18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Hugo
I ’m fucked.
As I watched the video loop over and over again, my mind whirled. I supposed I should be grateful Axel posted under his own name. That made it clear I hadn’t been the one to do this.
I’m outed.
That had always been a risk. The school administration knew. Ms. Kenall had been supportive. She’d even liked Gavin—because she hadn’t really known him. She’d given me space when my marriage ended and had even tried to set me up with her nephew.
We’d been…incompatible.
Mr. Merkerson also knew. And he’d used it against me a number of times. So often that I’d considered coming out just to spite him.
But I hadn’t.
Because I hadn’t wanted to jeopardize my career.
Well, so much for that…
For the first few hours, social media had been abuzz about who the redhead with the beard was. The footage wasn’t great, and I was never directly facing the camera.
Trust one of my eagle-eyed former students to drop my name like a bombshell. The few other speculations fell to the wayside as everyone sought out as much as they could about Hugo Threadgold.
Not pretty.
My social media was almost nonexistent—except what I shared necessarily for work. I kept a low profile. Being Gavin’s ex meant just wanting to be forgotten. We’d always been discreet while out in public.
He was not that way with his second husband and, once in a while, people would start to ask questions about his previous marriage. Fortunately, Gavin was good at shutting down speculation.
What’s he going to say about this? Surely someone’s going to make the connections. I’ve always been good at riding out storms—he has a tendency to make them worse.
For the thirteenth time, I played the video.
Watching it again and again didn’t help me battle the warring emotions. Part of me remembered that kiss fondly. The emotion had been with wild abandon and passion. I hadn’t initiated, but I’d certainly gotten into it. The rest of me watched in horror as I felt my career being flushed by the drain. That concern lay in the comments. Now everyone knew I’d been Axel’s music teacher, the dialogue was mixed with questions about whether I’d seduced him back then and we’d been secret lovers for fifteen years or if I’d seduced him then, and we’d only just reconnected.
Several enterprising people suggested, since Axel was sex on a stick, that perhaps he seduced me. Then whether or not we’d been together all these years reared its ugly head again. The minority suggested maybe we’d only just reconnected and, since we were both adults, that maybe people should cut us some slack…? Of course, those posts were in the minority.
Then, to my horror, a photo surfaced from last night. One of Axel and me from the theater where we were clearly arguing. Thus began the speculation that we’d had a lover’s spat and, finally—circling back to the video—that one of us must have released it as revenge porn.
Where the porn was in this scenario wasn’t entirely clear.
Whether Axel or I released the video was of great debate. Yes, the damn thing was released on Axel’s account. But what if I hacked it? What if he’d given me permission or access or something or—
My head ached.
Why would I out myself? That seemed to be what most of these people didn’t get—that by one of us outing the other, we were also outing ourselves.
Someone finally suggested maybe neither of us released it. That someone at the studio—record or production—wanted the publicity and weren’t they all just feeding into it.
We were trending everywhere.
A pounding on my door yanked me from my spiraling thoughts.
“Hugo, you fucking shit, open this door.”
I raced to the door and flung it open.
A very angry Renee stood there, hand on her distended belly.
“Shit, Renee. Bed rest.”
Still, turning her around and coaxing her back into her own bed was likely impossible—given the grim look on Cope’s face as he held the knapsack she took with her everywhere just in case . She was seven-and-a-half months along. Preemie territory, but still with major risks.
I ushered her in…only to find a couple of photographers parked across the street with their cameras pointing right at me.
“Wave to them.” Cope smiled. “Exact opposite of what they’re expecting. You’re not going to hide.”
Because I figured the psychologist knew best, I waved.
The two women and one man shot their photos, and the woman waved back with a big thumbs-up.
I shut the door. “Media?”
“My guess.” Cope handed me the knapsack so he could then help Renee off with her coat.
“Does bed rest mean an actual bed?”
“Your electronic recliner so I can put my feet up is sufficient.” She glared. “Water retention. Fat ankles. Higher-than-normal blood pressure.” She waddled into my small living room, sank onto the recliner, grabbed the control and, within moments, had raised her feet.
I wasn’t old . That being said, the recliner was a gift to myself for my fortieth. Because I eventually would be old . “Water?”
“With ice.”
“Great—”
“Not a chance.” Cope grabbed the knapsack. He pointed to the couch. “Don’t pace—it’ll stress her. Just park your ass, don’t argue, and we’ll be fine.”
I dropped my ass to the couch. “I almost wish today was a weekday.”
“Why didn’t you answer my call?”
I winced. “When my notifications started pinging a couple of hours ago—”
“The middle of the night.”
“—the middle of the night.”
She sighed dramatically. “You know you’re supposed to turn them off at night.”
“Do you want to hear this story? I keep the notifications on because my best friend might go into labor at any moment and, given I’m her birth partner—”
“It’s going to be a Caesarian.”
“Given I’m her birthing partner because her beloved partner, the doctor, can’t stand the sight of blood—”
“I’m a psychologist.” Cope stomped back into the room. “And I can stand the sight of blood.”
