Chapter 14
There’s a methodology to Hugo’s breakfast choices. Eggs on Friday. Oatmeal on Sunday. Cereal on Tuesday. I haven’t been paying enough attention to know what he eats the other days of the week.
Does he cycle through those three?
I can’t say, because I haven’t been joining him for breakfast every day. I’ve been so focused on finishing the piece for the gala—a gown I’m calling Midnight Rain—that I’m often out of the house before he wakes.
By now, though, I know it has nothing to do with the food. The same need has him tapping his glass three times before every sip. At the start of the month, his quirks struck me as odd.
Now they’re just Hugo.
And I’m humbled he trusts me enough to share this version of himself, the guy who eats cereal shaped like cartoon animals and treats it like a state secret.
At some point, I caught him shoving the box behind the quinoa when a foundation call came through on video. I haven’t let him live it down since.
The gala’s only days off now, and being part of this event could change everything for me, so I’ve been giving it every spare hour I have, rarely in bed before midnight.
Thankfully, his nightmares have calmed down. The last several nights, he hasn’t had a single episode, though I might have heard him padding through the house. Maybe he’s a 3 a.m. snacker, finding himself in the kitchen, thirsty and restless.
I know the feeling, on both counts.
Now that my sleep has improved a bit, my thirst for an orgasm has returned full force, turning into a humiliating fixation that leaves me restless.
But no matter what I do, whether it’s reliving my night with Sebastian or resorting to the image of Oliver in my doorway, I can’t, for the life of me, make myself come.
Every time I get close, my body stalls at the edge, waiting on permission that never arrives.
It shouldn’t be this difficult.
People manage it daily.
Not patients of Dr. Price.
And that’s why I’ve turned a simple act into a personal vendetta.
Ugh!
I toss the blankets off and grab my robe before making my way down the hall.
A bulb above the stove lights the kitchen in a soft glow.
The stainless steel fridge hums next to it.
I pull the freezer open and find a pint of mint chocolate chip.
Leaning against the counter, I dig a spoon in, and that first creamy bite draws a sigh from my lips. I close my eyes in glorious bliss.
It might not be orgasmic, but ice cream is a close second. In fact, it might be better. I shovel in another spoonful as a door cracks open down the hall.
The spoon stills in my mouth.
Bare feet shuffle toward the kitchen.
I set the ice cream down and peer into the hall. Backlit by the nightlight, Hugo appears.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer right away, having grown used to his delayed responses. But the way he moves past me, eyes open but seeing nothing, sends my heart into my throat.
“Hugo?”
He switches on the faucet and sticks his hands under the flow of water. “One…two…three.”
What is he doing?
Is he even awake?
Screaming, thrashing in the sheets, sometimes even ending up on the floor—that’s been the pattern for the past few weeks.
But this…
This is different.
“One…two…three.” He continues scrubbing his skin, and the count loops back to one before starting again.
I grab his arm. “Hugo, stop.”
Zero reaction.
“One…two…three. It’ll be over soon.”
Steam rises, the water going from warm to hot. His hands flush pink before deepening to a blotchy red.
“Hugo!”
His name echoes off the walls, but instead of snapping him out of it, tears well in his eyes. Then, softest of all…
“I won’t tell, Mama. I promise.”
The devastation isn’t just in his unknowing confession—it lives in his tone, in a childlike voice wrapped in memories he relives in his sleep.
My stomach revolts.
The ice cream curdles.
And the water’s scalding now, with no sign of him coming out of it on his own. I reach past him and crank the tap off.
The ritual breaks, leaving him in silent lucidity.
He goes still as water drips from his reddened fingers. I count the seconds, each one out of sync with my racing heartbeat, and hold my breath as he turns to find me standing next to him in my robe.
He jerks away, awareness filling his expression, and those damp green eyes widen. All the color leaches from his complexion.
Naked. His secret laid bare in front of me.
Stumbling backward, he mumbles a strangled “sorry” before retreating down the hall, tripping over the sobs he can’t fully swallow. Moments later, his bedroom door shuts.
I’m left gaping after him, ice cream forgotten on the counter. My legs won’t move. The faucet drips into the silence, and his voice keeps looping under it.
One…two…three.
It’ll be over soon.
I won’t tell, Mama.
I promise.
My palm flies to my mouth. I’m quaking, weak in the knees, with no idea whether I’m about to weep or be sick.
Maybe it’s both.