Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
There were no plans for a party, as such. Nothing garish and busy and everything Hugo hated. Instead, we were going out for a quiet dinner with close friends - Chrissie and Zac, Drew and Stefano, Ezra, and some members of Hugo’s band and production team. It was difficult, especially at this time of year, not to over analyse Hugo’s every expression for signs of depression or anxiety, but he really had been in a brilliant place lately.
He still saw his therapist, Phoebe, regularly. He liked her, much to his own surprise. He’d kept up with acupuncture sessions, started Pilates – which made me giggle watching him, I couldn’t help it – and, most importantly, he talked more. When he’d had a bad day, he told me all about it. If something bothered him, something small and, in his words, stupid, he let it out. I couldn’t have been prouder.
He’d even started talking to his father again, about a year ago. John Hayes had given me his phone number the day he’d stopped us outside the cemetery, which I’d held onto…just in case. Their relationship was civil, at best, but finally free of the pain that had burdened Hugo his whole life. Hugo hadn’t seen his brothers again yet and, honestly, I didn’t know if he ever planned to. Perhaps it would be better to wait until they were older. Maybe a relationship would never happen. For now, it didn’t appear to occupy much of Hugo’s mind. Hugo had finally accepted that the faults of John Hayes weren’t his to carry. Phoebe had helped him with that. I was very grateful to her.
The house had a security system with monitors that beeped whenever a main door was opened. I was in the home office when it sounded, alerting me to the fact Hugo was home. I ran quickly to intercept before he could reach the kitchen.
“Hey, you,” I greeted, kissing his lips. He looked gorgeous when he’d been working in the studio. Singing, creating… it gave him a glow like nothing else. His hair was mussed, his shirt undone by a couple of buttons. “Good day?”
“Better now,” he said, his smile lifting higher at one side while his thumb traced my cheekbone. Hugo and I had banned the word fine from our vocabulary some time ago. “Last couple of hours we had some time to just play around. Jay started strummin’ this rhythm, completely off the cuff, then Kendra starts tapping out a few beats, you know, feeling her way into it…” Sometimes, I didn’t really hear the words Hugo said, yet he managed to mesmerise me anyway. I couldn’t always keep up when he started getting technical, spouting alien lingo about riffs and chords and octaves, but the passion in his voice, the animation in his hands and expression could hold my attention for hours. “…and we ended up with something fucking magical. It could even end up being the first track on the album. I can’t wait for you to hear it.”
“Me too!”
Hugo’s career continued to soar. His audience matured along with him and his music. He continued to gain new fans, young and old. The somewhat unbalanced teenage girls were still a thing. He’d worried, initially, about the negative impact his stint in rehab could have, and he’d got it. Negativity followed him everywhere. There were articles that refused to publish the truth, sites that were only interested in clicks and gossip. In comparison to the outpouring of support and solidarity he’d received, though, the negative press was minimal and deserved as much of our attention as a toilet stain.
“Heli…” he went on to say. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“Oh.” It was only then I realised I’d been blockading the hallway, preventing him from gaining further access to the house. “Well…I have a surprise for you. It’s your birthday present. Early, I know, but there’s a reason.”
He arched an eyebrow, grinned. “Yeah? Does it involve nakedness?”
“Definitely not. That’s a separate present.”
He breathed a chuckle, tilted his head. “I can live with that.”
Taking his hand, I led him down the hallway and towards the kitchen, pausing at the door. Turning to him, nerves clawing at my throat, I said, “I’ve thought of everything. It’ll work, I promise. Happy birthday, Hugo.”
Once I’d said that, he began to look as scared as I felt. I opened the door, led him inside. I watched Hugo’s eyes scan the room before narrowing, confused, when he saw no sign of a gift.
I made my way to the other side of the centre island, bent down…and lifted the carrier from the floor. “It’s your birthday,” I said, lowering it onto the countertop. As if on cue, the bundle of cuteness inside gave out a scratchy meow. “So you get to name her.”
Hugo’s mouth formed a perfect O. He looked at the carrier, back at me, then back at the carrier. I saw it in his eyes, the memory playing back in his head. “You…got me a cat?” His voice was low, sober. It made my heart falter, and I wondered if I’d done entirely the wrong thing.