“Sure,” Hugo says. “You guys order. Whatever you want.”
A couple walks by. The girl is in a short sundress and cardigan and black boots. I see Jake take a small notebook out of his back pocket and jot something down.
I look from the couple to him and back again.
“What’s going on?” Hugo asks. “You a poet in your spare time?”
Jake shakes his head. “No, I have this thing.”
“The boots!” I call out. A table next to us turns, and I lower my voice. “Any time Jake sees someone in Doc Martens he has to write it down. It’s a superstition.” I look to Jake. “Right?”
“More or less.”
Hugo looks back down at the menu. “Huh.” He turns to me. “Are you having the off-menu pomodoro or are you finally going to try something new?”
I don’t look at him. “Haven’t decided.”
Hugo turns to Jake. “Don’t believe her, man. She always orders the same thing.” He looks back to me. “It’s cute.”
I see Jake clock it, and I brace myself. For him to punch back, which he has every right to. But instead he just says: “I love a woman who knows what she wants. I’ll get your pomodoro, and you can have some. Pasta is always good.”
I want to grab him and kiss him right there at the table.
As predicted, Hugo insists on paying. Jake tries to fight him on it but gives up quickly. We all walk the pathway out of the restaurant and over the archway above the pond to our cars.
Jake goes to hand in our valet slips, and I pull Hugo aside.
“You were cocky,” I tell him.
“I was me.” He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Nice guy.”
“That’s it?”
Hugo looks back at me. “He’s a solid dude. I like him. He honestly seems like a great match for you.”
And then Jake is back. He slips a hand around my waist, and we all hug goodbye—the warmest of partings. Jake promises to get Hugo the number of the rare-car dealer they used on a period piece last year. Hugo claps his back.
“Great to meet you, man,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
Once we’re in the car, Jake puts a hand on my knee. “Great guy,” he says.
“He acted like an asshole.”
“Yeah,” he says. “He did. But he’s high energy. He seems like he’d be fun.”
I shake my head. “You really could find a redeeming quality in anyone.”
Jake pauses, thoughtful. Then: “I feel for him, Daphne,” he says. He’s silent for a moment. “It’s not his fault he’s still in love with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hugo and I had been dating for two months and three weeks when I was rushed to the hospital. I had been counting down the days, even hours. I could see the blinking marker of three months, like a skull-and-bones warning of a rocky cliff below.DANGER. I didn’t know how to paddle backward. I didn’t know how to stop us from free-falling over.
I was in love with him. That was God’s honest truth. Everything about our relationship felt big and epic and heady. I loved the way his brain worked. How he was always trying to play devil’s advocate—to see and appreciate sides that were not his own. And I loved how stubborn he was—steadfast. His confidence sometimes felt like a bulldozer, but other times it felt like a foundation—like I was tethered to something that could not possibly bend or snap or break. His personality made me feel safe, being in his orbit was like being inside the sun—the rays couldn’t harm me, all I felt was the warmth of proximity.
I didn’t want it to end.
I was at Irina’s when I felt the terrifying sensation. Irina called 911 on the spot.
