Chapter 18
Story
Hell is working construction with Hendricks Burlington.
“It doesn’t go there, Hen.” I point at the very clearly labeled instructions where end A is supposed to be placed. “See?”
He waves the curved piece of plywood at me. “Stor, it says that A goes into B.”
“But you have to attach these wiggly things first.” I open my hand, revealing said wiggly things, which I’d been holding on to for him. “Otherwise, it doesn’t slot properly.”
He tuts, lets out a big huff, and snatches them from my palm. Armed with a screwdriver and an Allen key, he tries again. Unsuccessfully.
“Seriously, how can you stitch up a wound on an injured animal and not figure out basic assembly instructions? It’s like you’ve never put IKEA flatpack together before.
” I’m joking, though the way he glares at me makes me think I’ve touched a nerve.
And I know Burlington Hall is filled with priceless antiques, but he went to university. Students live off IKEA furniture.
“These aren’t instructions.” He whips up the paper and waves it at me. “They’re drawings and not very good ones. And I have no idea what it is, but I know this isn’t IKEA. There isn’t even the correct number of wiggly bits.”
My lips roll together. I so desperately want to laugh at how annoyed he is, mostly because he’s used to excelling at everything. “Okay, I concede, not enough wiggly bits. Can’t we just get one of the Burlington staff to do it? You must have a carpenter on call.”
He peers over at me, though he’s bending over the instructions so he’s more looking up. His brows drop. “There aren’t Burlington carpenters. Besides, that’s cheating. But”—he pulls out his phone—“I can get some better tools sent over.”
“Using your powers for good.” I sit back against the wall and grab one of the beers I brought—something told me I’d need them—and wave it toward the wood scattered all over the floor of the village hall.
The scene for today’s debacle. There’s also a length of red fabric that I can’t figure out.
“Where d’you think she got this all from anyway? ”
“Mrs. Winston’s House of Crap,” he grumbles, only to burst out laughing a second later and slump next to me. “Reinforcements will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Thank God.”
We sit there in silence, both of us drinking quietly. “I’ve never put IKEA furniture together. I’ve never been to IKEA.”
My entire body twists toward his. “What? How is that possible?”
He shrugs. “Why would I have gone?”
“To experience the meatballs, buy a Billy bookcase, coat hangers . . .” I hold a finger up for each one. “What about all the kids’ storage? That’s invaluable. I’ve always used it in my classrooms. You can’t get better anywhere else.”
“I didn’t realize you were so passionate about IKEA.” He laughs.
“But what about when you were at university?”
“I lived in Eaton Square, remember?” he shoots back, mentioning his family’s London house, which is about as far away from student accommodation as one could get.
“But what about when Max was born?”
“All the furniture for his room came already assembled.”
“Of course, it did—”
“My mum organized it. Plus, I wasn’t really in the best frame of mind to be spending hours in IKEA . . .” His sentence peters off, and he leans back again.
The silence returns, only this time the air feels heavier. We’ve veered into territory I’m not familiar with because I left. I don’t know the person Hendricks became after that day. Over the years, I wondered. I thought about him more than I didn’t, likely at some point every day.
I’d think about him with a kid, a girlfriend, as a husband. Maybe another kid, a couple of dogs . . . I’d think about him in the life I always imagined for myself. The one I’d go to in the depths of the night or the height of the day, dreaming about what could be. Lamenting what wasn’t.
He doesn’t live the reality I thought he would. Even with everything he has and all the resources at his disposal, it’s vastly different. Smaller, almost. Calmer. Even without him saying so, I know his world revolves around Max, and I wouldn’t expect anything different.
“What happened?” I ask when the silence becomes too much for my brain to cope. “Max never mentions his mother. He talks about you, Miles, your mum, Clementine, Birgitta—” Even though I made peace with her being the nanny, I still choke over her name.
Hendricks doesn’t notice. Shreds of the beer label pile on the floor where he’s peeled it off and dropped.
“He never sees her. He has no contact with her, and since he was eighteen months old, he’s only met her a handful of times. I doubt he’d recognize her.”
My mouth opens and closes and opens again. His sadness is tangible, wrapping around the two of us like a weighted blanket. It’s truly awful.
“I . . .”
“Yes. It’s hard to imagine a woman deserting her baby like that. But motherhood wasn’t for her, just the payoff from me.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have sole custody of Max, and in return, she receives a very generous monthly stipend—” He lets out one bitter huff.
