I pat my belly, looking at the fallen fries. "Are you already making me clumsy?"
Sinking to my knees, I donkey-kick the door closed behind me and clean up my mess, reassembling the sandwich as best I can. When my dinner is finished, I decorate the cake with twelve candles and light it, softly singing to Maggie.
Forever young.
Forever twelve.
In the center of my chest, it hits me. An unbearable pain, a tremendous guilt. It's my fault. I left her alone at the water park. A cute boy wanted to hang out with me, and I left Maggie behind.
I blow out the candles, shoulders quaking, sobs wracking my body. Though I don't want it, and can hardly stomach it, I force myself to eat a thin slice of cake. Maggie loved her birthday cake, and she's not alive to eat it, so I'll do it for her.
Eventually, I change into pajamas and lie down on the bed. I cry and I cry, until there's nothing left, and sleep overtakes me.
It's the middle of the night when I wake. Three a.m. I have a pressing urge to look at old photos of Maggie.
Slipping my phone from the nightstand, I blink against the brightness and open my photos app.
My blood runs cold. A thick gasp sticks in my throat, nausea rolling over me as I stare at the images.
My camera roll has new photos of...me?
Sleeping.
Photos of me sleeping.
Wearing the new pajamas I bought earlier this evening.
The same pajamas I have on right now.
Chapter 21
Hugo
Three a.m.My own personal witching hour.
The time of nightmares, of dreams I cannot decipher and manufactured memories. Did my dad really promise to play catch with me that day before he left the house, or do I desperately want for it to have happened? Did he wear my favorite time-softened shirt, or have I dressed him in it because I can't recall the clothes he wore the day he died?
Punching at the pillow in an attempt to reinvigorate it, I flop back on my bed and place my forearm over my eyes. Just a couple more hours and I'll get up, start my day. Sometimes I fall asleep after the nightmares, but sometimes I don't. Those are extra coffee days.
Eyes closed, I think of Mallory. Glossy dark hair, straight nose, thoughtful and sharp mind. The way I feel when I'm around her is…confusing.
Never in my life have I been attracted to a pregnant woman. The swell of a pregnant belly is a telltale sign toa man that she is off-limits. But with Mallory, that's not the case.
I swear that sometimes, she's attracted to me, too. I've been around enough women to know what it looks like when they show outward signs of attraction, but Mallory displays none of those. She doesn't place her hand on my bicep, or tilt her head and look up at me with wide eyes like I've seen other women do. With Mallory, it's something in the air around her I can feel. Sense. Smell.
How can that be? Like I said, she has me flummoxed.
On a low groan, I roll over and reach for my phone. There's no going back to sleep now. I'm too amped up from thinking about Mallory.
I'm in my internet browser typingCase Filesin the search query when my phone lights up with a call.
Mallory.
Adrenaline shoots through me. I slam my finger down on the screen to answer.
"Mallory," I demand, knowing she'd have no good reason to call me in the middle of the night.
"Hugo," she sobs, and something rips through my chest. Primal and raw, an instinct to defend and protect.