“You just can’t stay upright after you’ve seen it.” I grinned.
Copeland’s penchant for passing out at the slightest amount of blood was what, as an adolescent, finally convinced him he couldn’t be a medical doctor. He’d wanted psychiatry anyway, but med school meant blood. So he’d focused on psychology and graduated with his PhD in clinical psychology at a mere twenty-five. He was a big believer in therapy, including some innovative versions. After the disastrous end of my marriage, he’d encouraged me to see a woman he’d mentored who ran a horse ranch out in Mission City that used equine and canine therapy. He’d thought that might appeal to me, trying to be helpful, but I hadn’t wanted to hear about it. I hadn’t wanted to see anyone.
Days like today—when I couldn’t cope with the slightest upset—I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice. Never too late .
I went through that internal dialogue…or was that internal monologue…? I could ask Cope, but he was handing me a fresh coffee and settling on the other end of the couch.
Renee sipped her ice water. Clearly she’d been waiting for her husband to return before she started in on me. “You didn’t tell us about the video.”
“Really?” I cocked my head. “I’m sure I did.”
She exchanged a look with Cope.
He shook his head, then pivoted his attention to me. “I admit hearing you’d had a…dalliance—with Axel Townsend, no less—kind of blew our minds. But I’m pretty certain we would’ve remembered hearing about a video. If only because I would’ve advised you to ensure the thing had been destroyed. Shit never reappears at opportune moments—it’s always when you can be blindsided—”
“So what the fuck happened last night?” Renee glared.
“I saw the notifications and turned off my phone.” I pointed to the thing as it sat innocuously on the coffee table. “I’ve been…obsessing over the laptop ever since. I’m exhausted—
“Yeah, boo-hoo-hoo.” She gesticulated so hard she nearly tipped her water over.
“Honey.”
She glared at Cope. “Don’t fucking call me that. You know I hate that.”
“Well, sweetheart, derailing you feels like a good idea right now. Direct some of that ire toward me, and we might actually get Hugo to talk.” He again pivoted his attention back to me. “Renee found the photos of you and Axel from last night. That’s what she’s asking about.”
Which I’d known. But I’d hoped to derail her with the explanation of turning my phone off which, in retrospect, had probably been a bad idea. “I was trying to give him a CD of the students performing some of his old songs. Stupid, I know, right? But…they did such a beautiful job with such wonderful material…”
Renee closed her right eye. Which meant she was either getting a migraine or was deep in contemplation. Neither boded well, but I preferred she unleash her anger on me rather than suffer one of her crippling, debilitating, but fortunately infrequent, migraines.
“Did you have his permission—”
“No.”
“Did you have the legal rights—”
“No.”
“So what you did is like, a copyright infringement? Violation?”
“Uh…” I winced. “We didn’t actually publish—”
“Hugo.” That warning tone she used with recalcitrant students.
In defiance, I crossed my arms. “They’re fucking brilliant songs. Yes, a little…for a younger crowd… but still—”
“What does that mean?” Cope sipped his coffee. Then he frowned. “Like…juvenile?”
“Not exactly.” I put my coffee on the side table, rubbed my face with my hands, then crossed my arms against my chest. “They’re insightful songs. Mostly love songs. Pining, unrequited…that kind of stuff. A couple about how tough is for life as a teen. Including one about being poor and Black. But not melancholic. More…defiant.” I glanced up at the ceiling. “Songs that will speak to kids his age as well as anyone with a heart. He’s so fucking talented. Always has been. I think it would be good to show—”
“Hugo.” Sharp and exasperated.
“Yes.” I eyed Renee.
“You’re attempting to justify the unjustifiable.” She pursed her lips. “Did he take the CD?”
I blinked. “Uh…yeah…” I’d pressed it into his hands seconds before he fled. Then I’d faced the room of onlookers and had booted the fuck out of there as well. Not understanding that one, there would be cameras, and two, my behavior had looked suspicious as fuck.
“So he could listen to it and sue you.”
“He won’t.”
“But he could.”
“To what end?” I gestured around my pathetic house. Two bedrooms, one ancient bathroom, and falling down around my ears. I’d bought it just before Vancouver real estate had bounced back. My divorce from Gavin had given me only one thing—the down payment for this house. It might not be much—in a less-than-desirable part of town—but the thing was mine.
Well, mostly the bank’s…but the thought was what mattered.
“He’s not going to try to steal my house.”
“But he could.” Renee narrowed her eyes. “You need to get the CD back. Tell your kids…what did you tell your kids?”
“That they were recording songs from a previous student. Even if they might be curious, Axel and Ed’s style is so radically different these days.” I hesitated. “Except “Sunrise”.”
Cope cocked his head, clearly curious by my tone.
“The documentary explains the song. It’s complicated—”
Renee wiggled her butt to settle into my beloved recliner. “I’ve got all the time in the world…”
And so I told them everything.