Chapter 12
The formal living room might hardly ever be used, and it might already be pretty damn clean, but my God, it’s getting the dusting of its life this morning.
I don’t usually work Sundays, but I wanted to thank Maggie for watching Dylan last night. I also need to keep busy. And Dylan needs to do a bunch of homework, so I’ve given him some space and quiet to get it done and to prove he can be trusted to do what he’s supposed to do and not just play games as soon as I’m out of sight.
I run the duster along the deep sill of the window that looks out over the stretch of lawn between the house and the driveway. It comes away almost clean.
The last time this room saw any action was just before Christmas, when Maggie and Jim hosted a big family gathering ahead of Max and Polly’s wedding.
A family gathering minus Tom, who was apparently stuck in London for work, and heading straight to Max and Polly’s new house in upstate New York right before the ceremony.
Maybe Maggie noticed my relief when she let me know about that plan, and that’s why she didn’t tell me he was coming this time, so I didn’t have a chance to run away and avoid him.
Sneaky.
She obviously has some kind of motherly or auntly instinct that told her we wouldn’t be able to resist each other if we were thrown under the same roof. And while she was right, she was also very, very wrong.
What happened in the car last night—or what almost happened—was bad news. Bad, bad, very bad news. Terrible. The worst.
I shift my cleaning attention to the shelves in the alcove to the right of the fireplace and run the duster along a row of books, then to the next shelf that’s arranged with a variety of knickknacks the kids made for Maggie and Jim over the years. This might be a formal room, but Maggie makes everywhere homey.
I flutter the duster over a mini abacus Elliot built in woodworking class, and a portrait of their old dog painted by Connor. Then there’s a little plate stand that holds the gold record Tom made in our Mother’s Day craft class in the first year of high school. The label in the center of the disc reads, “Thank you for being my Backup Mom.” The gold spray paint has chipped off a little around the edges over the years, but the rest of it is still shiny.
I run the duster along the top edge of the record and onto the clay skyscraper Max crafted when he was seven or so, but the duster takes the record with it. As if I’m watching a slow-motion replay, it topples to the edge of the shelf, teeters on the brink, then tumbles.
Heart somewhere near my throat, my pulse lurching from normal to dizzying, I just about get my free hand under the record and prevent it from crashing to the floor, smashing the memories.
Thank God.
I turn it over in my hand. It appears to be unscathed.
My stomach churns at how close I came to having to tell Maggie I’d broken something on what she calls her Precious Shelf.
My trembling hand sets the record back on its stand.
Anyway, no matter how delightful Maggie is and how much matchmaking she’s not-so-subtly trying to do, I am not getting involved with Tom.
Even if I did, I’d only have to wave him off to London, and there’s no way in hell I’d put myself through that again.
No way. Never. Not going to happen.
But the way I was on the verge of melting last night when he cupped my chin and eased my face toward his…the way his lips parted just a tiny bit…the way his eyes kind of misted over…
Well, thank fuck for that swerving semi, that’s all I can say.
I should track that trucker down and buy them a beer for saving me from myself.
I move to the coffee table and squirt the can of furniture polish so hard the spray rebounds from the wooden surface and splatters me in the face.
My eyes sting and water. I take a tissue from my pocket to pat them dry and try to wipe away the burning lemony polish. As I do, my eyes just water more. And a rock forms in my throat. That’s definitely not a symptom of polish splatter.
It’s as if once my eyes were given a practical use for tears, the floodgates opened for impractical ones. Tears that will solve nothing. Tears that were shed many years ago and have no place back in my life.
My butt vibrates with the buzz of my phone.
Although my vision’s blurred, I can see it’s a reply from Rachel.
Last night when I got home, I texted her with a simple, yet melodramatic, “Almost kissed Tom.”
Given the time difference, I hadn’t expected to hear from her till later this afternoon.
I swipe the lingering tears from my cheeks, swallow, blow my nose, and swipe the message open.
