The Fixed Trilogy: Fixed on You(67)

I faced away from her as I toweled off, but I heard her take a seat in a deck chair behind me. “He doesn’t love you, you know?”

I’d heard her, but didn’t trust my ears. I turned to meet her narrow eyes. “Pardon me?”

“He can’t.” She swirled the liquid in her glass as she spoke, her tone laced with pain. “He’s incapable.”

Incapable. That was exactly what Hudson had said. Had it been his mother who had forced him to embrace such an idiotic idea about himself? The earlier hostility I’d felt toward her when I’d listened at the kitchen door returned and spilled like poison from my lips. “Maybe you’re projecting your own incapability of emotion.”

Her voice grew colder, but remained steady, in control. “Your words can’t touch me, Ms. Withers. This is my house, Hudson is my son. I’m the one in power here.”

“Fuck you.”

She smiled. “He’s had years of therapy. Extensive therapy.”

So have I. I threw my towel down and wrapped my robe around me, taking the time to make sure my tone was as level as hers when I spoke again. “He’s told me.”

“Has he? But he hasn’t shared the details.” She leaned forward, her eyes catching one of the outdoor lights, causing them to glow red. She couldn’t have looked nastier if she’d tried. “If he had, you’d know he can’t love anyone. He’s sociopathic. Diagnosed at age twenty.”

She surprised me, the lack of strength in my response telling her as much. “Hudson’s not a sociopath.” Was he?

“He’s deceitful and manipulative, egocentric, grandiose, glib and superficial. Incapable of remorse. He engages in casual and impersonal sexual relationships.” She ticked off traits easily, as if they always bubbled right there at the surface of her consciousness. “Look it up—he fits the definition to a tee. He has no concern for others’ feelings. He can’t love anyone.”

“I don’t believe that.” But my voice cracked.

“You’re extremely na?ve.”

“You’re an extreme bitch.” I gathered my towel in my arms and slipped on my flip-flops, needing to be away from her and her horrible accusations. But her words had already done their job. I doubted, and she knew it.

“He’s only with you for the sex.” She stood, blocking me from the path to the house. “You’re attractive.” Her eyes skidded down to my bosom. “And clearly his type. He seems to like f*cking buxom brunettes the most.”

I had nothing to say in my defense. He’d told me our relationship was only sex. I was aware enough of my obligations to my on-duty job, though, and I spoke as if we were a real couple. “If it was just sex, he’d never bring me to meet you.”

Her smile widened. “That’s an added bonus for him. He can rile me up and get his kicks with you all at once. It really has nothing to do with you. It’s about me and my son.” She took a step toward me, and it took all my strength not to cower. “You, Ms. Withers, are insignificant.”

I wanted to believe that I would have slapped her or pushed her into the pool—she deserved either, both really. But our confrontation was interrupted by Chandler and four other teenage boys boisterously entering the pool area, dressed in swim trunks and carrying towels.

“Mom?” Chandler said upon seeing his mother’s back. Sophia stepped aside and he met my eyes. “Laynie,” he said, surprised to see me or perhaps recognizing the stricken look that I must have worn. “I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

“Alayna and I were getting to know each other.” Sophia switched gears as easily as Hudson.

Chandler cocked a brow skeptically.

I used the boys’ intrusion to escape. “The pool’s all yours. I’m done here.” Without looking back, I hurried into the house through the kitchen and up to the east wing, not stopping until I was outside our bedroom doors.

Then the tears fell, thick and heavy. I leaned against the wall, and slid down to a sitting position, unable to stand in the weight of my grief. So many emotions and thoughts warred for top billing. Sophia’s insults had hurt, but what pained me most was the possibility that she was right.

What had I seen to show me differently? We’d had instances—Hudson and I—where I believed he truly cared, that he felt more for me than physical attraction, but had I imagined them? I had my own history of making meaningless moments carry heavier weight than they were meant to.

And her description of a sociopath did fit Hudson. I didn’t need to look up the definition—I’d been in enough group therapy sessions to be familiar with the signs. But I’d never associated Hudson with the definition until Sophia had pointed it out. Had I purposefully ignored the connection?

Or was Sophia wrong?

I’d had therapists misdiagnose me early on in my therapy. And Brian’s understanding of my problems was way off base. What if Hudson believed the worst about himself because Sophia had believed it? Maybe he’d never had a chance to prove her wrong.

Maybe that’s what I was—a chance.

The possibility calmed me, though I was smart enough to realize its improbability.

I wiped my face with my damp towel and pushed myself up from the ground. Taking a deep breath I pushed open the door as quietly as I could.