I do not believe sex is a marker of anything but what you assign to it. It does not measure the seriousness of a relationship, is nota barometer for the amount of feeling, and has little to do with love, at least in causation. But lying underneath Jake I wonder if sex might express something else—some level of tenderness. If we might be able to judge not the strength of a person’s feelings but the measure of their care.
Chapter Twenty-One
So, how was it?”
Hugo and I are at brunch at Toast, a trendy eatery on Third Street in West Hollywood that Hugo loves and I think is fine.
“How did you even know?”
Hugo laughs. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
I take my sunglasses off and stare at him. “Because we were once in bed together?”
Hugo grins. He picks up his coffee. “I talk to you about what’s going on in my life, I just want you to feel free to have the same privileges.”
“You’re so generous.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m going to buy you breakfast, too.”
I take another sip of coffee. Hugo looks at me thoughtfully.
“But seriously, Daph. What’s the deal?”
The deal is that I spent the night with Jake; he woke me upwith coffee and immediately asked if he could see me the following night. The deal is that he texts me throughout the day, asking how I’m doing and sending funny memes or jokes. The deal is that he might be the best person I’ve ever dated.
“I like him,” I say. “I really like him. He’s thoughtful and sincere. I’ve never met a person who just says what he means like that.”
Hugo runs a hand over the bottom of his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Admirable.”
“That’s actually a really great way to describe him.”
“So you’re having admirable sex.”
I laugh. “?‘Thoughtful sex’ maybe is better.”
Hugo considers this. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” I say. “You were thoughtful. It’s just different.”
Hugo shakes his head. “No. I’m just wondering if you ever really saw me as someone you could be with.”
I feel my shoulders tighten. I roll my neck from side to side. “What do you mean?”
Hugo sticks a hand back on his chin and massages the skin there. He doesn’t look at me. “I just mean, was there ever a point where you thought, I don’t know, it could go longer than three months?”
We never talk about this. What happened happened. We became friends. Our friendship is predicated on treading lightly on the past and staying firmly in the present.
“Hugo,” I say. “You know this already. Our paper said three months.”
“Right,” he says. “Of course.” But his tone sounds bitter all of a sudden, even a little angry around the edges.
“What’s with you? Did you and Natalie break up or something?”
“No,” he says. “No, I mean, I don’t know. We can’t break up—we’re not together.”
“Right,” I say. “Then what?”
He turns his gaze back to me, dead center. “I think about it,” he says. “Sometimes. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but I do.”
