The food arrives, and he switches the subject to production. Asks how rehearsal’s going, and I say going so well. He tells me more about the sets, how the new budget has been a dream come true thanks to me. And lighting and sound are all ready to go for tech week too. We’re in great shape.
We feed each other smoked eel. Gorgeous. “God, isn’t it great to be back here?” I ask him.
“I’ve never eaten here, remember?”
“Right, of course.”
Every now and then I look down into the mirror of the table and smile. And then he says, “Hey, I heard there was some kind of weirdness yesterday with Briana, is that true?”
I’m holding a piece of smoked eel between my chopsticks. And I drop it. But I pick it right back up. I look confusedly at Hugo, who is definitely Hugo now.
“Weirdness? What did you hear exactly?” But I’m already picturing it. Fauve wandering into the scene shop after my trial by fire, whispering hotly into his ear, her hand gripping his shoulder. Failing to mention how she implicated him, of course.
“Just that Briana came to the dean’s office with her parents and that you all had a… was it a meeting?”
I shrug and smile. “It was fine. She just accused me of making her sick, that’s all.” I eat the eel. Chewy, this piece.
“What?”
“I know, can you believe it?” I shake my head. Roll my eyes.
“What did she say you did to her exactly?”
“Take your pick, really. Witchcraft. Black magic. Satanism.” I laugh out loud at that last one. Can’t help it.
But Hugo’s looking at me strangely now, not laughing at all.
“Oh, come on, it’s funny,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s funny, Miranda. I think it’s fucked-up.”
“It’s that too. And sad. Frankly, I feel sorry for her. I mean it’s a ridiculous accusation. What century are we in, am I right?” I shake my head.
“Right.” He shakes his head too. But he’s still looking at me funny. “I guess I just don’t get why she would accuse you of something like that,” he says.
I shrug. “Grasping at straws, I guess. Trying desperately to find a reason for her illness, a cause. Easier to point the finger at someone else than at yourself, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind being the bad guy. And we sorted it out in the end. But the fact that we even had a meeting about it. That we even entertained her grievances in any official capacity.” I shake my head again. “New England’s puritanical streak is clearly alive and well. Sorry, I know you’re from here—Maine, right? And don’t get me wrong, I’m from here too, but—”
“I’m not from Maine, Miranda.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m from Oregon. Eugene. I’ve told you. I’ve told you a few times now.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Well, then the puritanical streak probably seems even crazier to you, am I right? Oh, look, you haven’t even touched your sunshine roll.”
But Hugo’s just staring at me now, a serious expression on his face.
“Miranda, I think we should talk about last night.”
“Last night? Last night was wonderful, wasn’t it?”
He takes a sip of cold sake. Winces. “It was. It just… got a little intense, don’t you think?”
“Intense? What do you mean ‘intense’？”
“Asking me to go harder,” he says quietly. “Asking me to hit you and stuff.”
He doesn’t look like anyone to me now. He doesn’t look like anyone but an awkward, sheepish boy.
“So I could feel it.” I smile. “I just wanted to feel it. That’s all.”
“You closed your eyes a lot too. You turned your head away, a few times. You wouldn’t look at me.”
He’s looking at me now. Hurt, I realize.
“That’s how I feel it. That’s just so I can concentrate on how it feels.”
“And then afterward you started crying—”
“I was just happy. Aren’t I allowed to be happy?”
“It’s just… look. I almost felt like you weren’t really with me. Like you were but you weren’t. You wanted someone else. You wanted me to be someone else.”
“What? No. That’s crazy,” I tell him. “Totally crazy.”
“Maybe. But that’s sort of how I felt.”