Page 66 of Pucked Up

“I’m exhausted,” I said when the server brought around the dessert and drinks menu.

“Son,” my dad said. “Do you always have to spoil a night?”

“Nothing’s spoiled,” Hugo said. There was a hard line of tension in his voice. “Boden looks as exhausted as I feel.”

Micah snorted. “That’s my fault. I kept Hustopher up all night in the train car.”

Hustopher? My body stiffened, and a moment later, the tension made my legs start to spasm. I held them down, but my father could tell it was happening because he cast me an uncomfortable look, then raised his hand.

“We should get the bill.”

“What’s happening?” Micah whispered to Ford. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read the question off his lips.

“Nothing,” Ford muttered back.

I lost track of their conversation as I looked over at Hugo. His gaze was holding mine firmly. “I should walk you to your room.”

“Oh, ah. I’ll be…fine. Ford and I?—”

“Ford and Micah just made plans to go get gelato,” Hugo said, leaning over the table toward me. “I’m not assuming you can’t get to your room on your own, but if you’d like company, I’m happy to join you. Or perhaps your father?—”

“No,” he and I said at the same time. I cast him a look, and he seemed properly shamed, though he didn’t take it back. I cleared my throat. I was choking on my pride, but after the plane ride and the tension of knowing that Hugo and Micah had fucked on the train here, I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me up, and my arms had already been giving me trouble.

“Boden,” Hugo said.

Closing my eyes, I nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’ve always been a decent guy, Hugo. Always taking care of people less fortunate?—”

“No,” Hugo said sharply.

My gaze shot over to my dad. He’d said that more than once about me, and it always crawled under my skin like a thousand tiny fire ants, burning and stinging. My dad wasn’t looking at me.

“You know what I mean,” my father said,switching to French. It was obvious he didn’t want to embarrass himself further in front of Ford and Micah, who looked riveted. “You put your entire life on hold for?—”

“No,” Hugo said again. He looked at me, his expression resigned. He shook his head, then said, “His life was my life. Nothing was on hold.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and laid several bills on the table. “For my share. Or the tip. Whatever you want.” He pushed to his feet and slid out the side of the booth, then snagged my crutches from where I’d rested them and offered them to me.

“Thank you.” I had a million burning questions, and I was going to ask at least one of them tonight because what the fuck had just happened? Who put Hugo’s life on hold? Whose life did he share? And how long had he been fucking Micah because that all seemed connected suddenly.

“See you at the room,” Micah called after Hugo as he moved away.

I struggled to my feet, doing my best not to hate one of my best friends because it wasn’t his fucking fault. I hadn’t told anyone, and I knew that even with Tucker and Ford’s giant, gossipy mouths, they wouldn’t have told everyone else my secret.

“I might be late. Very late,” Ford said.

I nodded. “Alright. See you.” I turned to face the last man at the table. “Papa.”

“Don’t give me that look, Boden,” he continued in French. “You are…”

“Less fortunate?”

“Different.”

I winced. “I suppose I am. See you tomorrow.” I knew he wanted to say more. He wanted to say enough that he could soothe himself because he knew he’d fucked up, but he didn’t want to change. He wanted me to accept the way he saw me.

And sometimes I was sure he wanted me to see myself that same way: broken. Different. Less than.

But I would not let him win.

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