Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [98]
“Um…what other things?”
“Like how he asked you to marry him.”
“Oh…,” I said, assuming an ironically casual air. “That.”
“Based on your dad’s response to that,” he said, wrenching open the door to the passenger side, “I assumed that that was not something I should talk about. Which is why I didn’t mention that in front of the fair Helen.”
I climbed in. “She knows about that now.”
“And?”
“And she thinks my indecisiveness reflects our generation’s refusal to grow up and take anything seriously.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think my indecisiveness reflects my own tendency to take things very seriously.”
“Hmm.”
And then nothing. Hugo twisted the key in the ignition, pulled the gearshift into reverse, then pushed it into drive. He pulled us out of the parking lot, the sound of gravel grinding under the four wheels. We didn’t speak.
“This is weird,” I said uneasily.
“It is a little weird, yes,” Hugo agreed.
“I don’t know why Marcus never bothered to introduce us before.”
“Marcus is…” Hugo shifted his lower jaw back and forth, as if he’d just gotten socked in the chin. “Predictable in his unpredictability.”
“So true,” I replied.
“It’s what our mom says, anyway. My dad subscribes to the theory that Marcus just likes to be a pain in the ass.”
Another pause. In front of us was a tan minivan with one of those cause-supporting magnetic ribbons on the back. Only this multicolored ribbon didn’t support any cause per se, but merely claimed the driver’s love for a particular breed of dog: I MY JACK RUSSELL TERRIER. Seeing that magnet reminded me of the time I had an existential crisis at the sight of a Betty Boop decorative license plate cover. I can understand why your brother would put a Jesus fish on the back of his car—there’s two-thousand-plus years of Christianity behind his beliefs. But Betty Boop? Jack Russell Terriers? Are they better causes to believe in than nothing at all…?
Zzzzzip. Zzzzip. Zzzzip. Hugo fiddled with the chain around his neck, needing something to do with his hands while we were stopped at a red light. Zzzzzip. Zzzzip. Zzzzip.
I reached into my front pocket, pulled out the ring, and put it on my significant finger. “Marcus made my ring.” I held it up for him to see. He reached over, held my fingers in his, then let go. “Did he make your charm?”
“This?” he asked, lifting it up again. “Oh, no. This is a St. Jude medal.”
“Um,” I stammered, “who’s St. Jude?”
“One of the apostles,” he explained.
I tried to summon any Biblical information from my CCD days. “The one who betrayed Jesus?”
“No,” Hugo said.
“I’m not very religious,” I confessed, suddenly feeling really self-conscious about my atheism.
“I understand,” he said. “If you had asked me about St. Jude five years ago, I would have said something about the Beatles song. A lot of people confuse Jude and Judas. In fact, so many early Christians mixed them up that hardly anyone ever prayed to the good guy for help. He was guilty by association, just because of his name.”
“Sounds like Jude got a bum rap,” I said.
“Yeah, he did,” Hugo said. “That’s why I like him. He’s considered the patron saint of lost causes. The Flutie family is full of lost causes. I was a lost cause until I was found. Until I met Charlotte. Until I was saved.”
I squirmed in the seat, worried that Hugo would start preaching to me, trying to save my soul. But he didn’t.
“My faith gave me strength, you know, when my dad…” His voice wobbled.
I looked at Hugo’s profile and could see the muscles tensing in his jaw as he clenched back the tears. I thought about how your dad’s diagnosis inspired you to spend that many more silent hours on the floor of your closet.
“Marcus didn’t want me there,” I said in a rush.
“Where?”
“There, here, in Pineville,” I said. “When your dad was getting treatment.”
Hugo nodded somberly.
“I just didn’t want you thinking that I didn’t care about your dad,” I said. “I offered to come,