It’s How I Know You’re … Uh … Awesome
“So for every correct flash card, I’ll take off an article of clothing,” Hudson said as we sat at opposite ends of my bed, needing as much space between us as possible.
“No deal.” I shook my head. He was right, studying in my room was way more relaxing than the quiet room had ever been. It was a good idea, but suggesting he remove an article of clothing for every correct answer? That was a terrible idea that would end with little to no studying.
“Okay, so then I’ll just take my clothes off now.” He moved to pull his shirt over his head.
“Stop, Hudson, I seriously need to study,” I whined.
He dropped the hem of his shirt with a pout, but pulled his beanie off instead. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it.
“Less pouting, more helping.”
“Less helping, more kissing?” he suggested.
“Some tutor you are,” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “Good thing I’m your only toot-tee; I’d feel bad for anyone else who had to endure this kind of treatment just to learn something.”
“Come here so I can learn you a thing or two.” He opened his arms to me like he had when we were on the couch at the party.
“About French?” I asked.
“Yes, definitely about French.”
I groaned as I flopped onto my back. “I’m gonna fail this midterm, and it’s going to be all your fault.”
“Awww,” he said as he crawled over everything scattered across my bed. He propped himself up over me on his forearms, his hands on either side of my head, holding my face. “You aren’t going to fail the midterm.”
“I am, though.” I covered my face with both hands.
“You know way more than you are giving yourself credit for, you know that, right?” He nosed at my hands.
I pulled my hands from my face. “I really don’t, though.”
“That’s better,” he said as he looked into my eyes.
“Wes?”
“Yes?” He hummed as he ran his thumb over my bottom lip. His eyes on my mouth.
“If you don’t get off me and help me study like a good TA, you are never, ever touching my Ts or A again.”
“Well, now that certainly is something.” He listed his head as he brushed my hair away from my face and behind my ear.
“It certainly is.”
“Can we talk about the whole ‘figuring things out later’ thing?” I asked. Every minute I spent with Hudson I felt like I was slipping further and further into the relationship zone.
Hudson shifted, rolling onto his side, his back pressed into the wall. “Sure,” he said, folding my pillow in half under his head. “It’s all figured out.”
“Oh-kay…,” I said, holding out the word. “Do you mind elaborating on that?”
He skimmed his thumb against my forehead, smoothing out the lines. “Can we just agree to keep things as they are at the moment?”
“And how are things at the moment?”
“This. Us.”
I nodded. Us. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He smiled.
I nodded again. “Want to meet me at the shop on Friday? I can show you what I’ve been working on.”
“I’m going home on Friday,” he said.
“You’re going to be gone for a whole weekend?”
“I’ll be back on Sunday.”
“But—”
“It’ll be all right.” He lifted his arm, and I scooted into him. “And then you can show me all the things you’ve ever worked on.”
I laughed. “Be careful what you wish for.” I traced the letters on his shirt with my fingertip: I’M NOT YELLING, I’M GERMAN. “And thanks for caring.”
“Pas de problème!”
“No problem,” I translated as I continued to trace the letters.
“Je vais te manquer ce week-end?” he asked.
“Te manquer. Te manquer.” I repeated the word I didn’t know, my eyes on his shirt. I got the I will and weekend, but not the rest. “C’est quoi, ‘te manquer’?” I asked, looking up at him.
Hudson’s chest moved as he laughed lightly.
“C’est quoi, ‘te manquer’?” he repeated. “Tu vas me manquer is how I feel every time we’re apart.…” He paused for a moment.
I bit at my bottom lip as I waited for him to continue trying to decode his words, pulling from all the French I could remember.
“It’s how I know you’re … awesome.”
“Awww, you think I’m awesome?” I asked, poking him in the side. “Thank you so, so much.”
He pushed himself to sitting to avoid another poke, retreating to the end of the bed.
“It’s true, I do think you’re awesome,” he said with a shrug.
I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. “Oh, well, then, tell me more,” I teased.
He pulled a small stack of index cards from his bag and waved them at me. “First, I made these especially for you.”
“Special index cards? That’s so … awesome of you.” I put my arms up to protect myself from a pillow sailing toward my head. “You’re so awesome at throwing pillows. I can’t wait to see these awesome new flash cards.”
“Génial,” Hudson said, tapping the stack of index cards against his palm. “Awesome.”
“Génial,” I repeated. “Great, now you can tell me how awesome I am in two languages.”
He pointed the index cards at me, an eyebrow quirked as a smirk played across his lips. He cleared his throat as he sat up straight, tapping the stack against his palm again. I sat up straight, mirroring him.
He held up the first card. Avant-garde.
I clapped my hands, dropping my knees and crossing my legs. I leaned my elbows onto my thighs. “Avant-garde: when one introduces an unusual idea or something experimental in fashion or the arts.”
“Très bien.” He flipped to the next card. Boutique.
I listed my head with a sigh. “A shop or store.” That was an easy one.
Chartreuse.
“A shade of green. Yellowish green.” I scrunched my nose. “Not a favorite of mine.”
Minaudière.
“An adorable clutch,” I said, watching Hudson’s eyebrow quirk. “A clutch, you know, like a little handbag you would bring to a fancy party.”
He smiled and flipped to the next card. Ombré.
“Oh my God,” I sighed as I shook my head. “When one color fades into another.”
“What?” he asked, turning the card to face him.
“Ombré is just so overdone right now. Everything is ombré. Or chevron. If the next card says chevron, I’m leaving,” I warned.
“This is your room.” He laughed.
“So?” I said as he flipped to the next card.
Une jupe.
I squinted at the card as if looking at it harder might help. I didn’t know it. I shrugged. “Can you say it out loud?”
“Une jupe,” he said with enunciation.
I shook my head.
“Skirt,” he said, flipping to the next. Les talons aiguilles.
I shook my head again.
“High heels,” he said. “A stiletto heel.” He ran a hand through his hair, his cheeks turning pink.
“Like the famous constellation La Stiletto?” I said.
“Exactly.” He smiled down at his crossed legs before flipping to the next card.
Les vêtements.
“Clothing!” I laughed, glad to finally know one.
“Okay, last one.” He ran a hand through his hair again, his cheeks deepening to red.
I squinted at him. “I don’t like the look on your face right now.”
He flipped the final card. Ménage à trois.
“You’re an ass,” I said, lofting the pillow back at his head.
He lifted his arms to protect his face, his laugh muffled. I threw another pillow at him, then a stuffed animal.
“Okay, okay! Sorry!” I stopped throwing things at him as he slowly lowered his arms. “I just wanted you to be prepared when you’re in Paris. If I know French men, they’ll definitely be asking—”
“Oh my God, Hudson!” I yelled as a purple stuffed elephant hit him in the face.