9. Hugo
Chapter 9
Hugo
I repeat it to myself, a mantra.
You don't know her situation .
I say it twice more. A chastisement.
Mallory passes in front of me, sailing through the door I'm holding open for her. She says thank you with her eyes as she goes, and I dip my chin at her gratitude.
She finds her way to the railing, gripping it tightly with both hands. She looks out, her chest swelling with a quiet, deep breath.
I step close to her. Fingers wrapped around my beer bottle, the other hand resting on the wooden rail. My pinkie finger, so near to her dainty one. A subtle stretch of my finger and I'd touch her. Makes me think of the moment she hooked her delicate finger around me, promising me she'd do right by our departed loved ones.
"It's remarkable," she says, after a slow exhale, absorbing the land I love. "I can see why it was your dad's favorite spot on the property. "
The olive trees stand proud, the grove thick and running long, following the gentle slope of the hills. A pink and orange sky blends into the tops of the trees, putting on a show. As if Olive Township and the sunset sky have conspired to give Mallory a glimpse of what my father loved.
The breeze lifts her hair off her shoulders. Her face is soft, almost dreamy, and I know she's saying something nice about my dad right now, but I'm finding it hard to process her words. She's beautiful.
She peers at me, and I snap my gaze back to the olive grove. "My dad could work the fields all day long, and still, this is where he wanted to be every evening. He never got used to this view. Never tired of it, or took it for granted."
"I think that's what happens when you love something. When it becomes woven into the fabric of your soul."
I clear my throat, push away the desire to openly admire the straight edge of her nose, the way her lips puff out in the prettiest shade of pink. Am I lusting after another man's woman? Is this how Penn felt when he found out Daisy was engaged to Duke, but he couldn't help the way he wanted her anyway?
"Is that how you feel about true crime?" I ask, banishing my amorous thoughts. "Or podcasting about true crime?"
Her mouth opens with an immediate response, but she catches herself and snaps it shut.
"What?" I press .
She shakes her head. "Nothing."
I squint at her. "Try again. Your response was definitely something."
She directs a clear gaze my way. There's an honesty in her eyes. Like she's realizing something in real time.
She turns west, letting the burnt shades of the last of the sun wash over her face. "Solving Maggie's murder is the reason I wake up in the morning. It's the reason I took psychology courses in college."
I catch this detail, tucking it away for later. It makes sense. Learning what makes people tick is probably helpful to her job now.
She continues. "But I don't know if I want it to be a thread in a tapestry that represents my soul. It's what motivates me, but it's dark." Her hand dips to her belly, fingers spreading over her dress as if palming a basketball, curling and flexing tenderly. Protectively.
Something about it makes me... happy? Not quite. Relieved, I guess. Mallory seems tough, but I like this stroke of vulnerability.
"I want the fabric of my soul to be light. Airy. Pastels." She looks down at her stomach, at her hand splayed across it. "Not dark. I want my baby to only know light."
My baby . No mention of a father.
"That's understandable," I say, and she looks at me. Reluctant. She's waiting for me to ask about the baby's father. Steeling herself.
I'm dying to ask, dying to know. The truth is, I feel a spark with her. Sounds crazy though. Probably is.
We're in the oddest of circumstances, but I feel the beginning of a buzz in my fingertips. It's not the beer I've been sipping on.
It's Mallory. There's something about her. She's different. A stranger, but she doesn't feel like one. Not when I'm talking to her, or looking in her eyes. Most women I have to tell about my dad, but not her. She already knew. She sought me out. I didn't have to watch the information transform her expression.
I bet if I told Penn, or my other best friend, Ambrose, about Mallory, they'd tell me I like her because she's not available. Not because I want what I can't have, but because I wouldn't have to worry about getting in too deep. She's so full of roadblocks, I wouldn't have to worry about getting too far down the path. Safe.
Ugh . How pathetic can I get? Standing here beside the pregnant true crime podcaster who wants to explore my dad's case and thinking of her in a way that's not professional.
Forget that we met and immediately began flirting. Mallory is pregnant with another man's child, and there has been no confirmation if he is or is not in the picture. Not to mention the tiny little fact that I don't do relationships .
Given these two very important reasons, I'll be keeping my thoughts and questions to myself.
"I'm sure all parents want the best for their kids." It's such a bland response, I almost cringe.
She raps her knuckles on the railing, only twice. "I'm sure."
Her tone is forlorn. Sad, even .
Together, we watch the sun sink below the horizon.
"There it goes," Mallory says. She turns for the door. "Please tell your mother I said thank you for inviting me to stay and watch something your dad loved."
"Let me walk you out." I point around the side of the house. "You're parked right over there."
She walks beside me. Even if somebody removed my sense of sight or hearing, I'd still know she was there. I feel her energy, as if it radiates off her skin. I'm hyperaware of this woman, but I don't understand why.
Is it because she's the first woman I've had out to the grove? She's not here in a romantic capacity, not in the slightest, but her being here brings to stark relief the fact that I've never brought a woman home.
That's... odd. And probably unhealthy.
And also not something I want to look too deeply into right now.
Talking to Mallory, opening up the possibility of having her look into my father's murder, that's about all I can take.
"So you're staying in Olive Township for a few more days?" We've arrived at the driver's side of her car. I know Mallory already told my mother yes, but I'm sure there are logistics she needs to work out.
"I plan to," she responds. "First, I need to see if I can extend my stay at the inn, and make sure some things get taken care of in Phoenix." She pats her stomach. "Reschedule an appointment."
"Check in with your husband?"
Did...I...just say that ?
The back of my neck heats like somebody is holding a lighter to it. What a dumbass .
Mallory's lips purse, as if she wants to laugh, but instead she shakes her head slowly back-and-forth. She doesn't make a face like she's offended, and that encourages me. Maybe I'll dip my toes in the dumbass pool one more time.
"Check in with your boyfriend ?"
Her lips twitch again. Another slow shake of her head. No . Then she says, "The only person I have to worry about is the guy chained up in my basement. He should be ok for a few more days though. He has enough length of chain to reach a rusty pipe that drips dirty water." She immediately makes a face, laughing awkwardly. "Sorry about the macabre humor. Hazard of the job."
I wave it off. I should probably be more concerned about the fact I was thinking it might not be the worst thing in the world to be chained up in Mallory's basement.
Ok, what's wrong with me? Why am I thinking this way? Maybe I should call Ambrose and tell him. It might be good to be on the receiving end of his thoughtful listening. Or I could call Penn and ask him to meet me for a beer. When I tell him the nonsense running through my mind, he'll deliver an open palm thwack on the side of my head.
Maybe that's what I need.
"Poor bastard," I choke out, smiling to show her I don't mind her morbid joke .
Mallory wiggles her eyebrows. "Maybe he likes it."
This time, I really do laugh. I can't contain it. This woman is funny.
"I'll see you later this week at the Olive Festival," she says, climbing into her driver's seat.
On a whim, I pull my phone from my pocket. "We should exchange numbers. In case you need something."
She nods like she agrees, reciting her phone number. I key it in, calling her so she has my number, too.
With a single wave I watch her drive down the dirt lane, rounding the outbuildings. She disappears from sight, but still I stand in place, watching the dust plume.
In the end, I don't call Ambrose, or Penn. I walk my ass home to my house, where I spend the rest of the evening prepping for the meeting I have tomorrow with an olive oil sommelier, and internet stalking Mallory.
Her only social media is related to her podcast, and it's not up to date. There is not a single mention of her sister, her pregnancy, or her personal life at all.
It seems Mallory is a lot like me.
Two people who had a piece of them stolen, and do their best every day to live with a heart that is not whole.