It's not too much longer before he asks, "Are you usually nervous to talk with people you're hoping to interview?"
"No," I answer. "But in the spirit of transparency, I've never worked so hard to have a conversation that couldpossiblylead to an interview."
A terse breath streams from his nose. "Everybody can't wait to run their mouths, huh?"
Disdain drips from his words. My heart hurts for him. For the way he grows prickly in an instant. The thought of talking about his father pains him, hardens his tone and possibly his heart.
I want to make this as easy as possible for him. "Oftentimes, it's simply people talking about someone they loved, and when they do that, there's a certain..." Isearch for the right word. "Resurrection, if you will. Their loved one is alive again, even if it's only in a memory shared."
"We've never talked about what happened." Hugo eyes me meaningfully. "My mom tried, in the beginning. When it was all fresh. New. But the journalists, reporters, whatever they were, they sensationalized it." He shakes his head regretfully, and that dark hair of his swipes his forehead. "I was young when it happened, but I knew they were making my hero into a headline. It tore me up, and I didn't think it was possible to hurt more at that point. My sister, too. So, my mom stopped giving interviews. We talked about him at home instead." A smile crests Hugo's lips, and a small celebration erupts in my chest. I feel his pain all too well. "We did what we could to keep him as alive as possible. And we worked to remember him as the man he was, not the victim someone forced him to be."
Hot tears assail the backs of my eyes. Everything Hugo's saying, every emotion he's describing, it all hits home for me. As much as I want to give in and cry, I swallow it down. I'm here in a professional capacity. "I promise to be very respectful, Hugo."
My right foot is beginning to fall asleep, and I adjust my stance. Hugo takes it as me getting up, probably assuming I'm growing antsy. His arm shoots out, cups my elbow.
"Please," he says, eyes burning with intensity. "Please don't make my dad into a victim. I can't bear it."
At the end of the day, his father and my sister werevictims of a crime, but I understand the nuance of what it is he's saying. "Hugo, I will not reduce either of our loved ones to simply being victims."
Relief sweeps over his face. Gratitude.
His grasp leaves my elbow, only to extend across me, pinky finger offered. "Pinky promise, Gumshoe?"
I laugh. Hugo has a talent for introducing levity to difficult moments.
Hooking a pinky around his, I say, "Pinky promise, Swordsman."
"Aren't you a pretty thing?"Sonya De la Vega declares, wrapping me up in a cinnamon and sugar scented hug.
And it's...well, it'snice. Something I could relax into. When was the last time my own mother held me so tenderly? The answer hits me square in the chest.A long time.
"Mom," Hugo warns, playful but slightly parental. "You're supposed to ask people you've never met if it's ok to hug them."
"Pshh," Sonya scoffs, releasing me. She takes a step back and waves at my face. "Look into those eyes and tell me she's not starving for a hug."
"It's true," I agree, winking at Hugo to let him know I'm good. In truth, I'm better than good. I needed thathug, and I didn't realize how much. Sometimes, a person yearns to sink into someone else's arms, and be held. I swear, certain people's hugs contain medicinal properties. Sonya De la Vega is one of them.
She's not what I was expecting. The only photos I've seen of her were from nearly twenty years ago. Online photos of Hugo are almost completely from the lens of him fencing, and he doesn't keep a current personal social media. Or, at least not an account I've been able to find. Without realizing it, I'd been picturing Sonya as a grieving woman in a black veil. Permanent frown. Grief hanging heavy around her like a shroud.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Her dark hair shines, her olive skin beautiful. Tonight she wears loose yellow linen pants, flowing over espadrilles. A white blouse with fabric-covered buttons. It's a happy ensemble.
"Come, come," she says, motioning us to follow her. "Hugo, take off those boots." The instruction zooms over her shoulder in a practiced way that speaks of years giving that directive.
"Already on it, Ma." Hugo stops to toe off his boots, but I go on ahead into a kitchen with green cabinets and a black tile backsplash.
"I baked snickerdoodle cookies," Sonya says, pointing to a white ceramic tray with rows and rows of freshly baked cookies.
I sniff the air appreciatively. "I assumed you naturally smelled like sugar and cinnamon."
"Wouldn't that be great if that were the case?" Sonyaturns to a wine rack built into the wall, selecting a bottle of red. "What scent would you choose if you could choose any?"
This cordial, silly conversation is upsetting the expectations I had for this meeting, but I roll with it.
"Spiced apples," I answer.
"What about them?" Hugo asks, walking barefoot into the kitchen. Normally, I would never find a man's feet attractive, but something about Hugo's ease in this home, the way his jeans skim the floor, and the soft swish of the material, is really doing it for me.
I've got to get that under control. How does a pregnant woman rein in her hormones?
