“April was always the caretaker,” Sylvia said. “So good with kids, always had the best babysitting jobs, always the first to jump up and help out someone in need. She really loves making people happy—that’s why I think she’s so good at weddings. She bends over backward to make sure brides get exactly what they want and takes care of every little detail.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?” She grinned. “I was a typical oldest child, I think. A bossy perfectionist. But also vain and boy-crazy as a teenager. I cared a lot about my hair and my eyeliner.”
I laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
She talked about her children too—how happy they were at their new school, the clubs they were joining (Keaton joined a science club, Whitney the ski club), the new friends they’d made. I hadn’t seen them since New Year’s Eve, but I knew Keaton had joined a youth boxing class at my gym because I saw his photo with a group of kids on the wall. It made me smile. I hoped he loved it like he thought he would.
“The kids had their first appointments with the new therapist last night,” she said one Thursday morning in mid-January. “And they loved her. I think she’s going to be really good for them.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, happy to see the genuine relief in her eyes.
I missed her like crazy when she took the kids skiing, but it was even worse when she flew back to California at the end of the month to pack up her old house.
She called me the third night she was there. It was so late I was already in bed, but I picked up right away when I saw it was her. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
I smiled and settled back against my pillow. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I’m sorry it’s so late. Did I wake you?”
“No, I was up,” I said aloud. Longing for you to be next to me in this bed again, I added in my head. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going okay. There’s a lot to do, and my ex is being a total dick, of course.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Nothing to help out, that’s for sure. I decided anything he doesn’t come to claim by tomorrow, I’m having hauled off to the Salvation Army along with my wedding dress, our good china, and his grandmother’s silver. Let him go try to find it and buy it back.”
God, I’d have loved to see that. “Atta girl.”
“The kids are flying out with my mom to pack up their rooms this weekend.”
“They doing okay?”
“I think so. They’re looking forward to seeing their dad, which has me worried he’s going to disappoint them.”
“Maybe he’ll step up for once.” I didn’t believe that for a second.
“Maybe.” Her tone said she didn’t either.
“But either way, you can’t control him, Sylvia.”
“I know. And I don’t have to make excuses for him either. I’m so over that.” She took a breath. “So how are you? How are my baby buds doing without me?”
I laughed. “They miss you. When do you come home?”
“If all goes smoothly here, maybe a week from today.”
“I’ll take good care of them until you’re back.”
“Thanks.” She was silent a moment. “It’s so nice to hear your voice, Henry. This house is so lonely and quiet.”
Does she wish I was there as much as I do? I wondered. But I asked a different question instead. “Is it hard packing it all up and saying goodbye?”
“You know, not really. I think if I wasn’t so excited about our new house and anxious to get back home, it might be. But I know where I belong now.”
You belong with me, I wanted to tell her. The words were right there, I could feel them on the tip of my tongue—but I couldn’t say them. It would only make things worse.
But the more time we spent together, the more I was convinced it was the truth.
She sighed. “Well, I should probably let you go. I know it’s late there . . . I just wanted to hear your voice. Is that terrible of me?”
“Of course not. You can always call me.”
She called two nights later, joyfully describing how angry Kimmy had been at the discovery of the missing silver. “It was hilarious,” she said, giggling. “Brett was apologizing up and down for not showing up yesterday to get it, and she was tearing him a new asshole about how she’d told him over and over again that she really wanted it and he never listens to her. I was in the other room laughing my head off.”
I laughed. “And the kids arrive tomorrow?”
“Yes. We should have everything cleared out of here by Monday, they leave that morning, the closing is Tuesday, and I’m on the first flight out of here Wednesday. I can’t wait to get home.”
“You sound really good, Sylvia.”
“I feel pretty good. I’m a little worried how the kids are going to react to saying goodbye to the house—this is the only home they’ve ever known, and I think the concept of selling it has been mostly abstract until now.”
“Yeah, that could be hard. I remember being surprised when my parents sold their farm how emotional it was leaving it for the last time, and I was already in my twenties. But I’d grown up there, and it felt like leaving a piece of my childhood behind.”
“Tell me more about your childhood,” she said. “I feel like we’re always talking about mine.”
We spent hours that night on the phone trading stories about our youths—favorite memories, broken bones, best friends, playground dramas, awards won, sports played, high school proms.
“Wait—how many guys asked you to the prom?” I asked in disbelief. “Did you say four?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
“How did you choose?”
“Truth? I picked a name out of a hat.” She giggled. “I let Frannie pick it.”
“And was it fun? Did she pick the right one?”
“Yes. He was a perfect gentleman. What about you?”
“Um, I was not exactly a perfect gentleman.”
“What? I don’t believe it. Who was your date?”
“My girlfriend at the time. We’d been together for like a year by then.”
“What was her name?”
“Michelle.”
“Was she your first . . . you know.”
