5. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
I become a ghost in my own home.
It happens gradually, the way erosion happens, imperceptible in any single moment but devastating over time.
I move through the house with careful footsteps and neutral expressions, occupying space without claiming it.
I make coffee in the morning and leave Hugo’s cup by the espresso machine without waiting to see if he’ll drink it.
I work in my studio until exhaustion makes me clumsy with pins, then slip into bed after he’s asleep and wake before he stirs.
We orbit each other like planets that forgot they once shared a sun.
Hugo notices. I can see it in the worried glances he throws my way, the tentative attempts at conversation that I answer with monosyllables, the way his hand sometimes reaches toward me and then falls back to his side when I don’t reach back.
He keeps promising things will change.
“It’s almost over,” he says over breakfast one morning, both of us pretending to read our respective phones. “A few more obligations, and then I’m done. I promise.”
I nod without looking up.
“Did you hear me?” His voice carries an edge of frustration, which is rich coming from the man who’s been absent for weeks. “Once these last commitments are done, no more Ginny. No more promotional obligations. The label agreed.”
“The label agreed to a lot of things.” I take a sip of coffee that’s gone cold while we weren’t talking. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Lucille…”
“I have a fitting at ten.” I stand, gathering my things with the efficiency of someone who’s been practicing escape. “We can talk later.”
We don’t talk later. We never talk later.
The promise hangs between us like a debt that keeps accruing interest, and I’ve stopped expecting payment.
***
The music video drops on a Tuesday.
I find out the way I find out everything these days: from Alice, who texts me seventeen times in rapid succession, each message more alarmed than the last.
ALICE: Don’t look at Twitter ALICE: Actually don’t look at the internet at all ALICE: Lu I’m serious ALICE: The video is out and it’s ALICE: I mean it’s FINE it’s just ALICE: People are being assholes ALICE: PLEASE tell me you’re not looking
I’m looking.
The video is beautifully shot, I’ll give them that.
Warm lighting, intimate angles, the kind of visual storytelling that makes even manufactured emotion feel real.
Hugo at the piano, Ginny behind him, the whole choreographed dance I watched them rehearse on set now polished into a version of memory.
The almost-kiss is worse than I imagined.
The camera lingers on their faces, inches apart, tension built into every frame.
Hugo’s expression is soft, focused, devastatingly present, all the things he never is with me.
The video cuts to black just before their lips meet, leaving the audience to imagine the rest.
My imagination is very thorough.
I scroll down to the comments and immediately wish I hadn’t.
the CHEMISTRY omg they should have stayed together this is tragic his wife could never more heat in 30 seconds than his entire marriage tbh ginny is the one that got away and everyone knows it
The hashtag #HugoAndGinny is trending. I click through to a feed of fan edits, Hugo and Ginny’s faces superimposed over romantic movie scenes, their voices isolated from the duet and played over sunset footage, side-by-side comparisons of “Hugo with Ginny” versus “Hugo with his wife” that don’t need captions to make their point.
In every photo with Ginny, he’s alive. Present. Actually there.
In every photo with me, he’s looking somewhere else.
I close Twitter and stare at the wall of my studio, breathing slowly, waiting for the pain to hit.
It doesn’t, not really. I’ve already felt this pain so many times that I’ve developed a tolerance.
What hits instead is duller, flatter, the exhaustion of watching the same wound get reopened over and over while everyone pretends they’re not holding the knife.
My phone rings. Hugo’s name on the screen.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. I consider blocking his number entirely. I consider throwing my phone across the room and watching it shatter against the wall the way I wish I could shatter this entire situation.
Instead, I answer.
“Hello.”
“You’ve seen it.” Not a question. His voice is tight, strained. “Lucille, I need you to know…”
“Did you try hard enough?”
The question comes out before I can stop it, pointed and accusatory, and I hear him inhale on the other end of the line.
“What do you mean?”
“To change it. The video concept. The almost-kiss.” I grip the phone tighter. “You told me you negotiated. You told me you made them adjust things. Did you actually try, or did you just say that to make me feel better?”
