Page 49 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

WREN

The inside of the truck is painfully quiet as we sail down the highway, leaving the coast and heading back to Heartwood. We didn’t say much to each other all morning either, just groggily headed down to a café and grabbed some much-needed caffeine to get us through the first bit of the drive.

Now I’ve got Hudson’s truck on cruise control, and it’s smooth sailing through the flat expanse of farmland in the valley leaving Vancouver. I offered to drive because he was tired this morning.

The air is tense between Hudson and me. We left things on weird terms last night, both of us knowing we’re at a pivotal moment in our relationship, trying to figure out how this is going to play out for the long term.

Though neither of us wanted to address it.

We dropped the conversation and reverted to our default setting, playing games, egging each other on.

I don’t want this to be over between Hudson and me.

The thought of it is heart-wrenching, and I feel almost sick.

It’s been so good between us these last weeks.

There’s nothing wrong with how Hudson and I get along, how we complement each other’s personalities.

We’re so compatible sometimes I forget he’s a different person. It feels like he’s an extension of me.

It’s life that gets in the way. And Hudson has a point. I don’t know if we’ve fully addressed all the obstacles and challenges we have to figure out, or all the ways the ghosts from our past could come back to haunt us.

We stopped in at my apartment this morning before hitting the road. I wanted to pick up some more of my belongings, but I could tell he was uncomfortable there. Like he was realizing how different our lives had become.

I turn to look at him, watching the passing fields out the passenger window.

“Are you okay, babe? We’ve been driving for two hours and you haven’t pointed out the window and said ‘cows,’” I joke, trying to ease the tension between us. Hudson doesn’t react the way I’m hoping he will. He rests his head back on the headrest and closes his eyes.

“I’m just tired,” he says. “And I’m feeling run down today. I don’t know. I don’t think the sushi agreed with me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much in one sitting.”

Come to think of it, there’s something a little off about his colour.

He looks almost … green. I’m starting to regret challenging him to a sushi eating contest. I thought instigating a friendly competition at dinner last night might ease the tension between us, but now I’m not so sure it helped the situation .

“Well, only eight hours to go before we’re home.” This is going to be a long drive.

Another hour later, I catch Hudson clutching his stomach.

Another hour after that, he asks me to pull over, and he vomits all over the side of the road.

With every passing hour, he becomes more and more ill.

But each town we pass with a hospital, Hudson refuses to go in.

He’s hated hospitals ever since he was a kid, having spent so much time with his mother there.

Losing her to cancer was traumatic for him, and I don’t know if he’s set foot in a hospital since.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” I say, anxiously chewing my lip, one hand on the steering wheel, and my foot fixed on the gas. I’ve spent the last hour doing almost twenty over the speed limit.

Nearly all the colour has drained from Hudson’s face when I look over at him. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead and the circles under his eyes are sunken and dark.

I’m not a medical professional by any means, but even I can tell this isn’t good. I reach over and lay my hand on his forehead. He’s burning up.

“No. No hospital. I just want to get home.” Hudson’s voice comes out slurred, like he has a mouth full of marbles. He covers his mouth with his hand. He’s gagging. Oh God. I glance up at the rearview mirror. We’re alone on the highway right now.

“Do you need to pull over again?” I ask, and as a response, Hudson retches into his hand. A close call. Vomit is the last thing I need all over the truck in the heat of summer, with nothing to clean it out.

Flicking on my turn signal, I no sooner stop the car on the shoulder and Hudson flings the door open, leaning out the passenger side, vomiting into the bushes.

I reach over and rub his back, anything to feel useful right now, wanting to comfort him. I think back to the day I was so hungover, how I didn’t want Hudson to see me sick or weak. And now, I don’t care if he’s puking and sweaty, all I care about is him.

My mind races through potential things that could be making him so unwell.

I’ve heard my sister talk about appendicitis?

She sees a lot of it in the emergency department.

It usually comes with belly pain and a fever.

Food poisoning? I felt queasy after dinner last night, but I think that had to do with our conversation, and the difficult ones that are waiting for us when we get home.

Whatever it is, Hudson finally gets some reprieve, for now, and he closes his door, slumping with his face pressed against the cool glass of the window.

“Are you okay if I keep driving?”

A nod. His eyes are closed, and his usual olive complexion is so, so pale.

I shift into drive and get back on the highway.

We have to stop another three times in the next forty-five minutes, so the drive is painfully slow, but we pass a mileage sign telling me Heartwood is 135 kilometres away.

That puts us there in about another hour and a half, closer to an hour if I speed.

I glance over at him and find him still slumped against the window.

Anxiety knots my stomach as I quickly check he’s still breathing.

He is, but his skin is a deathly shade of white and sweat is starting to soak through his light blue T-shirt.

Hudson said no hospitals, but he needs help. I can’t sit here and watch him like this any longer. As much as I hate what I’m about to do, I hit a couple buttons on the car display and reroute us.