10. Hugo #2
Instead, I take the lily of the valley and lay it on the ground in front of the building’s entrance, where she’ll see it when she arrives. No card. No explanation. Just a single flower that I noticed her love once, months ago, when I should have been noticing everything.
It’s not enough. It’s nowhere close to enough.
But it’s a start.
***
The press event is unavoidable.
I tried to cancel, told Derek I wasn’t doing any more promotional work, that he could tell the label whatever he wanted, but this one was scheduled months ago, a charity benefit where I’m supposed to perform and schmooze and maintain the image of Hugo Kensington, country music’s golden boy.
If I don’t show up, the story becomes about my absence. About the divorce. About whatever narrative Ginny and the label want to spin.
If I do show up, at least I control the conversation.
So I put on the suit with Lucille’s stitches hidden in the lining, and I walk into a ballroom full of cameras and industry insiders, and I try to remember how to breathe.
The first hour is manageable. Handshakes and small talk, the familiar rhythm of public performance. I smile when I’m supposed to smile. I laugh when I’m supposed to laugh. I answer questions about the album with vague noncommitments that seem to satisfy the people asking them.
Then a reporter corners me near the bar.
“Mr. Kensington, can you comment on the rumors about your collaboration with Ginny Davies? Sources say the label is planning a full album together, possibly a tour…”
“There’s no collaboration.”
The reporter blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“There’s no collaboration. There never was.
” I set down my drink and face her fully, aware that other reporters are drifting closer, phones appearing in hands.
“What there was, was a business decision made by people who don’t have to live with the consequences.
A leaked song from years ago, back in college.
A manufactured narrative that served everyone’s interests except the people it actually affected. ”
“Are you saying the reunion with Ginny Davies was…”
“I’m saying my music has always come from one place.
” I pause, gathering the words that have been building in my chest for days.
“My wife. Lucille. She’s the reason I remember why music matters, and I’ve spent two years forgetting to tell her that.
Forgetting to show her. Forgetting that all the songs in the world don’t mean anything if you’re not writing them for the right person. ”
The reporter’s eyebrows have climbed toward her hairline. Around us, phones are definitely recording now.
“Mr. Kensington, are you saying…”
“I’m saying I made a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life.
I let myself get caught up in obligations and contracts and the machinery of an industry that doesn’t care about the people it chews through.
” I take a breath. “And I’m saying that’s over.
Effective immediately, I’m stepping back from all professional commitments.
No album push. No touring. No bookings. Indefinitely. ”
The murmur that ripples through the crowd is audible.
“You’re retiring?” The reporter looks like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.
“I’m putting my marriage first. I’m choosing the thing that actually matters over the things that just feel urgent.” I pick up my drink again, suddenly exhausted. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I walk away before she can ask another question, before the crowd can close in with their follow-ups and their skepticism and their hungry curiosity. Derek appears at my elbow almost immediately, his face pale with fury.
“What the hell was that?”
“That was me telling the truth.”
“That was career suicide. The label is going to…”
“I don’t care what the label is going to do.” I stop walking and face him. “I’ve lost my wife, Derek. I’ve lost the only person in my life who loved me for who I am, not what I could do for them. And I lost her because I kept choosing your priorities over mine. That’s over now.”
“You have contracts…”
“Then sue me. Do whatever you need to do. But I’m done being managed into decisions that destroy the things I actually care about.”
I leave him standing there with his mouth open and his phone already buzzing with damage control calls, and I walk out of the ballroom into the cool night air.
The valet brings my car. I get in and sit for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, my heart pounding with the aftermath of what I just did.
I just tanked my career. Publicly. Deliberately.
And I don’t regret it for a second.
***
Her studio is dark when I arrive, but I know she’s still there.
I can see a light in the window on the fourth floor, the warm glow of a desk lamp, the shadow of someone moving behind the frosted glass. She works late. Alice told me that. She’s been working eighteen-hour days, building what belongs to her.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, giving myself time to think about what I’m going to say. By the time I reach the fourth floor, my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking and I still don’t have the words.
Maybe that’s okay. Maybe the words aren’t the point.
I knock on the door of Suite 405.
Footsteps inside. A pause. The door opens.
Lucille stands in the doorway, and the sight of her nearly breaks me.