“Sprinkle me.”
I lie in bed, listening to the song that has become an intrinsic part of my existence and waiting for the moment . . . I point a finger in the air right as the neighbor pounds on Hugo’s door.
I have the timing down to the second.
I mouth the words I know are being shouted outside, even though I can’t hear them from here over the skull-splitting music.
I lie in bed, debating if I should go to work today. What’s the point? I still get fired. I’ve tried everything I can think of and nothing works. For the past week or so, I haven’t been leaving the apartment much at all, except to get food and see if the Druid Stone is open.
It’s not.
It’s not even there. The storefront, which I swear was between a dry cleaner and a Thai place two blocks down, has disappeared, like I imagined the whole thing. I’ve walked back and forth twelve times, and . . . nothing.
I need to do something other than lie here and mope and think about work and Alex and the fact that I haven’t seen him in a week. Haven’t made him laugh or felt his lips on mine.
My chest aches. I miss him.
The neighbor in the robe has given up by now and the music plays on.
Why does Hugo blast this song on this day?
Why does he cry every night?
I’ve never bothered to find out. The old me would stick my head in the sand and forget it, not get involved, not put myself out there, much less risk having to interact with a stranger and every mortifying possibility that comes along with it.
But once the question enters my mind, I can’t get rid of it.
Why?
And it’s not like I have anything better to do.
By the time I take a leisurely shower and get dressed in some jeans and a comfy tee, the music has stopped. Gathering the tattered remnants of my courage, I exit my apartment and walk down the hall to the neighbor’s. I knock, a few short raps, and then twist my hands together. I’m a little jittery, but I can do this.
I’ve seen him around, so I know he’s a big guy, but when the door swings open and he’s actually standing in front of me with a questioning—is it also menacing?—countenance, the reality is enough to make my throat close and my heart race.
Maybe I can’t do this.
He’s got to be at least six seven. His arms flex. Maybe a body builder or something. Hit man. Assassin.
“Can I help you?” His voice is a deep bass, his expression stone serious.
But the crying at night . . . there has to be more here than what it seems, and since there’s no tomorrow, I guess self-preservation has been tossed out the window along with my sanity.
I take a breath and blurt it out. “Why do you play that song?”
His brows descend, a furrow forming between his eyes. “I know it was too loud. I’m sorry, I’ve had . . . a bad morning.” The hard exterior dips slightly.
He’s apologizing? No dying for me today, I guess.
“It’s fine,” I rush. “It’s—I was curious and—” My gaze lands on a dress hanging just inside the door on a coat rack. “Oh wow, what a beautiful dress.”
It’s a vibrant red gown with a fitted top and tulle skirt. The tulle glitters under the light and I squint. Is there silvery thread embedded in the fabric? I’m itching to get a better look.
“Oh.” He turns, glancing at the dress and then back at me.
“May I?”
He blinks, stares at me in silence for a couple seconds before stepping aside. “Um. Yes. Sure.”
After a slight hesitation, I walk past him and pull it down, further into the light, handling it with care. Thick tank straps connected to an A-line skirt fluffed with tulle, and yes, silver thread weaves flowery patterns into the fabric. It’s clearly handmade and designed for someone of large stature. Someone the size of the man hulking behind me.
“Oh, no.” My fingers graze over a spot on the side. I pull it closer to examine the seam. “There’s a tear here.” I glance up at him.
He stares at me in silence for a lengthy beat, and I think maybe he’s going to kick me out or yell at me. This might be when the murder happens.
But then he bursts into tears.
Shocked, I stare while he blubbers with great heaving sobs, massive shoulders shuddering. What does one do in this situation? Is a hug appropriate?
I hang the dress back up and pat him awkwardly on the arm. “It’s okay.”
The shaking subsides, but the tears keep coming, tripping down his face.
Oh dear.
This is great, Jane. The first time you meet your neighbor after living next to him for however many years and you make him cry. Perfect.
“I can probably fix the dress for you,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I have matching thread, or something close enough, anyway.”
He doesn’t respond at first, covering his face with his hands.
I glance around but can’t find tissues or anything. His apartment is set up like mine, so, leaving him in the entry, I run to the bathroom and grab some toilet paper. The counter is covered in jars of makeup, foundation, eye shadow, a whole box full of lipsticks of varying colors. He has more makeup than I’ve owned my entire life.
“Hugo, here.” I hand him the toilet paper to wipe up his face.
After a few more hiccups, he gathers his breath. “How do you know my name?”
I freeze. Oh yeah. “Oh, the neighbor this morning. He was yelling it.”
And it’s hard to forget when I’ve heard it fourteen thousand times.
“Oh. That makes sense.” He shifts. “The dress.” He gestures to it with one giant, thrown-out hand. “It doesn’t fit me. I was measured for it three months ago and I think,” he blows out a heavy breath, “I’ve gained weight.”
I look him up and down. He’s literally all muscle. Weight where? “Oh. Hmm. May I?” I point at the dress and he nods.
I pull it down again, examining the seams and the tear.
