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?
Hudson: They have quite the appetite.
Sloane: That bad?
Hudson: Bring the bug repellent.
I considered sending something now.
Still coming?
Too uncertain.
Drive carefully.
Too parental.
I changed shirt twice for this.
Absolutely not.
I locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket. If she came, she came. She had said she would, and I was choosing to believe her.
It took me two tries to get the ATV started, and I drove the short distance to the hall with a crate of blankets secured behind me. The late-afternoon sun sat low enough to soften the property without losing its heat. By nightfall, the lawn would be cool, and the field behind the hall would turn dark enough for the projector.
We used the rear wall for movie nights because the surface was broad, pale, and mostly unobstructed, making it a perfect place to mount a large screen. My great-grandfather hadn’t built it with films in mind, but the pack had spent decades finding new uses for every part of the building, even the field.
When I arrived, Mom had already positioned the projector table. Julie was carrying trays between the kitchen and pavilion, wearing pink sneakers, white jeans, and an apron printed with tiny tubs of popcorn. That woman loved a good theme.
“You’re early,” she said when I carried the blankets past her.
“Thought you guys could use some help.”
She studied my face for a second. “You’re nervous.”
“What? I’m holding blankets.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I kept walking.
Julie followed. “Did you change clothes?”
“No.”
She gasped. “You did.”
“I regularly wear this.”
“Not when it’s seventy-three degrees.”
“It will get colder.” I dropped the crate near the hay bales. “Do you need help with the food?”
Julie smiled with entirely too much satisfaction. “I need nothing.”
I snorted. “That has never been true.”
“It is tonight.”
I walked to the seating area before she could continue. We had arranged hay bales in several loose rows, leaving enough space between them for blankets and lawn chairs. Some would complain that hay was itchy. Others would choose it over chairs for the experience. The littles would climb across it all regardless of its intended purpose.
I shifted two bales farther apart and checked the view toward the screen.
Byron appeared beside the projector table carrying a surge protector. “You need this.”
“I already have one.”
“Yours lacks appropriate protection against voltage fluctuation.” He placed the new one on the table. “Are you using the older HDMI adapter?”
“Yes.”
“It sometimes loses connection,” he said.
I didn’t remember that, but if Byron said it happened, it happened. I replaced the adapter. Byron nodded in satisfaction and walked away without thanking me for accepting his correction.
The family began arriving before setup was complete. They rarely waited for official start times. Start times were suggestions, and early arrival gave everyone more opportunity to comment on the preparation.
Grandma Ruth came first with Grandpa Alfonse and a bowl covered in foil.
Julie met them at the porch. “What did you bring?”
“Caramel corn.”
“We already have caramel corn.”
Grandma shrugged. “Now you have more.”
Grandpa Alfonse looked over at the rows of hay bales with deep suspicion. “If you think I’m putting a hundred-year-old spine onto prickle-grass to watch another ridiculous movie, you’ve lost your mind, Ruth. I want a real chair with a cushion.”
Grandma guided him toward a padded lawn chair near the front. “I’m putting you right here so you don’t complain about your back halfway through the film.”
“I don’t complain, I state facts,” Grandpa grumbled, settling into the cushion with a satisfied huff. “And tell Hudson to turn the volume up this time. Last movie night sounded like mice whispering in a shoebox.”
Several Carpenters arrived next. Mason carried a cooler while his girlfriend followed with blankets. Two Kipner cousins brought a speaker nobody had requested. More people gathered around the food tables, and Sloane’s name entered the conversation.
“Is she actually coming?” Mason asked.
“She said she was,” Patty replied.
“I still think she used to live in Oregon,” a Carpenter cousin said.
“Arizona,” Grandma Ruth corrected.
“France,” Grandpa Alfonse added.
Everyone turned toward him. Grandma patted his arm. “That was the exchange program.”
“There was no exchange program,” Mom said while checking the sound equipment.
Grandma looked offended. “You were young.”
“I was an adult.”
“Younger than now.”
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