I imagined her pounding a fist into the other palm and laughed. “Hell no. Michelle was a good girl from the Bible Belt, and never let me do anything beneath the clothes. But actually, on prom night, she did finally put her hand down my pants. First girl who ever did.”
She snickered. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”
“Yes and no. First of all, I came almost immediately, all over her hand and my rented tuxedo pants, after which she burst into tears. Second, she felt so guilty about it, she told her mom, who then told my mom, who told my dad, and he had to come give me a talk about how to respect girls.”
By that point Sylvia was gasping with laughter. “Oh no!”
“It was horrible. And my brothers were outside my room laughing their asses off.”
“I bet. So whatever happened with Michelle?”
“I think we broke up right after that. She had trouble looking me in the eye after I jizzed all over her fingers. Frankly, I think she was surprised by the whole episode. I’m not sure she knew that was going to happen.”
“Poor Michelle. Traumatized for life.”
“It’s possible.”
She sighed. “I should let you go.” Silence. “But I don’t want to.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Are you in bed?” she asked, her voice a little softer, more seductive.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
I waited, holding my breath.
“If I put my hand in your pants, would you immediately come all over my fingers?” she asked, which could have been sexy if she hadn’t burst out laughing right afterward.
I groaned. “That’s just mean.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her giggle
s subsiding. “I couldn’t resist.”
“I’ve learned to control myself—somewhat—since then, thank you very much.”
“I know you have.” She’d stopped laughing entirely. “And I think about it all the time.”
My throat was dry. “I do too.”
“And now I really need to let you go, or else I’m going to say things I shouldn’t.”
“Me too.” With the space of more than half the country between us, it seemed safe to admit it. “God, Sylvia. It just doesn’t get any easier. I keep waiting and waiting for it to ease up, but . . . I still want you. Maybe even more than before.”
“I know. I want you too.”
But what we wanted didn’t matter, and saying it out loud wasn’t going to help.
“Maybe I shouldn’t work at the winery,” she said. “Maybe that’s just making it harder for us.”
“No—no, don’t stay away.” Then I’d never see her—a thought I couldn’t bear. “I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Okay.”
I heard a sniffle. Was she crying? My chest felt ready to break open at the thought that I’d made her sad. What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Goodnight, Henry,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Goodnight.” I ended the call and tossed my phone aside, frustrated at the way the universe was fucking with me.
At the thought of going to bed alone every night for the rest of my life and wishing she was beside me.
At the gut feeling, deep in my bones, that I’d fallen in love with Sylvia without even trying.
And there was nothing I could do about it.
Twenty-Two
Sylvia
On Thursday morning, as soon as I’d gotten the kids to school, I threw on all my warmest winter gear and raced over to the winery. It was a sunny day, but freezing cold, with air that stung the inside of your nose and bit at your lungs when you inhaled. Still, my body warmed with anticipation as I counted down the last few minutes before I’d see Henry again.
His truck was in the lot, and my heart pounded harder at the sight of it. I’d missed him so much when I was away. I’d struggled with the decision to call him while I was gone—part of me knew I should just let the guy be—but in the end, I’d so longed to hear the sound of his voice that I’d broken down and reached out. He had this way of calming even the worst chaos in my head, of helping me keep things in perspective, of reminding me what really mattered. He knew how to make me laugh too, even at the most difficult times. I always felt understood with Henry. Accepted for who I was, faults and all. I never would have gotten through the last six weeks without his friendship.
When I’d gone to see him in the vineyard that first time after New Year’s, I’d been stunned when he told me he was still willing to coach me. I thought once I told him there couldn’t be anything romantic between us, he might get angry. Resentful. Bitter.
But he hadn’t. He’d been sweet and understanding. Undeniably disappointed, but without making me feel bad about things I couldn’t change. He’d comforted me. He’d taken me in his arms and reassured me that I wasn’t a terrible person—I was human, I was doing the right thing, and I was forgiven.
Still, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take advantage of his kindness. I wouldn’t be a bother to him. I wouldn’t show up there every day expecting him to pay attention to me.
But of course, that’s exactly how it happened.
No matter how little or how much time I had to spend with him, he made it feel like a gift. He was patient and funny and kind. He answered all my ignorant questions thoroughly and never once got irritated when I asked him to repeat things. We laughed often. We told each other stories. We confessed our guilty pleasures—his were cheerleading competitions on ESPN, Krispy Kremes, and Restoration Hardware. I giggled every time I thought about him secretly surfing the RH website and holding himself back from purchasing a reclaimed oak table or Italian leather chair.
He made fun of my list too.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to disqualify your food item. A salad is not a guilty pleasure.”
“Have you ever had a Greek salad at National Coney Island?” I demanded. “It’s drowning in feta cheese! The beets are canned!”
“Canned beets? My God, the horror!” He reached over and pulled my hair, making me giggle.
But other than that, he never laid a finger on me. Not once.
