But maybe we can live in this bliss a little longer. Linger here, in this fairy tale of a situation. I'll close my eyes, willfully blind, and let all those sweet words he murmurs in my ear when he's inside me be my sustenance. For now, they are all I need.
Three weeksof living in our perfect little bubble on Summerhill, interrupted by a knock on Hugo's front door.
I look up from my spot on the couch, a book aboutchild brain development open on my lap. Hugo looks at me on his way to the door, winking and saying, "It's probably my mom asking for her picnic basket. She's watching Everly and Knox today."
Hugo pulls open the door, and I hear him say, "Detective Towles? Is everything alright?"
The answering voice is quiet, and I can't make it out. Hugo widens the door, steps aside, and the detective walks in.
I wave from my place on the couch, placing a bookmark between the pages and sliding the book on the coffee table. I'm wearing loose, comfortable pants and a cotton tank top that shows my belly. A few days ago, at my twenty-four week appointment, the doctor said, "Looks like you have a little basketball in there."
I stand up and round the couch. Hugo comes to stand beside me, and I say, "Hello, Detective."
"Miss Hawkins," he replies. "I thought, given the nature of your request, that I would hand deliver this."
He holds out a bulging folder. In an instant, I know what it is, and I'm already searching Hugo's face. He's nodding slowly, tugging on his earlobe in a way I've never seen him do.
I reach for him, tightening my grip on his arm. "You can still change your mind."
"You know," Detective Towles interrupts, voice gruff, "Just because I'm giving you this to look through doesn't mean something big is going to happen. You don't have to get worked up. The boys and I gave this case everything we had."
"Understood," Hugo says woodenly. He takes the file.
"Thank you for coming all the way out here," I say, because Hugo seems to be at a loss for words.
"I'm not that nice," the detective admits, scratching at his brow. "I wanted to make sure you're staying out here like you said."
I smile. "I know."
He gestures at my midsection. "Congratulations, Miss Hawkins. Hugo."
I keep waiting for the moment Hugo will correct somebody's assumption, but even now in his distressed state, he does not deviate. "Thank you," he says, voice rough.
We walk the detective to the door. He steps through, pausing to look back and say, "I'm going to need that returned to me."
"Yes. Thank you."
Hugo and I stand on the front porch, watching him drive away in an unmarked police car.
The trail of dust plumes, and then his car disappears over the slope.
"How are you?" I ask, turning into Hugo, wrapping my arms around his waist. In one hand, he still holds the folder. The other comes up, cups my cheek.
"I'm ok," he rasps. "Like Towles said, he and his guys pored over everything. There's probably nothing new in here."
"Yep," I agree readily, knowing where Hugo's coming from, because it's the same way I feel.
Ultimately, we want to know what happened to ourloved ones. But alongside that desire is fear of finding out. Even the possibility of knowing sparks a shred of apprehension. A person can want something desperately, but also fear having it.
My arms run the length of Hugo's back. "What do you think about tabling the folder for a little bit? We don't have to dive into it. It's been two decades, what's a few more days?"
Hugo nods thoughtfully, stepping out of my arms. He extends the file to me, and I take it. It is thick, and heavy, smelling of dust and old paper.
"That file should be in your care. You're the professional here, not me. And I think, if you wanted to tear it open right now and spend the next seven hours inside it, I would support you." He leans in, kisses my forehead. "I'm going to finish the salsa I was making when Towles showed up. Then I'm going to make the guacamole, and we're going to sit on the porch with our virgin margaritas like we planned. You can read the book you've been reading, or"—he glances at the folder—"you can read that."
He retreats into the house. I stare down at the nondescript folder, feeling its weight in my arms. Inside, the blender starts up. I walk inside, deposit the folder on the dining room table next to all my other work. Pinching my lower lip between two fingers, I stare down at my notes. The whiteboard. And now, the case file.
The whole point of me coming to Olive Township was to gain the De la Vegas trust and receive their blessing to look into Simon's murder, and the possible connection tomy sister. Now that I'm one step closer, something is holding me back. I'm not sure what it is, only that it's creating a hesitancy. I came to town with fire, a fervor. I had an end goal, but the more time I spend around Hugo, the more my fully formed and concrete end goal begins to waver. As if spending time around him, getting to know him, and sharing our grief is poking holes in my plan. Months of emailing him, hanging my hopes on his response, and now I'm here, right in the middle of where I thought I wanted to be, believed I needed to be, and I'm waffling.
