Unbreakable

by Harlow, Melanie

  After about ten minutes, he set his mug back on the tray and stood. “I really do need to get back. Thanks again for dinner.”

  I rose to my feet and set my cup down too. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Henry,” called my mother from the couch. My father and April gave him a wave.

  “Night.” Henry gave a wave to everyone. “See you all tomorrow.”

  Despite what he’d said, I followed him to the mudroom, where we piled on all our cold-weather apparel in silence. I caught his eye once, and he shook his head like I was a hopeless case. The moment we stepped outside, he pulled me around the side of the house and wrapped me in his arms, crushing his lips to mine in the shadowy dark. Relief mingled with desire—I’d been a little worried that being around my family had made him too skittish. Like maybe he’d decided this was too much of a risk where his job was concerned and I wasn’t worth it.

  His kiss tasted like chocolate, and he smelled like leather and winter and maybe a little like the oak barrels in the cellar. We stood in nearly a foot of snow, but I’d have stripped us both naked in a heartbeat just to feel his bare skin on mine. Our winter coats were cumbersome, our gloves annoying as we tried and failed to get close enough to satisfy the urge within us.

  “Christ,” he muttered against my lips. “I’ve been telling myself all night I wouldn’t do this.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s not right. Your family is right inside. Your dad is my boss. And your daughter knows something is up.”

  “You think?”

  “Did you hear her asking me all those questions? And she was definitely giving me the side eye across the table.”

  “She’s thirteen. Her face is always like that.”

  “Still.” He took my face in his hands. “We need to be careful, Sylvia.”

  “April knows,” I confessed. “And Frannie. Also, Chloe might have guessed.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to process what that meant.

  “I didn’t mean to betray your confidence,” I said quickly, “but I was just so excited, I had to tell someone. So I sort of told Frannie, but I made her promise not to tell Mack.”

  “So how did April—”

  “April just sort of guessed after seeing us together tonight. And Chloe must have gotten the idea after being around us at work.”

  He was silent for a moment, but his jaw was set.

  “Are you mad?” I asked. “I’m sorry. I know we said we were not going to take this public.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not mad, Sylvia. I just don’t want your family thinking I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “They don’t,” I protested. “My sisters are happy for me. And they know I’m not a child, Henry. I can take care of myself. I came to you, remember?”

  “But you’ve said it yourself—you’re vulnerable right now, and from the outside, I’m worried this looks shady on my part.”

  “Listen to me.” I put my hands on his chest. “I know what I said. But being with you is helping me get stronger. It’s making me happy. It’s nobody’s business but ours, right?”

  He exhaled. “I’d like to think that. And I’m glad your sisters are happy, but what about your kids? I don’t like the idea of having to lie to them. And I’m not good at pretending to feel one way when I feel another. I wish . . . fuck. I don’t know what I wish.” He slid his arms around me again and rested his chin on the top of my head. “I wish we’d met sooner. Or later. I want things to be different.”

  “I know.” Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pressed my cheek against his chest. “Our timing feels all wrong, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s the only thing that feels wrong.”

  We stood that way for another minute, until I began to shiver.

  “Go on inside,” he said with gruff affection. “It’s freezing out here.”

  I pulled back and looked at him. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Nothing is your fault.”

  “But I made you come here tonight, and you felt uncomfortable.”

  He didn’t deny it. “Maybe we just have to see each other in private from now on.”

  I almost laughed. “Privacy is in short supply when you’re a single mom living with two kids and two parents.”

  “Yeah. But at least you’ve got them. And family is what matters most.” He rubbed my arms and dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  After going inside, I made myself go up and knock on Whitney’s door. I couldn’t put off this conversation any longer, as much as I was dreading it. Henry was right—family was what mattered most, and my kids needed me to be the parent with her head on straight. Or at least straightish.

  “Yeah?” Whitney called, her voice muffled.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I guess.” She opened the door a moment later. “What?”

  “I need to talk to you.” I entered the room and shut the door behind me.

  “About what?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her heavily made-up eyes, penciled-in brows, and bright pink lips. Beneath it all I saw my baby-faced girl, and my heart ached for her. “About Instagram.”

  Immediately I could tell she knew what I meant. She crossed her arms defensively. Stuck out her chin. “What about it?”

  “I saw your profile.”

  “So take my phone away. Is that what you came up here to do?”

  I sighed, leaning back on my hands. “I don’t know, Whit. It doesn’t seem like that would solve the real problem.”

  “What’s the real problem?”

  “That you lied to me. You hid this from me. I wish you would have come to me and just been honest.”

  “Why? You’d have said no. You always say no when I ask about that. You say no without even listening to my reasons.”

  I hesitated. Was that true? Had I ever given her a chance to make a case, or had I just refused to consider it because I didn’t trust the rest of the world to treat my child with respect? Was that a parenting success, or was it a fail, because I wasn’t teaching her anything about the world or the way it views girls? Was I protecting her . . . or me?