“I can fix this and then let it out. Maybe an inch or two. Do you think that will be enough?” I lift my gaze to his.
Wide eyes meet mine. Hopeful eyes. Eyes sheened with moisture, but at least the sobbing has stopped.
I continue. “If we need more than a couple inches, I could panel in more fabric. I don’t have anything matching, but I might have a complementary color, and we could hide some of it under the tulle.”
Hope and wonder fill his eyes. “You could do that?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “I used to be a seamstress, just for fun. Before I started my real career.” The phrase is rote, something I’ve said numerous times. I smile but it’s strained. I suppose I should have said it was my real career. That turned out well, didn’t it? I might have a roof over my head but does it matter if I’m living in purgatory?
“Who are you?” His voice is gravel, threaded with curiosity.
“I’m your neighbor.” I stick out my hand. “Jane Stewart.”
“Hugo Lamaire.” He takes my hand and offers a courtly bow over my fingers that doesn’t quite match his intimidating appearance.
I laugh. “Well, Hugo. Nice to meet you. Now let’s see if we can get this fixed up.”
“How long have you been performing?” I ask Hugo while I tug a needle through the delicate fabric.
“Five years. Harry got me into it.” He points a spatula at me. “But we’re not talking about Harry.”
“No Harry. Got it.”
I’m sitting at Hugo’s kitchen table while he makes us brunch, which is grilled cheese because it’s all he knows how to make. Harry used to do all the cooking. But we’re not talking about Harry.
“How long will it take to fix the dress?”
“Not much longer. When is the audition?”
“It starts at noon.”
“Perfect.” I give him my best reassuring smile, which might be more of a grimace. This situation is a little anxiety inducing, but I’m dealing. The only thing keeping me from shaking with nerves is the fact that I’m using my hands to fix his dress and sewing is all soothing, repetitive movements. Plus it’s something to focus on other than my incessant monologue of worries. “This won’t take more than another few minutes. I’m nearly done.”
He brings over a plate with a grilled cheese and sets it next to me. “Did you want some coffee or—? Oh wait. I don’t have any coffee. I stopped drinking it when Harry ran off with that barista from Oakland.”
Hugo has a real gift for talking about something we’re not talking about. “I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am. Can you imagine? Breaking up a week before auditioning for a show at the Huntress? And now we have to perform together.” He shakes his head. “If we win, we’ll have to see each other even more. Rehearsals every night. During the show.” He frowns. “Touching each other and pretending to enjoy it. I’m not sure what would be worse, getting a spot on the show, or not getting a call back and then getting a clean break, you know? Who wants to see their ex every day for months, right after he dumps you?”
“I get it.” I finish the last stitch and then flip the garment around. “I think that should do it. Do you want to try it on?”
He swallows. “I’m a little nervous. The sound of the fabric tearing.” He shudders. “It was traumatizing. Harry is meeting me at the venue and he will go ballistic if I show up with a torn dress.”
“It sounds like you’re better off without him.”
He nods but his mouth curves down. “I suppose.”
“Now you have a little more room, so it should be fine. And even if it does tear again, we have time to fix it.”
I hold up the dress. After a second, he takes it from me, giant hands careful.
He disappears into the bedroom and I eat the grilled cheese, which is two slices of white bread with some fake American cheese, fried in butter. It’s surprisingly delicious, and somehow comforting. It reminds me of childhood, even though my mother would have died before making a sandwich like this when I was a kid. If we had something as pedestrian as grilled cheese, it was on split wheat or focaccia with gouda and aged cheddar.
A few long minutes later, I’ve finished my sandwich and Hugo emerges from the bedroom. He’s wearing the dress and grinning.
“It fits.” He twirls around, sending the skirt flying.
I stand up and move closer to make sure the seam isn’t visible. “It looks fantastic.”
“You think so?” He grips the ends of the skirt and holds it out from his body, gazing down at himself. “I think blue looks so much better on me than red. Like a royal blue, you know? But Harry picked the colors and he didn’t want us to clash.” He drops the skirt and blinks rapidly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Jane.” He steps toward me, engulfing my hands in his. “Don’t apologize. You’re an angel sent to me straight from heaven. And I still have an hour until I have to be at the Huntress.” He watches me, head tilted. “You should come with me.”
Surprise jolts me backward, and I pull my hands from his. “You want me to go to your audition?”
He bites his lip, putting his hands together like he’s praying to the seamstress gods. “Please.”
Mingling with strangers is usually like asking me to swallow a live snake. My hands twist together. “I don’t know.”
“Pretty please?” His gaze is pleading. “What if it rips again while I’m there? I might need you. And it will be fun, I promise. And you can meet Harry and we can talk about how gross he is after.”
Hugo is clearly terrified and anxious and scared. I know what it’s like, to go somewhere and feel alone. I can’t do that to him, especially not when I know that later, he’s going to be crying like his whole world is over.
And let’s face it, it’s better than moping around my apartment or giving into the urge to see Alex.
I nod. “I can go.”
His eyes light up, shimmering a little bit. He grips my hand briefly. “Thank you.”