Sometimes I caught him looking at me—and he would catch me looking at him, but we never said a word about what had gone on between us . . . or what was happening still. Somehow, in my mind, if we just didn’t give it a name or put a label on it, we were safe.
But we weren’t. Of course we weren’t.
I burst through the tasting room doors and saw Chloe behind the counter, unpacking new glasses from shipping boxes.
“Hey,” she said, “how did it go with the house?”
“Good,” I answered breathlessly. “Is Henry around?”
“Downstairs. Too cold to work in the vineyard today. Do you want to—”
But I was already rushing across the cement floor toward the cellar steps. I spotted him right away, standing over a barrel with a long glass tube I now knew was called a “wine thief.”
He heard me bounding down the stairs and looked up, a grin breaking out on his face. “Hey, you.”
When I reached him, I was breathing heavy and I thought my heart was going to burst right through my chest, but it wasn’t just from exertion. “Hi.”
“How was the rest of your trip?”
“It was good.” I was dying for him to hug me and couldn’t help feeling disappointed when he kept his arms to himself. My entire body was like one huge live wire being so close to him.
“Kids do okay?”
“Yes. It was tough, and Whitney cried a lot, but I was expecting it.” My hopes began to wither . . . He wasn’t going to touch me. Not even an informal, good-to-see-you elbow nudge.
“Poor thing.” He took a sample of the wine from the barrel. “You glad to be back?”
“Yeah.” God, I missed the feeling of his arms around me. Would I never feel it again? “I feel like . . . like we can really move forward now.”
“When do you close on your house?”
“I’m still waiting for the exact date, but I’m hopeful we’ll have keys within the week.” I tried to smile, but suddenly felt like crying for some stupid reason. What the hell was the matter with me? Of course he wasn’t going to touch me—he was respecting my wishes like a good man would. Had I expected anything less from him?
“Optimism is a good thing,” he said. “So what would you like to work on today? It’s too cold to be outside, but you’re welcome to hang out with Mariela and me down here or ask Chloe what she could use help with upstairs.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Maybe I’ll head upstairs and see what Chloe needs.”
“Okay.”
I turned around and started to walk away.
“Sylvia,” he called softly.
“Yes?” I looked back at him, my heart splintering in my chest. Every bone in my body was aching to run at him, jump into his arms, beg for another ending to this reunion scene.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
I smiled, although tears threatened. Were we doomed to this forever? Missing each other all the time, even when we were standing right next to one another? This was agony, and I saw no way out of it. “Me too.”
Upstairs, I told Chloe I felt sick, which was true—my stomach was suddenly roiling.
My sister looked at me. “Yeah, your color doesn’t look good. Why don’t you go back home and get some rest? You’ve probably been going nonstop for days.”
“Okay.”
I bundled up again and walked home quickly, unshed tears burning my eyes, sobs trapped inside my chest. I didn’t stop moving until I was inside my bedroom with the door closed, then I threw myself onto my bed, curled into a ball, and let it all out. I hadn’t cried so mu
ch since Brett left me.
But this was my own fault.
I’d moved here to find peace and security, to feel grounded and safe and strong, to create a haven for myself and for my children, to piece my heart back together again and keep it better protected.
Instead, I’d fallen in love. I felt exposed and raw and vulnerable, and I hated myself for it.
Suddenly I knew I was going to be sick, and I rocketed from my bed into the adjoining bathroom, barely making it before losing the contents of my stomach.
Things couldn’t go on like this.
* * *
Eventually I had to drag myself out of my bedroom and attempt to be a functioning adult. The kids would be home from school just after three, Keaton had boxing, Whitney needed to bake something for a ski club fundraiser, and I had to run to the bank and the realtor’s office before they closed at five. I scrubbed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, and repaired my face as well as I could, but there was no way to disguise the fact that I’d been a blubbering mess for hours, and Chloe was right—my color was not good. My complexion had kind of a gray-green hue to it. Hopefully, sunglasses would help. At least my stomach felt a little better.
I managed to get my errands in before the bus brought the kids home, although everyone in the realtor’s office and bank probably thought I was nuts for wearing my sunglasses inside.
Back at home, I made the kids a healthy snack and prayed they wouldn’t notice my puffy eyes. Keaton seemed oblivious while he ate his celery sticks and peanut butter, chattering excitedly about a project he wanted to do for the upcoming science fair, but Whitney eyeballed me steadily over her plate of carrots and hummus and hardly touched her food.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked her, avoiding eye contact.
“A little,” she replied, pushing a few baby carrots around on her plate. “Are you okay?”
Keaton stopped eating and looked at me too.
“Of course.” I tried to fake a smile, but it felt sort of ghoulish. “Finish your snacks so we can get to the gym on time. While Keaton is boxing, Whit, we’ll hit the grocery store for whatever you need to bake. What was it you wanted to make?”
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