RACHEL (10.17 AM)
Yay! *kissy-face emoji* *dancing emoji*
ME (10.17 AM)
What’s wrong with you??? It’s not good. It’s terrible.
RACHEL (10.17 AM)
Not terrible. He’s hot. I’ve seen pictures.
ME (10.18 AM)
Not the point.
RACHEL(10.18 AM)
And rich.
ME (10.18 AM)
Even less the point.
RACHEL (10.18 AM)
You loved him once.
ME (10.19 AM)
Now that IS the point. He broke my fucking heart. And you know it.
RACHEL (10.19 AM)
You can’t change the past. You can only change the now and the future.
ME (10.20 AM)
If living in California makes you say things like that I’m not moving.
RACHEL (10.20 AM)
Yes you are! Did you fill out the forms for the trial and send them back?
ME (10.21 AM)
Yup. Haven’t told Dylan. Waiting till they get back with final confirmation.
RACHEL (10.21 AM)
Great. And in the meantime, Tom can be your Bridge Man.
ME (10.21 AM)
My what?
RACHEL (10.22 AM)
Your Bridge Man. The man you won’t spend your life with, but will make you feel great after your last shitty relationship and be a bridge to get you in the right frame of mind for meeting the forever guy.
ME (10.22 AM)
More California mumbo jumbo?
RACHEL (10.23AM)
It’s true. He’s the perfect Bridge Man – hot, rich, you once loved him, and you’re only in the same place for a couple months, and never have to see each other again. PERFECT Bridge Man. Go get him. *three kissy-face emojis*
ME (10.23 AM)
*eye roll emoji*
Ridiculous. She’s ridiculous.
I shove the phone into one pocket, the damp tissue into another.
Onward.
I return to the coffee table and rub in the polish with all my might. This thing will be the shiniest it’s ever been.
Then something catches my ear, making me stop mid-swirl.
Is that Dylan’s voice? Him laughing?
Can’t be. I left him in our part of the house doing his homework.
There it is again.I could pick out his voice from the far-flung corner of a noisy crowd, so there’s no way I’d mistake it in a quiet house. And it’s coming from a room on the other side of the foyer—the study.
I drop the cloth and polish on the coffee table and tiptoe out of the room, across the black-and-white tiled floor.
There’s another voice too. Tom. And a strum of a guitar.
What the hell?
And there they both are, visible through the crack between the half-open door and the door frame.
They’re sitting together on the sofa, Dylan with a guitar on his lap and his back toward Tom, who’s reaching around to show him where to put his fingers for the chords.
Instinctively my hand flies to my mouth to muffle a gasp. My head swims as my heart swells, my belly flips, and my ovaries ache at the sight of them smiling together, engaged, and focused on a common goal.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Dylan hanging on a man’s words like this. It’s something I’ve dreamed of for him.
Although we lived with Nicholas for years, they never became that close. Possibly because of all the time he was away for work. They got along well, but Nick wasn’t interested in being a father figure. All the parenting was left to me.
And with my mom and dad having totally disowned their young pregnant daughter, and Dylan’s father’s parents being completely absent, there’s been no male role model in his life.
I’ve often wished I wasn’t an only child and had an older brother who could play that part.
But here it is now, right in front of me. The thing I’ve always wanted for my son is right before my eyes.
“Like this,” Tom says, curving his hand around and over Dylan’s, moving his fingers to the correct strings and holding them down. “Got it?”
Dylan’s teeth dig into his bottom lip with concentration, and he nods.
“Okay.” Tom lets go. “Now strum.”
Dylan runs his thumb down the strings, and the guitar emits a tuneless thrum.
“Oh,” Dylan says, turning to look over his shoulder at Tom with disappointed puppy dog eyes.
“It’s okay, buddy.” Tom rubs the back of Dylan’s shoulder, and every ounce of love I ever had for him surges back to the surface. “It’s your first try. No one gets it on the first go. Took me ages. Let’s try this.”
