“Like I said, I tried to zone you out, block you from my mind…but you wouldn’t leave. You were with me every day,” he touched his chest, over his heart, “In here.”
I wish I’d known, I wanted to say, but that wouldn’t do any good. Regret was such a waste of time. Those years were gone now. Reliving them would only steal space in my mind that I could use to create new moments with him. “And now I’m here,” I said, reaching for his other hand on the bistro table, interlocking our fingers. “And I do hope that doesn’t mean your music is gonna suck from now on. What will you write about if not heartbreak?”
Hugo chuckled, raised a brow. “Sex. Love. Doughnuts. You.”
As I started giggling, the doorbell sounded. I’d never stayed in a hotel room with a doorbell until I hit the road with Hugo. Minus the prostitution, I felt a bizarre kinship with Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman. The movie had captured the reaction of someone new to this lifestyle perfectly. Every single thing blew me away. The size of the bathtubs, the quality of the mattresses, the paintings on the walls, the sheer amount of luxurious and unnecessary furniture…the frigging doorbells. I had no doubt these suites were costing Hugo thousands of pounds a night. The meals, excluding breakfast, were awful, though. Pretentious, tiny, covered in green shit, and usually called something that could rupture a tonsil trying to pronounce. Thankfully, Just Eat delivered pretty much everywhere.
“I’ll get it,” said Hugo.
I stared after him as he walked away, his hands tightening the knot in his robe as he went. I missed him already. It was a dangerous feeling that made my stomach a little sickly. I knew why: I was in love with my best friend, my wonderful, complicated, loving, fragile best friend, and the idea terrified me. I’d never wanted to love Hugo. Not like that. At least, I’d never wanted to admit it, to him or myself. Where would that leave me if he left again? Broken and vulnerable in a colourless void.
I didn’t want to love him, but I had no say in the matter. I’d been in love with him all my life and, after last night, I knew I’d remain there until my life was over.
Bickering caught my attention, made me leave the balcony to see who’d arrived. I found Drew and Hugo in the main living area that housed the baby grand piano. Drew was muttering something about an increase in streams since reports from the Ricky Byrne interview had got out, while Hugo simply stood there with his hands cupped in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Drew asked, nodding at Hugo’s open hands.
“Waiting for a fuck to drop so I can give it to you.”
Ouch. It didn’t appear to be going well. Feeling awkward, I slipped quickly past the arguing men and dashed into the bedroom. It didn’t help much. Their voices were loud enough to travel through the walls.
“I’m tired of you always pulling shit like this!” Hugo yelled. “Of laying shit on me and thinking I can deal with it.”
“I told you I had no idea he was gonna ask those questions. Regardless, you did deal with it! You don’t give yourself enough credit, Hu. Me? I know exactly what you can do.”
“Bullshit. You’ll push me too far, Drew. I’m telling you… One of these days, you’ll push me too fucking far.”
I thought about intervening, got as far as the bedroom door, ready to rescue Hugo. But…it wasn’t my place. Hugo wasn’t a child, and I wasn’t his bloody guardian. Also, he and Drew had their own history. He’d developed relationships that were none of my business during our time apart.
Eventually, their voices lowered to a muffle. I didn’t know if that meant they’d worked things out…or couldn’t abide talking to each other anymore. Either way, I decided to butt out and get ready for the day.
After dressing in a ditsy-print smock dress with a thin belt to accentuate my waist, I headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth, only to find the toothpaste was out. Great. I’d been using the complimentary stuff the hotel provided, but assumed Hugo would have some in his vanity case. I think someone else packed that for him. He had people to do everything. Bloody diva.
I rummaged around inside the black leather bag, pushed aside the various lotions and potions that kept his skin looking youthful and bright, and came across a box of pills. “Huh,” I mouthed to no one. I checked the date. They’d been prescribed a few days before he’d flown back home. They were the same pills he’d needed to take as a teenager after being diagnosed with depression. I remembered the name because I remembered every detail about that part of our lives.