“Come on.You’re not doing anything.”
“I’m not flying across the country to fold your socks.”
“They’re not my socks.They’re Hugo’s socks.”
“Oh, well, in that case.”
“You’re a bad friend.And you have a bad sense of humor.No sense of humor at all, actually.And you’re a traitor.”
She laughed.“It’s not my fault.Hugo is much more likable than you.”
“Jerk.”
“And more handsome.”
“Why did I answer this call?”
“Howisdreamy Hugo?”
“He’s in New York, having people throw money at him and tell him he’s the single greatest mystery writer since—who’s another mystery writer besides Agatha Christie?”
“Didn’t President Clinton write a mystery novel?”
“Goodbye, Laura.”
She laughed again.“You should break up with him.”
“President Clinton and I are doing just fine, thanks.”
“You should break up with Hugo and let me have a crack at him.I think I could turn him.”
“That’s an unbelievably offensive thing to say.”
“You’re afraid I’m right.”
“Stay away from my man.”
“He’s just so handsome,” she said.“And he’s sweet.And he’s kind.And he’s thoughtful.Let me guess: did he buy you a present when he sold the novel?”
“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“See?”
“He got me a gym membership.”
“I told you he’s thoughtful.”
“Too thoughtful.He made me have a birthday party.”
“Oh my God, that’s the cutest.”
It was less cute, I thought as I dropped the laundry basket on the bed, when I was the one cleaning up strangers’ puke.
“And he worries about you, Dash.Like, he actually, genuinely worries about you.”
“Like Batman.”
That made her laugh, but for some reason, I found myself thinking about that day Hugo had kept messaging while I was in class, about how he’d “found” me on campus, about how he’d looked at Andrew.It had only been for a moment, but the expression on Hugo’s face had been flat and hard and—and ugly.What had he said?This is why I have to worry about you.