He hooks his hand over Dylan’s again, but this time keeps his pressure on Dylan’s fingers. “Now strum.”
It’s a perfect chord.
“There you go,” Tom says.
“Yeah, but only because you helped me.” Dylan pouts.
“But now you know what it feels like,” Tom says. “Now you know how hard you have to press.”
Dylan takes his hand off the fretboard and examines the tips of his fingers. He smiles and shows them to Tom. “Look.”
“Ridges, yeah. They toughen up the more you play. Just takes practice. I’m sure you’ll get it.”
“Would you practice with me some other time?” Dylan asks, his face lit up.
And there it is. The pin prick in my balloon. The iced water on my revived passion. The knife to my heart.
Tom can’t teach him guitar. Tom can’t be his buddy. Or his role model. Tom will be gone in a matter of weeks, out of his life forever, never to be seen again.
And this time it won’t be me who is devastated. It will be Dylan.
And I’ll chop off my own arm before I allow that to happen.
The warm glow of affection that had filled me at seeing them together turns into a heat that sears my insides, fires my protective instincts, and makes me fling the door wide open.
“What’s going on in here?”
Dylan’s and Tom’s faces snap to look at me, their smiles dropping at the sight of what I can only imagine is a weird mashup of love and horror on my face.
“Tom was showing me how to play guitar,” Dylan says. “But I was doing my homework too. I was.”
Tom stands up and places a reassuring hand on Dylan’s shoulder, like they already have an unspoken language that communicates I’ve got this.
“Dylan was wandering around looking for you to help with his geometry.” He picks up a workbook from the table at the end of the sofa. “I said I didn’t know where you were but asked if I could help.”
Dylan nods, desperate for me to know he hasn’t done anything wrong.
“And once we’d figured out the surface area of the cylinder and the volume of the pyramid”—he plucks one string of the guitar Dylan’s still holding—“I offered a quick music lesson.”
So Dylan’s successfully managed to find something to do that isn’t his homework. And, better still, Tom is actively encouraging him.
Not only that, but look how close they were, how well they were getting along.
“Back to your room, Dylan.” I give him my best parental firm stare.
“But Mom?—”
“Now. Go finish your homework.”
“But we were just?—”
“I said now.”
He stands and places the guitar carefully on its back on the sofa and looks at Tom. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Tom says with a warm smile as he hands him his homework book.
Dylan takes it and adopts the trademark teenage shoulder-slumped posture as he pushes by me to get out of the door.
“You ruin everything,” he mutters under his breath.
Knowing that phrase is part of the How to be a Sulky Teenager playbook doesn’t make it any easier to take. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. My insides crumple in on themselves as I do my best to stand up straight and follow through with what I’ve asked him to do.
“I do my very best for you every minute of the day, Dylan. And that’s how you talk to me?”
“Five minutes of fun, that’s all I was having,” he says, finding his voice. “And you spoiled it.”
“It’s okay, Dylan,” Tom joins in. “Do as your mom says. It’s fine.”
Dylan shakes his head, stares at his feet, and slumps his way toward the kitchen and the French doors where he presumably came in.
Once he’s out of sight I put my hurt to one side and snap my attention to Tom.
“I do not need you butting in when I’m telling my kid what to do,” I say through clamped teeth so my voice doesn’t carry.
“It was just a bit of fun, Han.” He closes the gap between us and reaches out to touch my arm. I step back and he misses.
Tom sighs. “I made sure to sort out his homework problem first.” He sounds like he’s worried he’s in trouble too. Good. “Then he pointed at the guitar and asked if it was mine. So I asked if he’d like me to show him how to play.”
Mindful that I have no idea where Maggie and Jim are, I step farther into the room and close the door. “And just exactly how much do you expect to teach him in a few weeks?”
“What do you mean? He was enjoying it. I thought it would do him good. I thought?—”
“Or maybe you didn’t think.”
