Unbreakable

by Harlow, Melanie

  The name brought the lump back to my throat. “Yes?”

  “How do you even know if someone means it when they say they love you? How do you know they’re not going to leave you and break your heart?”

  Honestly, I didn’t feel qualified to give the answer. The truth was, there were guys like Brett in the world who said they loved you for fifteen years and then up and left you for J.Crew Kimmy one day. How could I explain that to her without giving her trust issues for the rest of her life? Weren’t my own issues enough? Did her father’s actions have to scar us both for life?

  “I don’t know, Whit. I could make something up and tell you that you just know, but the truth is, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes what looks like real love turns out to be infatuation. Sometimes real love exists, but people drift apart. Sometimes love is real, but the circumstances are all wrong. Love is tricky. And messy. And hard to explain.”

  She shivered and held me tighter. “I hope I never fall in love. It sounds scary and horrible. I’d rather be alone.”

  “Give it some time, okay? Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Never.”

  Part of me wanted to argue with her, but another part agreed with her one hundred percent. Love was terrifying. It put you completely at the mercy of someone else. You basically handed over your breakable heart and hoped that someone wouldn’t shatter it. Whitney was right—there was never any real assurance you wouldn’t get hurt.

  Maybe I was better off alone.

  At that moment, we heard shouts coming from outside. I checked the clock on her night table, and realized it was midnight. “I think we missed sparklers,” I told her gently.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Do you want to go back to the party?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, honey. You don’t have to. But I should go back and get your brother.” I started to get up, but she gripped me tighter.

  “No! Just . . . just stay for a few more minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.” Fighting tears, I began stroking her hair again. This wasn’t the fresh start I’d envisioned. “It’s going to be okay, baby. You’ll see.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t answer, and I sat there with her for a little while longer, drying my tears with the sleeve of my blouse so they wouldn’t fall into her hair. Within minutes, she fell asleep, and I carefully removed her shoes from her feet before pulling her comforter over her legs.

  After leaving her room, I stopped in mine to trade my party clothes for a pair of jeans, a sweater, and some boots. In the bathroom, I tamed my hair into a ponytail and took off my ruined eye makeup. Then I went downstairs, put my coat on, and dragged myself back to the party, more miserable with every step.

  An hour ago, I’d been so happy, so starry-eyed, my heart so full of hope.

  How had everything gone so wrong?

  Nineteen

  Henry

  Waiting for Sylvia to come back to the party was torture.

  I didn’t feel like drinking, listening to music, or talking to people, but there wasn’t really anywhere I could hide. I thought about leaving, but in case Sylvia needed me tonight, I wanted to be somewhere she’d be able to find me.

  How the fuck had this night gone so wrong so fast?

  I returned to our dinner table, where Mack and Frannie were sitting, and dropped disconsolately into my chair, where I proceeded to brood and fret.

  “Everything okay?” Mack asked over the music.

  “Fine.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them exchange a look. It just made me scowl harder.

  “Do you know where Sylvia is? I haven’t seen her in a while,” Frannie remarked, false brightness in her voice.

  “She’s at the house with Whitney.”

  “Why? What happened to Whitney?” Frannie asked.

  I struggled with it for a moment, then realized their own kids were probably going to tell them what they’d seen. “She saw us kissing outside. She got upset and took off.”

  Frannie gasped. “Yikes!” She looked toward the door. “Do you think I should go over there?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, feeling like the least qualified person to give advice on doing the right thing. “But I might as well warn you, your girls saw the whole thing too. They might say something to you about it.”

  “Oh, our girls have caught us kissing a million times.” Frannie reached over to pat Mack’s arm. “They’re used to it, right, babe?”

  “Right.” But Mack, who’d been a single father of three young girls, understood what the issue was. “Whitney doesn’t like the idea of her mom with someone else?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” said Frannie. “Wouldn’t she want her mom to be happy? The girls were thrilled when we stopped sneaking around and finally admitted what was going on between us.”

  “But that didn’t happen right away,” Mack reminded her. “My guess is that Whitney is upset because she lost her dad and thinks she’s going to lose her mom too. My girls didn’t want to let me out of their sight after Carla left. They used to cry when I dropped them off at school. They thought I might not come back.”

  “Oh, I remember that.” Frannie shook her head. “That was so sad.”

  “It takes time,” Mack said with a shrug. “I’m sure if you give it a while, things will calm down.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t fucking want to give it time. I wanted to be with her now, and I was furious that somehow we’d already fucked this up before we’d even given ourselves a chance.

  “You look so miserable, Henry. You really care about her, don’t you?” Frannie gave me a sympathetic look.

  I slumped down lower in my chair. “Yeah.”

  Just then, a server came by with a tray of champagne glasses. “Almost midnight,” she said, setting a glass down for each place at the table. “Enjoy!”

  But the occasion had lost all its appeal.

