Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,56
beats one of your potions.”
Another blush brushes his cheeks. “I just like knowing people are being good to their bodies, ya know?”
“Is that why you don’t charge for your magical tonics?”
“The main part of it. And, I always use the ‘tips’ left behind to buy more ingredients. Every dollar that doing this brings in is put right back into it. Using fresh, top quality ingredients from the fruits to veggies to the raw honey makes all the difference, not only in taste but in reaction to the body as well.”
I offer him a small smile that encourages him to continue to ramble about food.
This is his version of dance.
And, after years and years and years of listening to me gush about ballets like Swan Lake and La Sylphide, it’s nice to be able to reciprocate the gesture by hearing lectures about berries and cooking oils.
For the next half an hour, we slowly migrate from booth to booth. Hugo Sherlock Holmes’s the fuck out of different fruits while I do my best Watson impression. He gets pickier and picker as time goes on, forcing me to hide my sniggers. Occasionally, we’re allowed to taste items prior to purchase, and to my surprise, much like the hand holding we’re steadily continuing to do, he insists on feeding me the sample. Watching my expression. Studying it like it holds a million secrets he needs to know before agreeing to spend his money. We end up with a good selection of blackberries, blueberries, cherries, and his all-time favorite, mango.
He loves that fruit so much I even bought some very expensive shampoo that has mango butter in it.
He then insisted he get to test it out in my hair himself.
That whole thing led to a long-ass shower experience I immediately text-bragged to Betty about. When she heard the dirty details in person, she damn near choked on her sangria and abruptly fled my apartment to “handle” something she completely forgot she had to do.
She could’ve just said she was gonna double tap her shoe.
I wouldn’t have judged.
Our shopping journey, unexpectedly, leads us to where the booths of fresh flowers are being sold. Hugo’s stare casually scans the selections available. “What kinda flowers do you want on the bar?”
The question has me halting in my steps. “What?”
He drags his attention away from the gorgeous collections to meet my gaze and repeats the question. “What kinda flowers do you want? Tulips? Daisies? A mixed bouquet? I brought my mom one of those, last weekend when I was here. She loved it. Dad joked that I made him look bad.”
“What did you do?”
“I laughed because he was, obviously, trying to be funny.”
My eyes twitch a questioning glance.
“It wasn’t exactly a ‘dad joke’, but it was still worthy of the son laugh.”
“I don’t mean in response to his shitty joke.”
His brow furrows in confusion.
“What did you do, Hugo?” Snatching my hand away to shove it in my pocket, I snip, “What’d you do that warrants a need to buy me flowers? Was it small, like kissing someone else or big, like fucking them while you were drunk?”
Hugo’s eyes bulge as his jaw slowly lowers to the ground indicating further bafflement.
“Or, are you preemptively trying to buy me flowers so when you tell me you won’t be seeing me much this week to spend more time with your friends or that you won’t be coming by the club anymore because you can’t be seen at a place like that, I won’t make a big fucking deal about it?”
“Are you…,” he pauses to brace his arms against his chest, “are you fucking insinuating that the only reason I could ever want to buy you flowers is because I fucked up or plan on fucking up?”
“Why the hell else would you buy them?”
His broad shoulders innocently bounce. “Because you like them? Because they make you smile? Because I like being the one to put a smile on your face?”
Shit.
Shit!
How do I seem to keep forgetting that he really is just…that fucking thoughtful?
Fuck, I feel like if I were to hold up a mirror to our friendship, it’d be easy to see he’s probably always been this way.
That he’s always done little shit for the simple reason that it makes me smile.
How fucking broken am I that his choice to try to be kind to me makes me immediately combative?
Why am I what this come to life teddy bear wants around?
Why, when he can do better?
When we both know he deserves better.
“Crash,” Hugo