Chapter 15

It all went the way you’d expect. Deputy Bobby dried me off and sat me in his car. He even ran the heat for me before he called the sheriff. More deputies came. Sheriff Acosta came. I braced myself for screaming, for accusations, for threats. But when she finally came to talk to me, she looked tired, her hair wet in spite of her rain jacket, and the first thing she said was “I’m so sorry.”

And eventually, they let me go home.

Millie wanted to talk. Fox wanted to listen. Indira wanted me to drink hot chocolate. When I said no, Keme, bless his heart, tried to get me to play Xbox with him. I recognized their worried looks. I heard, under the rattle of the rain against the windows, the concern in their voices. But I was too tired. I went to bed and, eventually, I slept.

When I woke the next morning (eleven is still morning), the day had a cold, hard compactness. The sky was a curved steel brace, the sun was a white-hot dime, and the rain had stopped. I lay in bed for a while, thinking. In one of her books, my mom had described a character’s thoughts (she was the maid to a wealthy suburban family, but she was also the mother to one of the children, with some sort of secret paid pregnancy scheme the couple had cooked up, and then at the end you find out she was the wife’s sister—honestly, I can’t remember how it all made sense, but it’s one of Mom’s best) as wild-horse thoughts. So, I lay there thinking my wild-horse thoughts, trying to herd them, trying to corral them, and then watching them all break loose again.

A rap at the door made me say, “I’m dead.”

Hugo laughed quietly. And then, with a trace of uncertainty unusual for him, he asked, “Could I come in?” In a rush, he added, “To say goodbye.”

“What do you mean ‘goodbye’?”

The door opened, and Hugo stepped into the room. He looked like he’d gotten a better night’s sleep than I had. His hair was perfectly swooshy again, and he wore a crewneck sweatshirt with shorts and somehow made it look chic instead of (as Millie had once innocently observed of yours truly) like it was time to do laundry.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded, which is an impressive feat when you’re lying down.

“I didn’t get a chance to say this yesterday.” Hugo stopped and touched the collar of his sweatshirt. His hand dropped again. “So, I wanted to tell you before I left. Thank you, Dash. For everything. For believing me. For working so hard to make sure I didn’t—” He laughed, and it sounded a little wild. “—didn’t go to prison for murder, I guess. It still sounds unreal.”

I grabbed my glasses to get a better look at him. “What’s going on? What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“And I’m sorry about yesterday. About Cole. I know you liked him. Cared about him, I mean. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

It was harder to shrug in bed. I sat up. I shrugged. “I guess I understood him a little. It’s hard to grow up with parents who…who aren’t always there.”

Hugo’s face softened. He sat on the edge of the bed, and the springs squeaked. “You are nothing like Cole and Mason.”

“I am, though, Hugo. I mean, what am I doing? I’m living in this big, empty house. I’m playing at being a detective. I don’t have a job, I don’t have hobbies, I don’t have—”

I managed to stop myself, but Hugo gave me a look that wasn’t exactly amused but wasn’t exactly…not. “A boyfriend?”

I shrugged again.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said. “And you’re overthinking. As usual.”

“Rude.”

“I’m not your boyfriend anymore,” he said. “I can say whatever I want.”

“Hugo!”

“Are you still feeling sorry for yourself?”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself!”

He considered me, running his hand under his chin, the soft rasp of his knuckles against a day’s stubble. “Dash, can I ask you something?”

I nodded.

“What—” But he stopped. “Why? I mean, I get it. You told me how you feel. But you ran away.” It was hard to separate the tangle of frustration and hurt in his voice. “You ran away from everything, and I just can’t believe it was all because you broke up with me—it wasn’t only because of that, anyway, was it?”

After a moment, I shook my head.

“So, why?” Hugo asked.

“Because I was afraid.” The look on his face made me hurry to add, “Not of you. God, Hugo. No. I was afraid—I was afraid my life would keep being what it was. And I want more. I don’t want to be Jonny and Patricia’s kid. I don’t want the expectations that come with that. I don’t want the plans that come with that. I want to be me. I don’t know what that means, I guess. Not entirely. But I want to find out.”

“So.” He seemed to struggle for a moment, and the words that came were hard. “I was part of the plan.”

“No, Hugo. You are a wonderful person I was lucky enough to meet. And you are sweet and funny and smart and so talented. I’m so grateful for the time we had together. And I’m so happy you’re in my life again, even if it’s in a different way. Because I’d like to be your friend, whenever we’re both ready for that. I’d like to talk to you, and pick your brain about writing, and tell you my dad’s latest rant about guns. And I want to read every book you write and then email you a list of grievances.”

“But I love you.” He stopped and swallowed. “God, I told myself I wouldn’t do this again.” After a silent struggle, he said, “I know I’m not perfect, but I’ll try to be, for you. We can go to therapy. Or we don’t have to if you don’t want to. We’re so good together; please give me another chance.”

