8. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
I’m still sitting in my car in the driveway when headlights sweep across the pavement.
I should have been gone by now. I should have driven away five minutes ago, when I first loaded my suitcase into the car and slid behind the wheel. But an invisible force kept me frozen, my hands on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed on the dark windows of the house I’d called home for two years.
Not second thoughts. Not hesitation.
Just the weight of endings, pressing down on my chest like a physical thing.
The dashboard clock reads 10:47 when the car pulls in behind mine, blocking my exit, and I watch Hugo get out in the glow of my taillights.
He’s still wearing the charcoal suit from the interview, his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it the way he does when he’s stressed. His face is pale in the darkness, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm as he registers the suitcase in my backseat.
I get out of my car and face him across the driveway.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The night air hangs between us, full of jasmine and endings, and I can see him processing, the packed bag, my changed clothes, the fact that I’m standing outside my own house like a woman about to flee.
“You got my messages,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I tried to call. I tried to explain…”
“I got them.”
“Then why are you…” He gestures at the car, at the suitcase, at everything. “Lucille, what is this?”
“What does it look like?”
He takes a step toward me, then stops, a warning in my expression keeping him from coming closer.
“I can explain,” he says. “The interview, the label pushed it. Derek called me three hours before it was supposed to air and told me they’d moved the time slot. I tried to get them to postpone, I swear to God I tried, but they said it was live and the network wouldn’t…”
“Stop.”
The word comes out quiet, but it cuts through his excuses like a blade. He stops.
“I don’t want to hear about the label,” I say. “I don’t want to hear about Derek or the network or the time slot. I want you to look at me, Hugo. Really look at me. And then I want you to tell me why you’re always the victim of circumstances that somehow never seem to affect anyone but me.”
His face crumbles.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I take a step toward him now, closing the distance he was afraid to cross.
“You’ve spent two months telling me that things would change.
That the duet was a one-time thing. That the video was the last obligation.
That the interview would be the end of it.
And every single time, a new crisis came up.
A new thing you couldn’t control. A new reason to choose Ginny over me. ”
“I never chose Ginny…”
“You chose her stage over my table.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate myself for it.
“Every time, Hugo. Every single time there was a choice between being with me and being with her, you chose her. You chose the label. You chose the career. You chose everything in the world except the woman who’s been waiting for you to notice her for two years. ”
“I notice you.” His voice is desperate now, ragged at the edges. “I’ve always noticed you.”
“Then why don’t I feel seen?”
He doesn’t have an answer. He just stands there, his suit jacket catching the light from the porch, his hands hanging useless at his sides, and I realize with a clarity that feels like drowning that he genuinely doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t understand what he’s done. He doesn’t understand what he’s been doing. He’s so deep in his own world, his own pressures, his own carefully constructed cage of obligations, that he can’t see the woman he’s been slowly destroying in the process.
“I cooked for you tonight,” I say quietly.
“Coq au vin. My mother’s recipe, as close as I could get to your grandmother’s, without ever having tasted hers.
I spent three days planning this dinner.
I set the table with our wedding china. I wore a dress I designed for you, with seed pearls I sewed on by hand, one at a time, because I wanted you to know that someone thought you were worth that kind of effort. ”
Hugo’s face has gone gray.
“And you know where I watched you tonight?” I continue. “From the dining room table. The fully set table, with the candles burning and the food getting cold, while you sat next to Ginny Davies on live television and talked about how she reminded you why you fell in love with music.”
“That’s not what I… I didn’t mean…”
“Do you know what it’s like to watch your husband talk about another woman like that?
On your anniversary?” I’m crying now, finally, the tears I thought wouldn’t come spilling down my cheeks.
“I’ve defended you for months. I’ve told myself you didn’t have a choice.
I’ve made excuses for every absence, every broken promise, every time you failed to show up.
But tonight, Hugo, tonight you had a choice. And you chose her.”
“I didn’t choose her.” He moves toward me again, and this time I don’t stop him.
