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I glance up at Henry from my cross-legged position on the floor.
He frowns. “I lost the house.” Henry proceeds to tell his mom everything.
There are tears, not just from her. There’re smeared along my cheeks as well.
Emily.
The expensive treatment.
Debt.
His father dying.
The addiction.
The pride and need to protect his mom.
“So … you … what? Just happened to start dating the woman who stole our house?” Martha’s desperation bleeds with each word.
“She didn’t steal it. And the opportunity to keep this from you for a little longer just sort of arose, and I took it because I felt so much shame and regret.”
“Well, when you get married, the house will be back in the family. I mean … you’re going to marry her, right?”
My heart constricts as I stand, brushing off my legs; Martha’s so desperate for this to be true—and it constricts because I’m emotionally invested in his answer.Reallyinvested in it.
Truth? I think I fell a little in love with Henry before I ever met him. I’d built up this idea of a Hermann Bechtel heir in my head, and when we came face to face, he didn’t disappoint.
Mesmerizing blue eyes.
A boyish smile.
An irresistible personality.
“I’m not marrying Serena. She’s not my real girlfriend. This has all been a terribly cruel farce to save face.”
I’m not his girlfriend. Okay. That’s fair. Sex doesn’t equal a relationship.
“You lost itall? Everything?” Martha says. Her words barely audible.
Henry nods.
Martha shakes her head, and her expression morphs into a harder one, anger … resentment. Hate? She aims it at me. “You can’t have this house. I don’t care what you think this Afina woman meant to Hermann. This was Marian’s house. This is where she raised her children and her children raised their children and …” She swallows hard and clenches her jaw. “This is where I raisedmychildren. My Emily died in th—” A sob rips from her chest. “T-this house. And my husband …”
“Shh …” Henry pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair.
I wipe a tear from my cheek. I feel her pain. But my family’s life hasn’t been without tragedy either. I have no words. I choke on every single one that tries to find life past my lips while watching Henry collect his and his mother’s personal belongings and load them into his van. After Martha heads toward the driveway, Henry stands at the front door.
He can’t even look me in the eye. “The night you hit my mailbox, were youresearchingme?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“For your fucking book?” His gaze finds mine. It’s no longer soft and endearing. It’s stony. Angry.
“No. I wanted to—”
“Save it. Just save it for someone who cares. Enjoy the house and your pile of letters and photos. You can go back to your life as a recluse.”
The door clicks shut.