I want to shake him. Grab him by the collar, by the shoulders, by the arms, by anything and shake him—shake some sense into him and some frustration out of me. Frustration over how I feel about him. Frustration over how amazing it was to watch him with Dylan. Frustration over how I had our life plans all sorted out but now a giant Tom-shaped wrench has been tossed into the works, making everything confusing.
“You can’t teach him to play guitar, Tom. What are you thinking?” I throw my palms toward the ceiling. “You’ll barely be through the basics before you jet back across the Atlantic never to think of him again. Meanwhile, he’ll be hooked on learning the guitar and wish you were here to teach him the rest.”
“And I’ll happily pay for lessons for him, if that’s what?—”
Oh my God. My hands turn into claws of frustration at my side. “That’s absolutely not what I mean.” This is possibly the most exasperating conversation of my life. “I do not mean that you should throw money at us. It’s about making a human connection, Tom.”
And that’s exactly what I saw just now, in that friendly yet also fatherly rapport. A connection. A real, natural connection. And I can’t allow that to develop. For Dylan’s sake. “It’s about building a relationship with my son, then leaving and breaking his heart.”
I’ll be damned if he’ll see me cry, but I’m so close to tears I’m not sure I can stop them.
Tom steps closer. “Are you sure it’s Dylan we’re talking about?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks. And I am sure. I can look after myself, but I have to look after my child too. “It’s my job to protect him, Tom. To stop him from being hurt. To not let some guy swoop into his life, make him feel like he’ll be there forever, then disappear.”
“Just because we’re only going to be in the same place for a couple months, doesn’t mean we have to lose touch afterward.”
I snort and turn away. “Yeah, right. Heard that one before.”
Then his hand is on my arm, taking charge, spinning me around to face him.
The humor is gone from his eyes, replaced with seriousness. And lust. A serious lust. “We’re not kids anymore, Hannah.”
Heavy breaths heave in my chest. As much as I want to pick up where we left off in the car last night, I can’t. Yes, I’m protecting myself, but I’m protecting my son too.
“We’re not.” I hold his gaze. “But Dylan is.”
He lets go of my arm and rakes his fingers through a tangle of hair until his hand rests on the back of his neck. He rubs it like years of tension live there.
“You keep talking about me leaving.” He looks at me from under his brows, head dipped as he massages his neck. “But I’ll just be going back to where I came from. This time it’s you who’s doing the leaving. It’s you who’s heading to Los Angeles. For some godforsaken reason.”
And that’s when the volatile cocktail of emotions, that have been swirling around inside me since Tom reappeared, smash together like a roaring wave against a rock wall.
What am I supposed to do with the confusing mishmash of the hurt from seventeen years ago, the feelings I still seem to have for Tom now, and my need to prioritize my son and do right by him at all times?
Cry, apparently.
The tears flow, the lump in my throat burns. “I’m going there for Dylan, Tom. For Dylan.” The words come out louder than intended, and my foot hits the floor in an involuntary stomp. “Everything I do is for him.” I head across the room toward the front window, desperate to put space between us or Lord knows what I might do. “Everything I’ve done for thirteen years is for Dylan.”
“And what’s in LA for Dylan that’s so fucking important?”
I gaze out toward the driveway for a moment, catching my breath before turning back to face him. “A clinical trial.”
Lines form between Tom’s brows. “A what?”
“Dylan has a problem with his hearing. It’s rare. I’m not exactly overflowing with insurance. And Rachel’s got him into a clinical trial at her hospital. It starts in the summer.”
Realization passes across Tom’s face. “Is that why he had to wear ear plugs to the movie?”
I nod. “They think loud noises might make it deteriorate more quickly.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” I swipe the tears from my face. “So you can’t go around being friends with him or teaching him guitar or anything. Because we’re about to live on opposite sides of the world. And?—”
But I don’t get to explain it again. Because Tom’s crossed the room at the speed of light. His hands are on my cheeks. His lips are on my lips.