  “And you had an account,” she reminded me. “You posted all the time.”

  “Okay, but I am an adult,” I reminded her, “and I’ve stopped posting because I realized how fake it all is. It was making me sad.”

  “Well, it makes me happy,” she insisted. “I create a version of me I like better than the real thing.”

  “But that’s the whole problem,” I said, realizing that I’d been doing for years exactly what she was doing now—creating a public version of myself that came along with a whole I’m-just-so-happy story that was pure fiction. “Why use it if you’re just going to pretend to be someone you’re not?”

  “I’m not pretending anything,” she said hotly. “It’s still me. It’s just a different me. And I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just my face with makeup on.”

  “Why don’t you ever post a photo without all the makeup on?”

  “Did you ever post a photo of yourself without makeup on?”

  I stared at her, annoyed by her keen understanding of things as well as her sassy tone. “You’re making this really difficult.”

  “So ground me.”

  I sat up straight. “I don’t want to just ground you, Whitney. I want to figure this out, so can you please drop the attitude? I realize you’re angry at your dad and probably at me, and I’m trying to figure out if this is an act of defiance on your part to get back at us, or if you’re just a girl who really likes Urban Decay, all right? Help me out here!”

  “Sorry,” she said, but she rolled her eyes afterward.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, I understand wanting to feel beautiful. What woman doesn’t? And I remember what it’s like to be thirteen and feel
weird in your own skin. Add to that all the drama you’ve had to deal with over the last few months . . . I’d want to pretend to be another me too sometimes.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Does that mean I can keep the account?”

  I regarded my daughter, telling myself not to react out of fear but out of love and understanding. “As long as you are using these photos to express something about yourself and not”—I struggled for the right words—“not prove something to someone, or even to yourself, I suppose you can keep the account.”

  She allowed me a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

  “But I’m going to follow you.”

  The smile disappeared and she rolled her eyes again.

  “And you have to keep it private and never, ever answer anyone you don’t know who tries to message you. To monitor that, I’ll need your login.”

  A scowl formed. “Maybe I don’t even want it anymore.”

  “That’s fine too,” I said. “Now come here.”

  Grudgingly, she came and sat next to me on the bed, and I put an arm around her. “You know I love you, and I want you to be happy and safe.”

  She was silent.

  “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

  She didn’t say anything right away.

  And then.

  “Is Henry your boyfriend now or something?”

  I stiffened, but tried not to let her notice. “Of course not. We’re just friends. Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged. “He’s around a lot since we’ve been back. I see you talking to him all the time.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s been here for many years. You probably just never noticed.” I paused. “We’re getting to know each other better, that’s all. We’ve got a lot in common.”

  “I didn’t know he had a wife.” She played with a loose thread on the comforter. “Did he cheat on her like Dad cheated on you?”

  “No! Their divorce was nothing like your dad’s and mine. They just sort of . . . grew apart.”

  “When?”

  “I think earlier this year.”

  She took that in. “So you’re not dating him?”

  “No, Whitney. I’m not dating him. We’re just friends.” In the back of my mind, I could still hear my words hanging in the air . . . You lied to me. You hid this from me. I wish you would have come to me and just been honest.

  But I wasn’t lying to her, was I? I wasn’t dating Henry. Dating was when you went places together, like movies or restaurants or concerts. Henry and I stuck to hallways and bathtubs and subterranean offices. Those were definitely not dates. They were two people helping one another through a hard time, making life a little less lonely, reassuring each other that their deepest insecurities weren’t the truth.

  But as I hugged Whitney goodnight and left her room, a knot began forming in my stomach.

  The knot continued to tighten, growing ever more complicated while I loaded the mugs in the dishwasher, said goodnight to my parents, and coaxed Keaton up to bed. After he’d put his pajamas on and brushed his teeth, I turned off his light and went and sat on the edge of his bed.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face.

  “Yeah. Mr. DeSantis is cool. Can I really go to his boxing gym?”

  “Sure.” I glanced at the nightstand, which I’d emptied the other night without saying anything to Keaton. If I opened it right now, what would I find? “I think some physical activity will be good for you. Especially after the holidays. We’re all eating so much junk food.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I forced myself to be brave. “It’s been really hard, hasn’t it, this first Christmas without your dad. It feels strange.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sometimes when things feel hard or strange, we do things to try to make ourselves feel better, like eat cookies or chips. But it doesn’t really work, because we can’t . . . eat away our bad feelings.”

  “Do you do that? Eat when you feel bad?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like when I’m sad.”

  He paused. “I do it when I’m mad at Dad.”

  Relieved that it was finally out, I took a deep breath and continued stroking his hair. “I understand.”

  “But it doesn’t help.”

  My throat got tight, and I swallowed hard. “No, it doesn’t, does it? But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I bet boxing will. And when you start school, making new friends will. And I’m definitely going to need your helping picking out a house.”

