Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [96]
I’m sure that by the time you read this, you already know that this is not how it turned out.
I was in the junk-food aisle, ready to make a joke to my mom about how I was totally ready to commit to Snickers over Baby Ruth, when I got the unnerving vibe that I was being gawked at from behind. I pretended to scratch my shoulder with my chin (à la Samantha Baker in the study hall scene in Sixteen Candles— you know, the movie I forced you to watch if you wanted to have any chance of ever understanding me), and sure enough, I caught a half-glance of a tall, dark-haired guy looking sleepy and undernourished in jeans and a gray thermal.
“Are you Jessica Darling?” he asked.
I slowly turned around and got a better look. I was in Pineville, after all, so it could have been someone who knew me from the Class of 2002. Judging by the wrinkles around his eyes and deep creases framing his smiling mouth, he looked to be a few years older. He had a broad, contagious smile, with straight teeth turned dingy with nicotine. In fact, one hand held a pack of Marlboro Reds, the other pointed in my direction, and both were dirty, though not necessarily unwashed. The grime appeared to be permanently embossed in every pore, and I pegged him as someone who worked on greasy engines for a living. And if I’m being perfectly honest, I thought he was hot in a sketchy auto-mechanic kind of way.
“Yeah?” I was still wary.
“I knew it!” he said, snapping his fingers. “I recognize you from the pictures.”
“Uh, okay…,” I said, trying to make eye contact with my mom, who was too busy considering her bottled water options. I had no idea who he was, and yet there was something oddly familiar about him.
He lunged forward, wrapped his arms around me, and enveloped me with the lived-in scent of gasoline, toothpaste, and chain-smoked cigarettes. I was about to yell for help when he introduced himself.
“I’m Hugo,” he said. “Hugo Flutie.”
fifty-nine
“Jessie!” said my mom coquettishly. “Who is your friend?”
Usually I’d be embarrassed by this sight of my menopausal mother flirting with someone half her age. But I was actually heartened to see signs of the gossipy person who raised me, the one who was more busybody than busy-busy.
“You must be Jessica’s sister, Bethany.” Hugo said this with a wink in his voice, to let us know he was being intentionally cheesy. And yet the gesture still managed to charm the hell out of my mom.
“Mother,” she replied, looking up at Hugo through her eyelashes. “Helen.”
“Ah, a beauty like Helen of Troy…”
While my mom got all girlish and giddy over his attentions, Hugo rolled his eyes in my direction. He was still on my side, you ee.
“Mom, this is Marcus’s older brother,” I explained. “Hugo Flutie.”
My mom jolted to attention. “An older brother? I didn’t even know Marcus had an older brother. Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
“We’ve never met,” Hugo and I replied at the same time.
“Until right here,” I added.
“Right now,” Hugo added.
“Well,” my mom said, brushing make-believe dust off her sleeves.
“How’s your dad?” To me. “Your husband?” To mom.
“Hugo and Mr. Flutie saw Dad in the infusion room yesterday,” I clarified.
Mom blanched dramatically, like a veteran stage actress overacting for the nosebleed seats. “How is your father?” She clutched Hugo’s sinewy forearm, a gesture that showed more concern than that which she had (not) expressed for her own husband.
“Oh, he’s great for someone who had prostate cancer,” Hugo explained, the corners of his smile drooping just a bit. “He’s in remission for now.”
“That’s a relief!” my mom gushed.
“He was at the hospital to visit the nurses…,” I started.
“Everyone promises to visit the nurses when they finish chemo, but none ever do…,” Hugo middled.
“Mr. Flutie did,” I ended.
We caught each other’s eyes, mutually struck by the effortlessness of our conversation. Within minutes