"She's a guest, Mom." A guest whose back I want to curl my fingers against. Lean in after her showers to smell her bodywash. Typical guest behavior, yeah?
"So she's staying in your guest room?"
"Yes. She needed a place to go after..." I falter, unsure how to phrase it. We don't know who took pictures of her, or their motive, and Mallory said emotions can cloud the clear head a person needs to objectively see a case. "Someone entered her hotel room while she was sleeping and took photos of her with her phone. She found them and called me, terrified."
"What?" My mother shouts. "Where was she staying?"
Oh no. I know where this is going. This is the same woman who marched into my elementary art teacher's classroom and asked her how she'd like it if someone told her she's not allowed to go potty when she needs to.
"Mom." I say it calmly, hoping to demonstrate a cool head. Not that I had one the night it happened. I raced into town like it was the Indy 500. But that was different. Mallory was in a dangerous situation, and I had to get to her.
"Hugo, it'll take me two seconds to find out on my own," my mom warns.
Aunt Carmen sighs. "For the love, Hugo, just tell her."
"Olive Inn."
My mom taps a finger on her chin. "Is that why you left in the middle of the night earlier this week?"
"Yes."
"And you brought her here? To your home?"
"Yes."
"Instead of one of the other hotels in town?"
"She's safer here."
"With you."
"Huh?"
"She's safer here with you."
"Well, yes."
"Interesting."
"What is?"
"She called you when she needed help. Not the police. And you responded by not only taking her away from harm, but giving her a safe place."
I nod. "Yes, Mom."
"You turned toward each other, Hugo. She turned to you for help, you turned to her to provide it."
"I did what any decent person would do." Why am I arguing? I know how I feel inside. The way my blood flows hotter, faster when Mallory is present. The way I've thought about her every day this week while I'm working, envisioned her lying in the guest bed across the hall.
"Of course you did. That's how I raised you to behave.But Hugo, you're doing yourself a disservice by thinking you did the bare minimum."
A disservice? I don't know if I want to dissect that comment.
"You two are almost painful to watch," Aunt Carmen says. "What your mother means to say is that you have a pregnant lady shacked up at your house and you need to spend a little time thinking about why." She dusts off her hands, congratulating herself. "There. You're welcome."
My mom laughs. "Bet you didn't come here to have that conversation."
I scratch the back of my neck with two fingers. "I came here to ask where that old picnic basket is. The one we used when we were kids."
