10. Hugo #3
She looks tired but alive, more alive than I’ve seen her in months.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and there’s a pin cushion strapped to her wrist, and she’s wearing an old sweater I recognize from the early days of our marriage, back before she stopped wearing comfortable things around me.
Her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Hugo.”
“I’m not here to ambush you.” I hold up my hands, showing I’ve brought nothing, no flowers this time, no gifts, nothing that could be mistaken for an attempt to buy my way back.
“I’m not here to make a scene or demand anything or perform some grand gesture.
I just need five minutes. And then I’ll go. ”
She doesn’t close the door in my face. She doesn’t tell me to leave.
She just stands there, waiting.
“I saw your interview,” she says finally. “It’s all over social media. People are saying you had a breakdown.”
“Do you think I had a breakdown?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Her voice is careful, guarded. “I don’t know what you want from me, Hugo.”
“I want to tell you the truth. To your face. Not to a camera, not through a lawyer, not in a text message you can ignore.” I take a breath. “I know I don’t deserve five minutes. I know I don’t deserve anything. But please.”
She steps back from the doorway, and I take that as permission to enter.
The studio is small but beautiful, bolts of fabric lining the walls, a dress form draped in midnight blue silk, sketches pinned to every available surface. This is her world. The world she built while I was busy ignoring her.
“Say what you came to say,” Lucille says, crossing her arms.
I face her in the center of the room, surrounded by the evidence of everything she’s been creating without me.
“I know you might never forgive me.” The words come slowly, pulled from somewhere deep. “I know you might never want to see me again after tonight. And I’m not asking you to. I’m not asking for anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I needed to say this to you, not to a camera. Not for the public record.” I swallow hard.
“I see you now, Lucille. I see the stitches in my jackets. I see the dinners I missed. I see every time you reached for me and I wasn’t there.
I see the woman who loved me in secret, in silence, without ever asking for anything in return, while I was too blind and too selfish and too scared to love her back. ”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I see her hands tighten on her arms.
“I’m not going to ask you to take me back,” I continue. “I’m not going to beg or plead or make promises I can’t keep. I’m just going to tell you what I’m going to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m going to show up. Every day. In whatever way you’ll let me.
I’m going to prove that I can be the man you deserved from the beginning, the one who notices you, who prioritizes you, who puts you first even when it’s hard.
” I hold her gaze. “And if you never take me back, I’ll keep showing up anyway.
Because you’re worth fighting for, even if I never win. ”
Lucille is quiet for a long moment.
“That’s easy to say,” she says finally. “You’ve always been good at words.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not asking you to believe me yet.
” I take a step back, toward the door. “I’m asking you to watch.
Watch what I do. Watch if I show up. Watch if I’m consistent.
And if I’m not, if I disappear again, if I choose work or the label or my own comfort over you, then you’ll know I was lying. And you can close the door forever.”
“And if you do show up?”
“Then maybe, someday, you’ll let me try again.” I reach the doorway. “But that’s not up to me. That’s up to you. All I can do is be here.”
I pause, my hand on the door frame.
“The lily,” I say quietly. “You stopped to look at them once, at a flower stall on Spring Street. You told me your mother used to grow them.”
Her breath catches.
“I didn’t respond. I didn’t ask about your mother or why those flowers mattered to you or what memories they held.
I just nodded and kept walking, thinking about whatever industry obligation was next on my schedule.
” I meet her eyes. “I remember now. I remember everything I should have noticed and didn’t.
And I’m going to keep remembering, every day, until you believe me. ”
I leave before she can answer.
Not because I don’t want to hear what she’d say, but because this time isn’t about what I need. It’s about what she needs. And what she needs is space, and time, and the chance to see if my words actually mean anything.
I walk down the four flights of stairs and out into the cool night air, and I don’t look back at the window on the fourth floor.
Tomorrow, there will be another lily of the valley waiting at her door.
And the day after that.
And every day after that, until she believes me or tells me to stop.
I’m done running.
I’m done hiding behind work and contracts and the comfortable distance of an arranged marriage.
I’m going to fight for her.
Every day.
No matter how long it takes.