All's Well(83)

Everything okay? he said to me when he came out of the steaming bathroom. I snapped the laptop shut. Gazed at his long, wet hair slicked back from his face.

And what could I do but fuck him again?

The restaurant’s track lighting shines down on him now like a spotlight. Doing something weird to his hair, to his eyes, the cut of his jawline. So that he really truly looks like— “What? What’s wrong?” Hugo says.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Just you’re looking at me funny again.”

“Am I?” I say.

“Yeah. Almost like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just the light,” I tell him. “Just in this light, you look like someone.”

At first he frowns, but then he smiles. “Someone good I hope,” he replies.

“Yes,” I say. “Someone very good.”

He’s smiling at me over his menu. That grin-shaped scar on his lip. Paul didn’t have a scar like that but everything else is uncannily the same. Clothes are a bit off though. Paul wouldn’t wear a Mot?rhead shirt or lumberjack plaid. But apart from that. He reaches out and takes my hand. All I had to do was hold it out, palm up, and he took the cue.

“What do you think you’ll have?” Paul says.

“The eel, like always,” I say. “And you’ll have the sunshine roll, of course.”

“I will?” He laughs. “How do you know? I haven’t even really looked at the menu yet.”

“Because it’s the best. Because I know your taste.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should I trust you?”

“You should absolutely trust me.”

“All right,” he tells the waiter when he arrives, “the sunshine roll. And a Sapporo, please.”

“The cold sake is really good.” I take his hand and squeeze.

“Okay. Sake, then.” I order my usual.

The waiter leaves, and I look at Hugo. Perfect. Perfect, except the clothes.

“Did you get those shirts I left in your mailbox?” I ask him.

“Shirts? Oh yeah. The shirts. Yeah, I got them.”

“I just felt so bad about the one that got torn,” I say.

“Just a few buttons missing, really. Still a good shirt.” He grins.

“Well, these new ones I got you have snaps. So you don’t even have to worry about—”

“They’re cool. Just not really my style, Miranda. I mean I like them, don’t get me wrong, but I’m all about this combo right here.” He tugs on the plaid shirt, then on the T-shirt beneath. “Much better for my kind of work. Wearing those fancy shirts, I’d feel afraid to do anything, you know.”

“Well, those shirts wouldn’t be for working. They’d be for going out.” With me.

“Still. They’re just… I don’t know. Not me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Please. It was really thoughtful of you. I’ll still hang on to them.”

The food arrives, and he switches the subject to production. Asks how rehearsal’s going, and I say going so well. He tells me more about the sets, how the new budget has been a dream come true thanks to me. And lighting and sound are all ready to go for tech week too. We’re in great shape.

We feed each other smoked eel. Gorgeous. “God, isn’t it great to be back here?” I ask him.

“I’ve never eaten here, remember?”

“Right, of course.”

Every now and then I look down into the mirror of the table and smile. And then he says, “Hey, I heard there was some kind of weirdness yesterday with Briana, is that true?”

I’m holding a piece of smoked eel between my chopsticks. And I drop it. But I pick it right back up. I look confusedly at Hugo, who is definitely Hugo now.

“Weirdness? What did you hear exactly?” But I’m already picturing it. Fauve wandering into the scene shop after my trial by fire, whispering hotly into his ear, her hand gripping his shoulder. Failing to mention how she implicated him, of course.

“Just that Briana came to the dean’s office with her parents and that you all had a… was it a meeting?”

I shrug and smile. “It was fine. She just accused me of making her sick, that’s all.” I eat the eel. Chewy, this piece.

“What?”

“I know, can you believe it?” I shake my head. Roll my eyes.

“What did she say you did to her exactly?”

“Take your pick, really. Witchcraft. Black magic. Satanism.” I laugh out loud at that last one. Can’t help it.

But Hugo’s looking at me strangely now, not laughing at all.

“Oh, come on, it’s funny,” I say.

“I don’t think it’s funny, Miranda. I think it’s fucked-up.”

“It’s that too. And sad. Frankly, I feel sorry for her. I mean it’s a ridiculous accusation. What century are we in, am I right?” I shake my head.

“Right.” He shakes his head too. But he’s still looking at me funny. “I guess I just don’t get why she would accuse you of something like that,” he says.

I shrug. “Grasping at straws, I guess. Trying desperately to find a reason for her illness, a cause. Easier to point the finger at someone else than at yourself, I suppose.”