I know what I expect him to say. I expect him to tell me that of course I’m going to hell, but who cares, because he’ll be rightthere with me. But instead Hugo shakes his head and then closes his eyes into a smile.
When he opens them, he leans forward, toward me. The stools are low, and the round table is small. I can feel his knee knock into my shin.
“No,” he says. His voice is calm, steady. “You’re not a terrible person. You deserve to be happy, Daphne. Just let yourself be happy.”
He keeps looking at me with this sincerity that I’ve never seen before from him.
“Is that what you want?” I ask. The words just tumble out, before I can stop them. They surprise me. They don’t seem to surprise Hugo.
He exhales. “Honestly, Daph,” he says. “This isn’t about me. If you’re looking for an excuse to run, you won’t find it here. I’m not going to give you that.”
I blink at him. “When did you become so mature?” I ask.
He sits back. He picks up his coffee. “I guess a lot really can happen in five years.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jake takes it exactly as Hugo said he would. He is kind and understanding and supportive. He makes me tea and strokes my hand and tells me that he isn’t afraid. Of course he’s not. He’s Jake.
“I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me sooner,” he says.
“I’ve never told anyone,” I tell him.
He pauses for a moment. “Not even Hugo?”
“He found out when I got sick again.”
He disregards that news quickly. It’s not about that. “I’m very sorry you’ve been dealt this,” he says. “But I also want you to know that I love all of who you are.”
“It’s OK if you have questions.”
“I do, and also, they’re not changing anything.”
He wants to know details. He wants to know about my full history and the schedule of testing. He wants to come to the appointments now.We are in this together.
“You’re not alone,” he tells me. He says it more than once.
I pack up the Gardner Street apartment—all the messy details of nearly a decade of life. Old vases and plates and piles of records. All of it comes with me, most of it to a storage unit in Hollywood and some to my parents’ house.
“Are you sure you don’t want the bookcase?” my mother asks me.
Jake carries it in and sets it down in their living room.
“No room, Mom.”
“It is a nice one, but, yes, sadly we’re at capacity.” Jake takes the corner of his shirt up and wipes his face.
“I’m getting water!” my mother says.
She runs out of the room, and I follow her. Jake goes to the car for another box.
“It’s a lot of stuff,” she says, watching him out the window. “You won’t miss it?”
“I shouldn’t even have it,” I say. “I didn’t have room for it to begin with.”
She tucks an arm around my waist. “I love your things. They are who you are.”
I watch Jake grab an old lamp with a hula dancer for a base. My mom sees, too.
