Hugo, and?—
"Hey."
Stumbling, I smack a hand to my chest. Hugo's arm shoots out, catching me by the elbow.
Fun fact: that bony little point is the least sexual part of the body.Unless you're pregnant.
Hugo's hand still grips me, his thumb rubbing over the inside of my upper arm. Does he know he's doing that? It's making me lose sense. Making me want to lean into him, allow my hands to peruse his chest.
The tenderness in his dark-eyed gaze fades, replaced with mirth. "How did I manage to startle the true crime podcaster? Shouldn't you be impervious to surprise?"
I pull my arm away from his touch, ignoring the indignant woman inside me who wants nothing more than to continue to be touched by Hugo. My reaction to him needs a leash.
Possibly an ice bath.
"I'm not a ninja," I respond, adjusting my shirt.
Hugo watches my hands as they move my straps tothe appropriate place on my shoulders. "No kung fu for you, then?" Hugo turns for the festival.
I fall in step beside him. "Hardly. I tried karate when I was ten but I was terrible." A smile breaks over my face. "Maggie, though, she was?—"
What am I doing?
Talking about Maggie with ease, remembering her as if I were telling a funny story that held no pain? The memory brought with it nothing that hurt, only an effervescent bubble of happiness.
Since the moment Maggie left this world, I have not thought of her without an underlying sadness, longing, regret. The list goes on and on.
It's as if somehow, with Hugo, I slipped into another realm. A place where pain is not a prerequisite to my memories of Maggie.
Hugo touches me again, lightly on my non-sexual elbow. "Mallory?" He says my name softly, neither of us breaking stride. "Maggie was...?" He trails off, eyebrows raised, urging me to continue.
My lips press together as I take a deep breath, composing myself. "She was naturally good at karate. When it came time to break a board for her belt test, her 'hiya'"—I slice through the air with my palm to demonstrate—"was high-pitched. Childlike. She wore her hair in a ponytail, and she had the cutest little bangs. She pushed the bangs out of her face right before she broke the board. And after she did it, she looked at me first."
The memory grabs me by the throat. Chokes me.
In a move that takes me by surprise, but soothes meall the same, Hugo's hand slides down my arm, slips into my palm. His squeeze is gentle, reassuring. "Your little sister was proud of herself, and she wanted to share that with you."
Gratitude fills me. Not only for his kind words, but for his ability to remain here with me in this. This situation, these feelings. He's staying in the storm with me. I squeeze his hand back. "How do you know that?"
I'm certain I already know the answer.
"Because every time I won a fencing match, I'd look for my dad. No matter how old I was. No matter how many years had passed."
He walks us forward with purpose, his strong jaw and carved cheekbones not giving away a single sliver of the emotions coursing through him. But I see it. In the very places he hides it, are the same places he gives it away. A person need only know what to look for to discover it.
We arrive at the edge of the park. The music slips over us, closer now, and the scents of fried dough and sugar permeate the air.
"Come meet my friends," Hugo says, tugging me sideways.
I follow along, looking down at my hand in his.
Does he realize it's still there?
Chapter 12
Hugo
Her handin mine feels right.