  Just before twelve, I watched the kids light up their sparklers and listened to the crowd count down the last ten seconds of the year, but I couldn’t even lift my glass as the band kicked off Auld Lang Syne. I didn’t drink the champagne or even pretend to sing along. I just kept looking at the door hoping to see Sylvia come through it, and checking my phone in case she tried to send me a message. Each time, I was disappointed, and finally I gave up. Without even saying goodbye to anyone, I headed for the coatroom.

  That’s when I saw her come through the door.

  She stopped short at the sight of me, about ten feet away, and crossed her arms over her chest. She’d changed her clothes, her hair was pulled back, and her face was bare. She looked young and vulnerable and sad.

  I approached slowly. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “How’s Whitney?”

  “Asleep. All cried out.”

  My heart ached. “I’m really sorry, Sylvia.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Whitney’s feelings have nothing to do with you and everything to do with her dad and me.”

  “I’m still sorry you’re going through it.”

  She tried to smile, but looked like she might burst into tears at any moment. “Thank you.”

  I wanted to ask what this meant for us, but knew it wasn’t the time. I could tell from the way she was standing and the tremble of her lower lip that this Sylvia was a different one than the one I’d been next to at dinner and alone with in her room. Even the tone of her voice was different. That Sylvia had been confident and audacious and strong. This Sylvia looked shaken and fragile, like she would bruise if you looked at her wrong.

  “Can I call you?” I asked, keeping my arms pinned to my sides. I wanted to hold her so badly it hurt.

  Her eyes filled. “I need some time to think, okay? Things have been moving so fast, and I feel . . . off-kilter. I think I need a few days to find my balance.”

  “Okay . . . well.” My chest was uncomfortably tight. �
��You know where to find me.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes for a second and composed herself. “I need to get Keaton home.”

  “Of course.”

  “Goodnight, Henry.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She skirted around me and headed for the kids’ table, and I hurried out of the building without even bothering with my coat. I’d get it another time.

  When I got home, I felt like putting my fist through a wall, or taking a sledgehammer and smashing that bathtub to bits. It didn’t even make sense how upset I was—Sylvia and I had only slept together a handful of times. It’s not like I was in love with her. This shouldn’t be so painful. So what the fuck was my problem?

  I undressed in agitated, jerky movements, viciously scrubbed my teeth, and thumped myself into bed, punching my pillow several times before burying my head in it. But I couldn’t sleep.

  After a while, it came to me, in Sylvia’s own voice—something she’d once said.

  I missed the life I thought I would have.

  Being with Sylvia had given me hope for a second chance.

  And right now, it felt like that hope was gone.

  Twenty

  Sylvia

  I got Keaton home and into bed, wondering if I should bring up what he’d seen earlier tonight or just let it go. In the end, he was the one who braved the topic.

  “Mom?” he asked as I was tucking him in.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you and Mr. DeSantis . . .” he started, clearly uncertain how to end the question.

  “No,” I said. “We talked about it, and we do like each other a lot, but we’re just going to be friends. I’m sorry if what you saw upset you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did it?” I ventured. “Upset you?”

  “Kind of. I don’t know.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. I do.”

  “I know, honey. And it’s okay.” I struggled to hold back the sob attempting to tear out of my chest. “Goodnight.”

  “Night.”

  Inside my room, I undressed, crawled into bed, and proceeded to soak my pillow with tears.

  I felt like I’d let down everyone I cared about. I felt like I’d screwed up my fresh start. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right no matter how hard I tried. Was I just destined to make mistake after mistake? I’d confused and upset my children, who were depending on me. I’d gone after Henry knowing full well I had nothing to offer him. I’d allowed myself to believe something more between us was possible—and I’d allowed him to believe it too.

  How was I going to face him again?

  I tried to list all the reasons why he would be better off without me . . .

  I was an emotional wreck. I was a single mother. I had trust issues.

  I was scared. Scarred. Damaged in places that couldn’t be seen.

  I would never feel completely safe in a relationship again. I would always doubt the promises he made. I would never be able to put him first, the way he deserved.

  Then there were all the things about me that Brett hated.

  I cried easily. I liked sappy movies. I listened to Christmas music starting on November first. I wore short skirts. I liked Michigan more than California. I preferred hugs to diamond bracelets. It sometimes took me a long time to reach orgasm—although that hadn’t really been an issue for Henry.

  But maybe the strongest case against me where Henry was concerned was my infertility. Granted, the issue of having children together should probably not matter until two people have had at least one actual date, but we weren’t twenty-five and flippant about the future. The reality was that Henry wanted children, and that would never happen with me. It couldn’t.

  How could I have thought we made sense?

  Because it felt so good with him. So easy. So right.

  But in the end, it didn’t matter—I had to give him up.

  After a sleepless night, I came downstairs so early, my mother was the only one up. She took one look at the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes and asked me what was going on.

