Byron. He’s the one who treats every conversation as a formal peer review, right?
Hudson: Correct. He’s sixteen and smart as a whip. Some kids call him a nerd, but he cuts to the heart with his dry wit.
I giggled. I could appreciate dry wit at such a young age. In my opinion, being quick-witted was always a sign of higher intelligence.
Sloane: And Caldwell draws?
I remembered seeing Julie post a drawing a few days prior that showed a boy high in a tree.
There was a longer pause this time.
Hudson: He does.
Sloane: His tree picture was beautiful.
Hudson: He’d like hearing that.
I wanted to ask why Hudson’s answers felt more careful when he discussed Caldwell, but the question seemed too personal.
Sloane: Caldwell might have a future in graphic design like me.
Crap, I’d mentioned my profession before thinking. Again, I immediately regretted it. Surely the family knew what Loany did for a living. And what were the chances that she was also a graphic designer?
I was surely fucked.
Hudson: Maybe. Great job on that garage sale flyer, by the way. You’re really talented.
Sloane: Oh, thanks. I appreciate that.
Instead of giving myself the opportunity to accidentally expose myself as an imposter again, I asked whether Byron understood the homework now. Hudson sent a photograph of the completed page. The edge of a hand appeared in the frame, broad fingers holding the paper against a wooden table.
That was the first physical piece of him I’d seen close up and in focus.
A hand. It shouldn’t have meant anything, shouldn’t have caused a flutter inside me to realize that the hand looked like it belonged to someone younger than I’d pegged Hudson.
My stomach reacted anyway.
Ridiculous.
Hudson: He says he understood it before either of us interfered.
Sloane: Of course he did.
Hudson: He would also like you to know he could defeat both of us physically if it came down to it.
Sloane: Is that part of the math curriculum?
Hudson: It is in this house.
I laughed quietly at my desk.
In the wake of this camaraderie, the client email open on my monitor became less irritating. We texted back and forth for another forty minutes, discussing bad school assignments and the fact that Hudson carried spare jumper cables for other people. He claimed this was normal. I told him it was evidence of a hero complex. He said he preferred competent preparedness. I pointed out that competent people were often the first ones drafted into everyone else’s disasters.
When we said goodbye, I sat looking at the screen with an embarrassing smile on my face. Butterflies had taken up residence beneath my ribs, which was completely absurd.
I didn’t know this man. I didn’t know what he looked like, how tall he was, whether he chewed loudly, or if he used decorative pillows for their intended purpose. He could have terrible teeth. He could own a sword for non-historical reasons. He could say expresso, God forbid.
None of that stopped me from checking our private chat before bed. When I woke up. In far too many of my free moments.
Over the following week, messages accumulated.
Hudson sent me a photograph of the tiny gear key chain Trevor had made for him. I sent him a client logo featuring an anatomically confusing bird. He asked whether I had eaten lunch one afternoon after I mentioned working through it. I lied and said yes, then felt guilty enough to make toast.
Patty sent me fan art and invited me into an argument about fictional villains.
THE PACK remained active from morning until night.
I’d gone from speaking almost exclusively to clients and occasionally my parents to managing three separate streams of regular human interaction. Some days, the notifications overwhelmed me, and I muted everything for an hour or two. Nobody punished me for disappearing. When I returned, the conversation continued without anyone demanding an explanation.
The chat was almost always open on my phone. I ate dinner while reading arguments about whether Grandpa Alfonse should be allowed to use a leaf blower without supervision. I took my phone into the kitchen while baking another batch of cupcakes and sent a picture when Julie asked what everyone was making for dinner.
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