5. Lucille #2
“I know what I see. I see you getting thinner because you forget to eat when he’s not around.
I see you checking your phone every five minutes hoping for a text that doesn’t come.
I see you defending behavior that would make you furious if anyone else described it happening to them.
” Alice’s voice softens. “If I told you my boyfriend was doing what Hugo is doing, what would you say?”
I don’t answer, because we both know what I would say.
“I’m not saying leave him,” Alice continues.
“I’m saying stop making excuses. Stop pretending this is normal.
Stop waiting for him to become someone different.
” She reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“You deserve someone who shows up. If Hugo can’t be that person, then maybe he shouldn’t be your person at all. ”
I stare at my wine glass, watching the light play through the pale liquid.
“Our anniversary is in three weeks,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“Maybe…” I trail off, trying to organize thoughts that have been churning beneath the surface for days. “Maybe I give him until then. One more chance. If he can’t show up for our anniversary, if he chooses work or Ginny or the label over me on that day, then I have my answer.”
Alice studies me for a long moment.
“And if he does show up?”
“Then maybe there’s a fight worth having.” I take a breath. “I don’t want to give up on my marriage, Alice. I know how it looks from the outside. I know you think I’m being naive or stupid or both. But I made vows. I want them to matter.”
“They should matter to both of you.”
“I know.” I drain the rest of my wine. “That’s what the anniversary will tell me.”
Alice sighs, but she doesn’t argue.
“Three weeks,” she says. “And if he disappoints you again, I’m helping you pack.”
“Deal.”
She stays for another hour, talking about lighter things, her job, her terrible Hinge dates, the true crime podcast she’s been obsessed with. By the time she leaves, I almost feel normal again.
Almost.
***
Florence calls the next morning and insists on lunch.
“No arguments,” she says before I can protest. “I’m picking you up at noon. Wear what’s comfortable, we’re going to that Italian place you like, the one with the bread.”
“Florence, I really don’t think…”
“Noon. Be ready.”
She hangs up, and I find myself smiling despite everything. Florence Kensington does not take no for an answer, which is probably where Hugo got his stubbornness, though he uses his for very different purposes.
The restaurant is a quiet place in the hills, family-owned and paparazzi-proof, with red-checked tablecloths and bread that arrives warm in baskets before you even order.
Florence has already secured a corner booth when I arrive, and she stands to kiss both my cheeks before pulling me down beside her.
“You look tired,” she says without preamble.
“I am tired.”
“Of course you are. Anyone would be.” She pours wine for both of us without asking. “I’ve seen the video. I’ve seen the comments. I’ve seen the way the internet has decided to narrate my son’s marriage without any input from the people actually living it.”
“Welcome to modern celebrity.”
“Modern cruelty, more like.” Florence shakes her head. “In my day, gossip at least had the decency to stay in drawing rooms. Now it’s everywhere, inescapable, and people treat speculation like fact.”
The bread arrives, and I tear off a piece without really tasting it.
“I keep wondering if I’m overreacting,” I admit. “The video is just a video. The interview is just an interview. Hugo says it doesn’t mean anything, and maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m being paranoid, seeing threats where there aren’t any.”
“You’re not overreacting.” Florence’s voice is firm. “You’re responding appropriately to being consistently deprioritized. There’s a difference.”
I look up, surprised by her bluntness.
“He’s your son.”
“And I love him desperately, which is why I can see his flaws clearly.” She takes a sip of wine.
“Hugo has always been better at playing emotions than feeling them. It’s what makes him such a good performer.
He can access feeling on command, channel it into music, project it for an audience.
But when the cameras are off and there’s no melody to carry him, he gets lost. He retreats into work because work is safe. Emotions are not.”
“That doesn’t excuse…”
“It doesn’t excuse anything. I’m explaining, not excusing.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “But I want you to know this, Lucille. The way Hugo looks when he talks about you, when you’re not around to see it, is different from how he looks at anyone else.”
“How does he look?”
“Terrified.” Florence smiles slightly. “Like you matter so much that the weight of it might crush him. Like he doesn’t know what to do with feeling that much, so he keeps it at arm’s length and hopes it won’t destroy him.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It doesn’t match my experience of Hugo, distant, distracted, always halfway out the door, but Florence has known him longer. Maybe she sees things I can’t.
“What do I do with that information?” I ask finally.
“Don’t let him run. He’ll try to run, he’s been running his whole life. From emotion, from vulnerability, from anyone who gets too close.” She squeezes my hand. “But also don’t destroy yourself waiting. You’re not obligated to stand still while he figures out how to move toward you.”
“I gave myself a deadline,” I tell her. “Our anniversary. If he can’t show up for that, really show up, not just physically but emotionally, then I’ll know.”
Florence nods slowly. “That seems fair.”