  I broke down and told her the whole story—minus the dirty sex stuff—over cups of coffee at the kitchen table. How I’d felt so drawn to Henry as soon as I’d moved back. How we spent so much time just talking and opening up to each other. How easily we understood one another and how good it felt to be wanted that way again. She listened, nodding in sympathy, and fetched me a box of tissues when I couldn’t hold back the tears.

  “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” she said, rubbing my arm. “How terrible for you.”

  “Tell me I’m doing the right thing, Mom,” I begged, blowing my nose.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Sylvia.” Her eyes filled too. “Being a mother is the hardest job there is. I can’t imagine doing it on my own. And there will be many times in your life where your own needs have to be put aside for those of your children.”

  “I know,” I blubbered.

  “But it’s the most rewarding job too,” she went on. “Raising you girls gave my life such beautiful purpose. Seeing you grow up has been the most fulfilling experience of my life. When you’re happy, I feel it in my soul.” She took my hand. “And when you’re sad and struggling, it breaks my heart. So I know how you feel when you look at Whitney.”

  “I just never know if I’m making the right choices for them,” I confessed. “Or for me. Everything I thought I knew turned out to be false. Everything I thought I had didn’t really exist. Everything I thought I wanted seemed so close—and yet I could never fully grasp it no matter how hard I tried. And I did try, Mom. I tried so hard.”

  “I know you did, honey. I know you did.”

  I wiped away my tears. “In the end, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. Growing up, I felt so confident, so full of hopes and dreams, so sure that if I just followed my heart, good things would happen. Somehow I’ve lost that girl along the way. I thought if I moved back here, I might be able to find her, but now I’m afraid she’s gone for good. What’s the use of hopes and dreams anyway? They always get crushed.”

  “I don’t believe that for one second,” my mother said fiercely, taking my chin in her hand and forcing me to look at her. “That girl you were, the one full of hopes and dreams, she’s still in there somewhere. Your father and I raised our girls to follow their hearts because that is where true happiness lies. I’ve never said it won’t lead you through some dark woods, but you’ll come out the other side. Give yourself time to find your way, Sylvia. And never stop following your heart—your daughter will learn from you. Remember that.”

  I swallowed the thick lump in my throat and gave my mother a frail smile, although her words had made me feel a little stronger. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

  She got up from her chair and came to stand behind me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “You’re tougher than you know, my darling.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And I love you.”

  I placed my hands on her forearms and breathed in her familiar gardenia scent. “I love you too.”

  * * *

  Later we took the kids over to Mack and Frannie’s for football and chili. The moment I walked into the kitchen, my sister grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs to her bedroom. Shutting the door behind us, she sat on the end of the bed and patted the spot in front of her. “Sit. And talk to me. I heard what happened.”

  “From who?”

  “Last night from Henry, and then this morning from Millie. She’s worried about Whit.”

  Promising myself I wouldn’t break down, I lowered myself onto the bed. “Whitney’s okay, I think. But I might not be.” I caught her up on everything that had happened—how Henry and I had only grown closer over the last week, how I’d assured Whitney we were only friends, how he’d asked me for more last night and I’d been so excited, how we’d been kissing outside the barn when the kids discovered us because we wouldn’t be able to kiss
at midnight.

  “Wow,” she said. “So it was just really bad timing, huh?”

  “Yes.” I fit my thumbnails together. “But maybe it was meant to happen like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it was probably crazy to think about a new relationship so fast anyway. I need to focus on getting the kids in school, finding a house, getting a job . . .”

  “I thought you were going to work in the winery. That’s what Chloe said last night, that she was going to start training you to take over as manager.”

  I shrugged. “I mean, maybe. I’d like that, but I’m not sure if Henry will want me around.”

  Frannie was silent for a moment, and I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

  “Does that mean you’re completely breaking things off with him?”

  “I have to.”

  “Because of Whitney?”

  “Yes.” I felt her stare burning into me. “And because in the long run, big picture, I’m not right for Henry.”

  “Sylvia. Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, I dragged my eyes up to hers. “What?”

  “I fully understand that Whitney needs time to get used to the idea of moving here, and feeling like she belongs, and seeing you with a man that’s not her dad. Mack said as much to Henry last night as well, since he’s gone through it with his girls. But why on earth would you think you couldn’t be right for Henry? He’s seriously crazy about you—you’re crazy about each other. I could see it last night. Everyone could.”

  “Because we’re at different places in our lives,” I said, going with the strongest reason I’d come up with last night. “He wants children. I’ve already had mine.”

  She crossed her arms. “Yeah, Mack tried that excuse with me too, and I called bullshit. So try again.”

  “You’re not even thirty yet, Frannie. I’m going on forty. And . . . I’ve never really talked about this before, but I’ve got infertility problems. My eggs are bad quality. I had to have IVF twice to get pregnant.”