Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,90

would have thrown my entire sweet tea at him a long time ago.

“You tell me,” I say, ripping open the wet nap Delfina always puts in the basket along with her ribs. I begin wiping my hands, the sterile smell invading my nose.

“I mean I only know what my research tells me. But judging from the cartoonish steam coming from your ears right now, I’m either right on the money or need to shut up. Probably a combination.”

“Or you’re just being a dick,” I say.

“Well, that’s a given. I mean, if I may be so bold, what I found was even in those cases where the relationship was strained, it’s the day-to-day stuff. That startling moment when your guard is down, which usually happens in a grocery store or sitting on the toilet, when you realize, tragically, that someone is gone. Like, off the face of the earth gone. Never gonna come back—”

“All right. Enough,” I say, my breath quickening.

“Queenie, you’ve been through some real shit here.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Oh, I know you know it. That sounds ridiculous . . . I know you know it, but it sounds like, and this could be total bullshit Psychology 101 and the fact that everyone in California—including me—has been in therapy forever, so you can take what I have to say or leave it—” Hudson collects himself. He continues, “You’re strong, Queenie. That’s clear. I just hope you will also allow yourself to be—” Hudson stops. Thinks. He sits back in his chair. I’m not breathing. I haven’t taken a breath in minutes. His eyes search the heavens and he runs his hand through his hair, the shampoo wafting over the smell of barbecue, fresh and clean. “I just hope you allow yourself to be affected. Got to, if that makes any sense . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Vulnerable,” I whisper.

“Vulnerable,” Hudson repeats, nodding.

“If I may be so bold,” I say.

“Please.”

“These ‘subjects’ you speak of so cavalierly, they’re people. Not data. You might want to curb your utter joy at their falling apart because it backs up your theory,” I say, balling up my wet nap and throwing it on the table.

“I’m sorry. I went too far.”

“I’m sure you do that a lot.”

“I’ve been known to in the past, yes.”

“I love that you’re passionate about what you do, but you don’t get to automatically know that shit about me just because you studied it at some fancy school.”

“You’re right. Shit, I’m sorry.” Hudson settles himself in his chair, and even through my spiraling rage at his lack of boundaries, I can see him struggling to make this right.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You need to tell me one thing about yourself that you have never told anyone. Then we’re square,” I say, my voice softening. Hudson looks away and just lights up. Relieved. He nods and sits back in his chair. Thinking. A smile every now and again, some more devious than others. He leans forward.

“So . . . this is . . . okay, no. I deserve this. Okay . . . so when I was younger . . . see my eyebrows—” Hudson leans over the table and stares directly into my eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that set off the black hair and eyebrows were one of the first things I noticed about him. It’s hilarious—and probably a ruse—to think he doesn’t know that.

“Yes, I see your eyebrows and this better get a lot juicier than just something about your eyebrows,” I say, having to look away. Damn.

“When I was younger—they’re thick, right? And like super black and I’m pale and the brow just went all the way across. Total unibrow. It was terrible. And at the time, I thought there was nothing I could do. I knew it looked bad, the other kids made fun of me relentlessly. It was a testament to the academic excellence of the boarding schools I went to that the insults were so unendingly imaginative. A lot of Neanderthal jokes, which would inevitably lead to the whole Homo erectus pantheon of options, whole dialogues about evolution and how I’d clearly been skipped, I mean . . . it was—” Hudson stops and just shakes his head. He continues, “I finally met this girl, and after a few months of what I thought was flirting, she leans over one night—and you know, I think I’m going to kiss her, and she says, ‘You know, I have a great waxer.’ And