His hands land on my shoulders, warm and trembling.
“I didn’t choose Ginny. I chose the interview because I thought it was the only way to get the label off my back.
I thought if I just did this one last thing, they would finally leave us alone and I could focus on us. On you.”
“You always think that.” I shake my head slowly. “And I’m always the one sitting alone at the end of the night, wondering if this time will be different.”
“This time is different. I promise you…”
“Your promises don’t mean anything anymore.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I watch him absorb them, watch the hope drain from his eyes, and I feel a shift in my chest. Not satisfaction, there’s no satisfaction in this. Just the grim recognition that we’ve reached the end.
“I’m filing for divorce,” I say.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Hugo’s hands fall from my shoulders like they’ve lost the strength to hold on. He takes a step back, then another, until there’s a gulf of pavement between us that feels impossibly wide.
“No,” he says. “Lucille, no. You can’t… we can work through this. We can go to counseling, we can…”
“We can’t work through this because you don’t understand what’s broken.” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, suddenly exhausted. “It’s not about Ginny. It was never really about Ginny.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about you never being here. It’s about two years of waiting for you to look at me the way you look at a piano. It’s about loving someone who doesn’t know how to love me back and finally accepting that no amount of waiting is going to change that.”
“I do love you.” His voice cracks. “I know I’ve been terrible at showing it. I know I’ve failed you in more ways than I can count. But I love you, Lucille. Please don’t leave.”
I look at him, my husband, the man I married, the man I’ve spent two years trying to reach, and I feel a fracture open in my chest. Not my heart. My heart broke months ago. This is different. This is the last thread of hope finally letting go.
“Ginny means nothing to me,” he says desperately. “She never did. She was a mistake in college and a contractual obligation now, nothing more. If I could go back and refuse the whole thing, I would. I would walk away from the album, the label, all of it…”
“Then why does she get the version of you that shows up?”
He stops.
“Why does she get the Hugo who’s present?
Who’s focused? Who looks at her like she’s the only person in the room?
” I spread my hands helplessly. “I’ve been married to you for two years, and I’ve never seen you look at me the way you looked at her on that screen tonight. Engaged. Alive. Actually there.”
“That was acting. It wasn’t real.”
“Maybe it was acting. But it was more than you’ve ever given me.” I take a shaky breath. “I asked you once what it would take for you to actually be present in this marriage. Do you remember what you said?”
He shakes his head, miserable.
“You said you’d try. You said you wanted to be here. You said all the right words, Hugo, and then you went right back to disappearing.” I back toward my car, my hand finding the door handle. “I’m done accepting words. I need someone who shows up with actions. And that’s not you.”
“It could be me.” He follows me, desperation making his movements jerky. “Give me another chance. One more chance to prove…”
“How many chances have I given you?” I open the car door, putting it between us like a shield. “How many times have I believed you when you said things would be different?”
He doesn’t answer because he knows the number as well as I do. Too many. Far too many.
“I loved you, Hugo.” My voice is steady now, steadier than I expected.
“I know you didn’t ask for me. I know this marriage was an arrangement, a transaction, two families merging their interests.
But I loved you anyway. I loved you in spite of everything, in the hope that someday you’d love me back.
” I pause, letting the words settle. “And I was stupid to think that would ever be enough.”
I get in the car.
“Lucille, wait…” He grabs the door before I can close it. “Please. Just give me until morning. Let me prove I can change.”
“You’ve had two years to prove that.” I look up at him, at the panic in his eyes, and I feel the strangest sense of peace. “The papers will come from my lawyer. I’m not asking for anything, no alimony, no assets, no settlement. I just want out.”
“I don’t care about the money. I care about you.”
“Then you should have shown it.”
I pull the door closed, and he doesn’t fight me.
Through the window, I watch his face as I start the engine. He looks shattered, truly shattered, in a way I’ve never seen from him before. For one brief moment, I almost waver. Almost open the door and let him hold me and convince me that this time, finally, things will be different.
But I’ve been down that road. I know where it leads.