“I tried.” His voice cracks slightly. “I spent three hours in a room with the director arguing about that scene. They wanted an actual kiss. They wanted it to look like a reconciliation. I fought for every inch of distance I could get.”
“And this is what you got? Inches?”
“This is what I got.” He sounds exhausted, defeated. “I know it doesn’t look like enough. I know the internet is being cruel. But I swear to you, Lucille, I did everything I could.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him.
But I’ve wanted to believe him for two years, and wanting has never made it true.
“The label announced another interview,” I say instead of acknowledging his explanation. “A joint talk show appearance. ‘The reunion fans have been waiting for.’ No date yet, but they’re already promoting it.”
Silence on the other end.
“Hugo?”
“That wasn’t supposed to be announced yet.” His voice has gone flat, dangerous. “Derek was supposed to clear it with me first.”
“Well, it’s announced now. Trending, actually, right alongside the video.” I laugh but the sound of it is hollow. “So much for being done after the interview. There’s always one more thing, isn’t there? One more obligation. One more reason you can’t be here.”
“After this, I’m done. The label promised.”
“You said that about the video.”
“I know.”
“You said that about the recording sessions.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying it, Hugo. You keep promising me that the next thing will be the last thing, and then there’s another next thing, and another, and I’m still sitting here waiting for you to show up.
” My voice stays level, which surprises me.
I thought I’d be crying by now. “I don’t know how to believe you anymore. ”
The silence lasts between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks finally, and for once he doesn’t sound defensive. He sounds lost. “Tell me, please. Whatever it is you want, I’ll do it.”
“I want you to want to be here. We’ve had this conversation already.”
“I do want to be here.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
He doesn’t have an answer. He never has an answer. That’s the problem.
“I have to go,” I say before the silence can stretch any longer. “I have work.”
“Lucille, wait…”
“I’ll see you tonight. Maybe.”
I hang up and set my phone face-down on the worktable, and I don’t cry, because I’ve stopped crying about this. Crying implies surprise, and I’m not surprised anymore.
I’m just tired.
***
Alice shows up at my studio an hour later with wine, chocolate, and a righteous fury that I almost envy.
“Those comments are disgusting,” she announces, pushing past me into the room and setting her offerings on my cutting table. “I’ve reported like thirty accounts. Not that it does anything, they just create new ones, but at least it made me feel better.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Of course I didn’t have to come. I wanted to come. That’s what friends do when the internet decides to collectively trash your marriage.” She pulls two glasses from her bag, she brought glasses, because of course she did, and pours generous servings of Pinot Grigio. “Drink. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a best friend. It’s basically the same thing, except with more wine and less liability insurance.”
I take the glass because it’s easier than arguing and because the first sip does actually help, just a little. Alice settles onto my studio couch and watches me with the particular intensity she gets when she’s about to say what I don’t want to hear.
“You’re defending him,” she says finally.
“I’m not defending him.”
“You’re making excuses. ‘He tried to change the video concept.’ ‘He didn’t know about the interview.’ ‘It’s the label’s fault.’” She shakes her head. “Lu, he’s a grown man. He could say no. He could walk away from the whole thing. The fact that he hasn’t is a choice.”
“It’s not that simple. His album…”
“Is not more important than his marriage.” Alice sets down her wine with a firm click.
“I’ve watched you shrink yourself for two years, Lucille.
I’ve watched you rearrange your entire life around a man who barely notices you’re in the room.
And every time I try to say what needs saying, you tell me it’s complicated, he’s trying, things will get better. ”
“Things will get better.”
“When? When will things get better?” She leans forward, eyes fierce.
“Because from where I’m sitting, things have been getting progressively worse for months.
He’s absent, he’s distracted, he’s playing house with his ex-girlfriend on national television, and you’re sitting here in your studio at midnight fixing his clothes like some kind of Victorian spinster waiting for a man who might never come home. ”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s completely fair. I love you, Lu. I have loved you since freshman year of college when you hemmed my disaster of a formal dress in three hours and never made me feel stupid for buying the wrong size. But I cannot watch you destroy yourself waiting for a man who doesn’t deserve you.”
“He’s not…” I stop, swallow. “You don’t know him the way I do.”