It would have been easy to say yes. A part of me wanted to. Because I was lonely. And because Hugo was sweet. More importantly, he was safe. My old life was waiting like a cocoon I could crawl back into and be warm and secure. And unhappy. That, too. Terribly, desperately unhappy, even though for a long time, I hadn’t been able to admit it to myself.

“I’m sorry, Hugo. What you said the other night at the Otter Slide—I don’t think you’re a bad person, and I’m sorry I made you feel that way. But what you’re asking—I don’t feel that way about you. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t think you feel that way about me either. Or at least, maybe it’s more complicated than you’re willing to admit.”

He tried for a smile, and it was awful. He let out a wet laugh. He knuckled at his eyes. “So, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Oh God, I don’t have anything figured out. But I mean—Hugo, you told me you came here to get back together, and then your first night in town, you jumped on a hookup app and got blackout drunk with a guy.”

“Because I missed you!”

“Hugo.”

He sat still, and then he put his face in his hands.

“Am I wrong?” I asked.

It was a long time before he answered. “I don’t know. I guess...I guess I’ve been lonely. And I was telling the truth—it was hard, how you left. How it made me feel about myself.”

“I know. I should have handled that better.”

But he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. You’re right, I think. It’s easy to look back and feel like everything was perfect, even if—” He stopped, and he finished in a softer voice. “—even if it wasn’t. The last few months, I kept trying to figure out how to get on with my life, but even though good things were happening—the book, the reviews, everything else going exactly the way I’d hoped—it felt like I was stuck. And then, one day, it came to me: I just had to come out here and win you back.” He laughed again, more gently this time. “Look how that turned out.”

“Hugo, you’re a great guy. I’m sorry you’re lonely now, but things will get better.”

“I know, I know.” But he wiped his eyes again. When he looked at me, they were shining. “This is going to sound crazy, but I’m glad this happened. I’m glad I got to see you again. I’m glad, in a weird way, I got arrested. I don’t know if we would have—I don’t know if we would have said some of the things we needed to say to each other. I guess I didn’t know some of the stuff you were feeling. Or I didn’t think about it. Didn’t let myself think about it. I’m sorry for that, Dash. Because I do love you.”

“I’m sorry, too. I know I’m not—I’m not an easy person to be in a relationship with. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t who you wanted me to be, or I didn’t feel what you wanted me to feel.”

The wind was coming in hard now, rattling the shutters, shaking the glass in its frame. Hugo dried his hands on his legs. And then, fighting for a smile again, he said, “I guess that’s that.”

“Wait, you’re really leaving?”

“I mean, why not? Talking to you helped, but I don’t think you’re looking for a new roommate. And the sheriff said I could go. They’ve got someone else in custody.”

“Who? Penny?”

“Is she the friend? The maid of honor? I heard them talking about her.”

“That’s her.” I shook my head. “God.”

“You don’t think it was her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. It seems a little too convenient that she accidentally left a scrap of monogrammed fabric at the scene of the crime.”

“Your mom would have a screaming fit if she read that in a book.”

“She’d probably tell my dad to use it for target practice.”

Hugo laughed. He stood, eyed me, and said, “Maybe let the professionals handle this one, Dash. I appreciate what you did; I don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t for you. But it’s over now.”

I thought about Cole. About how lost he’d been. About how he’d wanted more and hadn’t known how to get it. About the drugs, and the loneliness, and his slow retreat from a world that had left him behind. I thought about how small he’d looked at the base of the cliff, the swash lifting him, the water toying with his short, messy hair. No, I hadn’t seen all those details from the lookout point. But I’d seen enough, and the curse of a writer is an overactive imagination.

“You’re going to be happy, you know,” Hugo said abruptly. “You’ve got friends here who love you. And believe it or not, this house suits you. You’re already changing. You’re—you’re more than you used to be. I don’t know if that’s the right way to say it, but it’s true. I can see more of you. How brave you are. How determined.” A smile zigzagged across his face. “You’re getting surprisingly good at making decisions for someone who still can’t pick which taco he’s going to have. You’re going to figure out who you want to be and what you want to do, and God help you if it’s a job that requires you to be out of bed before noon.”

A laugh burst out of me.

“And I think, Dashiell Dawson Dane, that one day, you will finish your book, and it’s going to be magnificent.” Hugo ducked down and kissed me on the cheek. I thought I heard him swallow. The fragrance of his aftershave, faint, took me back to Sunday mornings in our apartment in Providence, and late dinners, and bare skin. Maybe he felt it too because he gave a strained chuckle as he stepped back, and the words sounded forced as he said, “Just don’t use any of the old tropes about twins, maybe.” He grimaced. “Bad joke. Sorry.”

“Definitely no twins.”

He studied me for a moment. And then he said, “Goodbye, Dash.”

“Bye, Hugo.”

He let himself out the door, and his steps echoed in the stairwell, and then he was gone.