  “And a dog?” he asked hopefully.

  Sniffing, I laughed. “Maybe a dog. We’ll have to see, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You know what else will help?”

  “What?”

  “Talking to someone about how you feel. Aunt Frannie gave me the name of a counselor, and I’m going to make appointments for you and your sister after we get back from skiing.”

  “Okay.”

  I leaned over and kissed his head. “See you in the morning.”

  “Night.”

  Inside my room, I shut my door and flopped face down on my bed, wanting to believe I’d earned at least a B+ in parenting tonight, but feeling like shit for lying so blatantly to Whitney. It’s not like I didn’t understand her fears.

  But being with Henry was the one thing I was doing for myself. Was it too much to ask to start the new year with something I was excited about? A little promise of hope that maybe I wouldn’t be so fucking lonely all the time?

  Hope is something you can’t afford, scoffed that bitchy inner voice. Just where do you think this thing with Henry can go, anyway? How long do you think you’ll be able to hold his interest? You should put the brakes on now while you still can. For your sake, and for the kids’.

  “Shut up,” I said into my pillow. “Just shut up.”

  Maybe the voice was right and I should put the brakes on, but like a child, I didn’t wanna.

  I just didn’t fucking wanna.

  Sixteen

  Henry

  Believe it or not, I’d planned to keep my hands off her on New Year’s Eve.

  Not because I felt any less attracted to her—if anything, I wanted her more every day—but because her entire family was going to be there, I still felt anxious about what her daughter suspected, and I didn’t want Sylvia to think all I wanted from her was physical gratification.

  The first night she’d come to my house, it had been a lot about the sex, but over the last few days, things had shifted somewhat, at least for me. I wanted to know her more deeply. I wanted to spend time with her doing everyday things and making her laugh. I wanted to learn her expressions and smiles and sighs. And as ridiculous and juvenile as it sounded, I wanted to take her somewhere and hold her hand. Buy her dinner. Be the guy who got to put his arm around the back of her chair.

  Be the guy who made her happy.

  I knew that would take time, and it surprised me that I even believed myself capable of it after my marriage had disintegrated so spectacularly, but something about her wouldn’t let me be.

  I was ready to move on, and I wanted it to be with her. But what if she wasn’t?

  If we got a chance to talk quietly during the party, I was hoping to tell her how I felt—that I wanted more than just no-strings sex on the side. And I wanted to deliver the message while we were fully clothed and—at least mostly—sober, so that there wouldn’t be any confusion. I could keep my hands to myself for the night, couldn’t I?

  Of course I could. If I was the kind of guy who was worthy of her, I could be a respectable gentleman for one night.

  And then I saw her in that skirt.

  It was short. And tight. And mesmerizing.

  It was the color of champagne and sparkled as she moved, almost like a disco ball. Sylvia wasn’t tall, but her bare legs looked endless beneath that glittering little skirt. On top she wore a loose-fitting
white blouse with long sleeves that draped into a V at her chest, barely hinting at the curves I knew were underneath. I saw her standing near the appetizer table, sipping a glass of something bubbly and talking with Chloe, and the sight of her stopped me in my tracks. My confidence in my ability to behave respectably wavered.

  She saw me, and her lips curved into that slow, secret smile that made my ears feel like they were burning and my neck feel like the knot in my tie was too tight. Eventually someone bumped into me, and I realized I hadn’t started walking again yet. Trying not to tug at my shirt collar, I moved toward her.

  “Hi, Henry. Happy New Year!” she said, opening her arm as if to embrace me. She wasn’t wearing the bright red lipstick tonight, but her lips shimmered with something that made them look like sugar-coated peaches.

  Respectable gentleman. Respectable gentleman. Respectable gentleman.

  “Happy New Year.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then did the same to Chloe. “Where’s Oliver?”

  “Around here somewhere.” Chloe waved a hand in the air. “He’s trying to convince my dad to let him shoot off fireworks at midnight. I told him it’s never going to happen. Sparklers are about as crazy as my father has ever let us get.”

  “Oh, shoot!” Sylvia snapped her fingers. “I forgot the bag with the sparklers in it for the kids! I left it on the counter at home. Think I have time to go get them?”

  “Dinner is about to be served,” said Chloe, “but you’ll have time before midnight for sure.”

  “Okay. Don’t let me forget.”

  Her ass in that skirt sort of reminded me of sparklers. Dazzling. Fiery hot. Slightly dangerous. I glanced at the bar. “I’m going to grab something to drink. Can I get either of you anything?”

  “I’m good.” Chloe touched Sylvia’s arm. “I’m going to find April and make sure everything is running smoothly.”

  “Sounds good,” Sylvia said. “Let me know if she needs anything.” Once Chloe had wandered into the crowd, she turned to me. “I’ll come with you. I could use a refill.”