Chapter 3
“Get over,” Hugo instructed as I turned through the intersection. “Right-hand lane.”
“I think I see a spot.”
“Dash, get—come on.” He threw his hands up, but he mostly sounded amused as he said, “Okay, I guess we’re going to have to circle the block.”
This was why Hugo normally drove. I wasn’t sure why I’d insisted tonight; for some reason, it had seemed incredibly important that I drive. Hugo hadn’t cared, of course—he’d just tossed me the keys and grinned, like somehow it was all a big joke.
“Ha!” I said as I continued down the street. Providence was quiet tonight, and only a handful of other cars had braved the spring rains. But we were going to Taj Palace, and I was literally (okay, not literally) going to murder some naan. “I did see a spot!”
“With a fire hydrant,” Hugo said and ruffled my hair. “Around the block, Jeeves.”
So, I went around the block, and I got into the right-hand lane, and I saw the spot Hugo had noticed. It was still empty, of course. That was the way things went for Hugo—everything always worked out.
“I’m going to eat eight samosas,” I said. Rain sprinkled the windshield, and after a quick glance at Taj Palace (at the far end of the block now), I pulled my hood up as I reached for the door. “No, ten.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hugo said. Then he pointed. “We’re going to Hutchinson’s.”
The urban steakhouse was right in front of us. Not at the end of the block.
“But—samosas. And naan. And butter chicken.”
“And carbs, and carbs, and rice—more carbs.” Hugo laughed at whatever he saw on my face. He took my hood gently, pulled me in for a kiss, and then gave my head a little shake. “Come on.”
Inside, Hutchinson’s was all shadow and texture: leather and the raw edge of wood and polished steel.
The light came from Edison bulbs in pendant fixtures, and their dim yellow glow did little to push back the gloom.
Because my stomach is a treacherous beast, it raised its head and sniffed the air, scenting the aroma of seared meat.
So much for ten samosas, I thought as we settled into our seats.
More texture: the thick tablecloth. Our waiter was a middle-aged man in a pair of Keds, and when he asked about drinks, Hugo said, “We’ll both have water. ”
I gave Hugo a look as the waiter retreated.
“Do you want to have a headache tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Hugo rolled his eyes and picked up the menu. He only glanced at it for a moment before he said, “I think we should stay away from the sides.” His eyes came to me. “Is a wedge salad too much? All that dressing.”
“I want a potato.”
“Dashiell.”
“I want lots of potatoes. With lots of cheese. And fried—everything fried.”
“Okay,” Hugo said. “Here we go.”
“We’ve been eating healthy all week. We’re young. We’re healthy. We can enjoy a cheat meal.”
Hugo set the menu down and spread his hands.
When the waiter came back, Hugo ordered a wedge salad to start (apparently, the dressing wasn’t too much), and a filet with a side of steamed vegetables. The waiter looked at me.
Porterhouse, I thought. Medium-rare. And give me all the potatoes.
But Hugo was right. Even if he hadn’t said anything, even if he hadn’t spoken out loud, I knew what he was thinking: we were trying to stay healthy. We were trying to make responsible choices. And, if I didn’t eat every potato in the house, there was the possibility of dessert.
“The filet,” I said. “And the steamed vegetables.”
“He’ll have a wedge salad too,” Hugo said. “Dressing on the side.” When the waiter departed, he said, “So.” The light from the Edison bulb gleamed against the dark waves of his hair. He put his hand on top of mine. “Tell me about your day.”
So, I did. And Hugo told me about his day.
And his fingers laced with mine, tightened, stroked, squeezed.
He’d always been more comfortable with public displays of affection.
More comfortable with touch in general, if I were being honest. That was one of the reasons we worked—because the first time he’d held my hand, and my whole body had locked up, he’d laughed and wiggled my fingers for me until I relaxed.
Always more affectionate, always more demonstrative. Always more in control.
The food was delicious, of course, even though there was still a tiny spot of me craving Indian.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about how Hugo had picked the spot in front of Hutchinson’s without telling me we were coming here.
About how he’d barely glanced at the menu.
About the wine, and the wedge salad, and the dressing on the side.
When the waiter came to ask about dessert, Hugo started to shake his head.
The words just burst out of me: “We need a minute.”
The waiter disappeared into the shadows.
Hugo raised an eyebrow.
“Weren’t you even going to ask me?” I said.
“Ask you what?”
“If I wanted dessert.”
Surprise. A hint of hurt. “We talked about this.”
Which was true. Kind of. And…kind of not.
Normally, it would have ended there, but somehow, the words kept flowing. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t care what I want. Sometimes it feels like what I want doesn’t matter.”
The sharp edge of the hurt emerged from the confusion on his face. He said stiffly, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not saying that’s what you actually think. I’m just saying that’s how it feels.”
“Of course I care what you think. Of course what you want matters.”
“I know.”
“You hate making decisions. You told me that on our first date.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He let out a little breath, shook his head, and looked away. “God, I’m such a jerk.”
“No! No, you’re not. You’re not, Hugo. You’re wonderful.”
“I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I made you feel that way.”
“You didn’t! Stop, please. You didn’t, really. I—I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You’re telling me how you feel, Dash. Of course I want you to tell me how you feel.”
I feel miserable, I wanted to say. But even I knew he didn’t want me to tell him that.
When the waiter returned, Hugo looked at me for a response.
I wanted the ice cream and bread pudding.
Did I want the ice cream and bread pudding?
Did I want dessert, really want it? Or was it just a craving? Or was I being a brat (which was coming through in Hugo’s body language pretty clearly)? Was I digging in my heels about something that didn’t matter, just to show Hugo that I could?
The old, familiar paralysis gripped me.
“Sir?” the waiter asked.
The rain was coming down harder now, streaking the plate-glass windows.
Hugo sat forward, smiled gently, and squeezed my hand. “We’ll just take the check.”