I gasp. “You pay her for a child she doesn’t look after?”
“There’s no alternative. She knows I can afford it, and I’d pay a thousand times over if it meant I’d keep Max with me.”
“Oh God, Hen, that must have been awful. Who does that?”
There’s so much anguish in his next sentence, I feel my heart break. “I tried, Stor. I tried to make it work, but she wasn’t interested in anything more than money—”
I believe every word. It’s one of the reasons I left so abruptly. I know he would have moved heaven and earth to raise his child with two parents.
I think back to what I was doing while he was being a single parent—surfing, traveling around Australia, drinking—all the things someone in their early twenties is supposed to do.
“What was Max like when he was little?” I ask, more to add levity to the mood, though I can’t deny I’m not curious. But missing out on the last six years comes with a heavy amount of guilt.
A smile grows on Hendricks’s face, one I’ve not seen for years. Warm, broad, contagious.
“So cute. Whip smart, and sassy. Walked before he was one, obsessed with horses. When he was teething, the only way to stop him crying was to get him out to the stables. Had everyone wrapped around his finger, still does . . .” He leans back, chuckling.
“I can imagine. He’s the same at school.”
“Yes.” He huffs, amused. “That’s what happens when you grow up with five adults and a nanny who all answer to your beck and call.”
Leaning in, I whisper, “Don’t tell him this, but he’s my favorite.”
Hendricks turns his head. It’s the closest I’ve been to him since the night we almost kissed over a week ago, and then it was dark.
I can see every detail in his face—his blue eyes delicately ringed in navy, the slight bump across the bridge of his nose, the dip in his top lip usually hidden by his beard now quivering in amusement.
“I think he knows.”
“Impossible, I’m very discreet.” I laugh. “But either way, he’s amazing. Though every so often he gets a look I know came from Miles.”
“You mean this one?” Hendricks’s brows draw down and his mouth pulls into a pout. It’s uncanny.
I shove him playfully. “Stop. You’re giving me the creeps.”
He laughs loudly before it fades away, and he’s quiet again. “It was so fucking hard sometimes. I don’t know how I got through it.”
“I’m so sorry, Hen. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
Both our hands are down by our thighs and less than thirty centimeters separates us. My fingers find his, and for a second they flex against mine before he snatches his hand back and smooths it down his thigh. “I got Max. It’s all that matters.”
I want to say more, but I don’t know where to start. God, I’m such a dick. The assumptions I’ve made . . .
Both our heads shoot up as James Winters, the Burlington family’s chief of staff, walks in.
A former army major general who used to command thousands of troops, yet has always said his hardest job was corralling the five Burlington children.
The last time I saw him, I was nineteen, drunk, and trying to climb up the centuries old wisteria outside Hendricks’s bedroom at three in the morning.
For some reason, we thought it was a better idea than walking up the stairs.
His eyes land on me before Hendricks, and he doesn’t flinch. It could be his army training not to react, but something tells me he already knew I’d be here.
“Hello, Story,” he booms, and I realize I’m now fully resigned to being Story again. Sophie was fun while she lasted.
I wave. “Hi, James, how’s it going?”
“Very well, thank you.” He nods and holds out a toolbox.
Hendricks jumps to his feet and takes it. “You could have sent someone else.”
“Your mother wanted me to check you hadn’t done any damage.”
I snort, grateful for the opportunity to ease the tension. “Only to his ego.”
“Do you need help?”
“No,” Hendricks snaps as I laugh, “Yes.”
“No. We’re fine,” he presses.
James raises an eyebrow, but aside from that, his expression remains as stoic as ever. One summer, I made it my mission to see if I could get him to smile, even the tiniest twitch of his mouth, but nothing. “You know where I am if you need anything.”
“Thanks, but we’ll be fine.”
I raise my beer to James and watch his face. “Pray for us.”
But he nods again and walks away.
“Bollocks. Zero for one,” I mutter.
Hendricks is riffling through the toolbox, pulling out an electric screwdriver, a hammer, a small bag of . . . nails, maybe. Screws? He lays them all on the floor to the side. “What is?”
“James. He never ever smiles.”
He buzzes the hand drill a couple of times. “He does. You’re just not funny.”
My tone is borderline amused, borderline insulted at the incredibly false accusation. “I’m hilarious. I’ve been told that many, many times.”
“By whom? Australians?”
Putting my beer down, I stand to join him. “Um . . . yes.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
He spins his cap around. “Australians aren’t funny either.”