And he’d always make me laugh.
Now, looking back, knowing what I knew, I realized he worked for it, worked to give that to me.
Every morning.
His hand lifted and wrapped around the back of my neck and that felt nice and warm in the crisp autumn air. Strong. Sweet. Lovely.
With his lips at my hair, he said, “You find your way to salvage our relationship, you tell me. Then we’ll do it.”
I moved closer and wished the fence wasn’t between us as I turned my head so I could press my cheek to his chest.
His hand gave my neck a squeeze and his lips were still at my hair when he said, “This is killing me, honey, so I must go.”
I nodded, my cheek sliding against his shirt and I started to move back because I didn’t want to hurt Henry. Not ever.
And I had.
Unintentionally but I’d still done it.
So I had to stop doing that.
But I stopped when Henry’s hand at my neck put pressure on.
I tipped my head back to see Henry’s descending.
And then he kissed me. Not a chaste brush on the lips. His mouth opened over mine and for some reason, mine opened under his and his tongue slid inside.
He tasted very nice. He kissed very well. I was not surprised at either. He was Henry and almost everything about him was good, but as for the latter, he’d had a lot of practice.
But it didn’t fire me the way it should have. The way it could have. The way I knew it would have, even only three weeks ago.
Because I’d had Jake that morning, his mouth, his hands, his body, and he gave so much even while taking, nothing could compare.
Nothing.
Not even Henry.
He lifted his lips from mine and looked in my eyes.
He saw it because I didn’t hide it.
His voice was again an ache when he murmured, “Fuck, I f**ked us up.”
My throat closed and I could do nothing but step away.
His hand dropped away when I did.
My eyes again filled with tears when it did.
How could it be that I felt with Jake like I was getting everything and at that moment knowing Henry was walking away, knowing Gran was gone, it felt like I’d lost everything?
“I wish for you to be happy,” he said gently and I swallowed, the tears now stinging my eyes. “I truly do.”
“I hope you’re happy too.”
My throat started aching as Henry tipped his head to the side and said, “Good-bye, my Josephine.”
“Good-bye, Henry,” I forced out.
He smiled. It was sad. It was adrift.
It gutted me.
Then he walked away.
* * * * *
I sunk my feet into the tub filled with warm water and bubbles.
The instant I did, Alyssa said, “Okay, honey, tell momma all about it.”
My surprised eyes went to her.
It was obviously after Henry left. After I gave up on the garden, went inside and saw I had a flurry of very verbose texts from Alyssa explaining how things would go with Ethan, Bryant and Sofie.
It was after I dropped Ethan off, he raced away with Bryant, I met Sofie (learning that Sofie was the oldest, Bryant the youngest and there were three in between). It was further after I saw that Sofie was a younger, shier, quieter Alyssa and noted in the five minutes I was with her she was very sweet.
And it was after Alyssa swept us out to her car. After she’d driven us into town and parked behind her shop. After she let us in, turned on lights and got the pedicure chair prepared. After I’d taken in her shop, which looked not one thing like a Maude’s House of Beauty, but instead like a rather posh spa you could find in New York, Los Angeles or even Paris. It was decorated in gold, silver and cream with modern lights hanging from the ceiling with a multitude of crystal lightshades that cast prisms that were very attractive.
It was after all that I looked to her, saw her looking at me with warm concern in her brown eyes and she stated, “I’m drowning in bitches all day, been doin’ that shit for years. I know a face like that when I see one. So tell me.”
It was then I lifted my hands, covered my face and burst into tears.
I did this for some time before a large bunch of tissues was pressed into the hand she’d pulled away from my face and I turned teary eyes to her.
“Tell me,” she urged.
I didn’t know why, maybe it was her tone, the kindly look in her eyes, the things Jake told me about her.
But I did.
I wiped my face, blew my nose and told her.
Everything.
I told her how my grandfather treated my grandmother. How my father and uncle did the same as they grew up, in their way, doing precisely what they learned to do from their father. Disrespecting her. Verbally abusing her. Getting into trouble. Carousing. Making her life that was already a living hell much worse. And not giving a damn. Never giving a damn.
I told her of my first living memory with my mother and father and a few more besides.
I told her about Andy. How wonderful he was. How he was the best first boyfriend in the world. How he seemed to understand my father was awful and how he tried in many marvelous ways to make up for that. How he was so gentle with me. How he was so careful in keeping our relationship a secret. How I heard from my friend Alicia that after my father had hurt me, he’d gone quite mad and the police had to come and get him after he broke into my father’s house and was shouting at him and destroying things.
I told her how that ended and how my relationship with my father ended.
I told her about how I left Andy behind.
I told her about Gran. How she saved me, took care of me, made me whole again.
I told her about going to university, being carefree and happy and meeting a charismatic, handsome fellow student, falling in love and moving in with him after we graduated.
I told her how he then cowed me, scared me with his temper, and finally beat me.
I told her about how I escaped again to Gran, found Henry, put on my disguise and lived my lie.
I told her about Gran dying, the will, Gran giving me to Jake, and Jake taking me.
And last, I told her all that had happened since then, with Jake, with Jake and Mickey, with Jake and Henry, finishing with my heartbreaking meeting with Henry just hours before.
Through this, she worked on my feet, she worked on my nails and she listened. A woman, who in our limited communications would barely let me get a word in edgewise, said nothing but a few “okays,” “mm-hmms,” “shits,” “holy craps,” and the like.
But when I was done, she looked me right in the eye and stated, “Sister, that is one helluva crazy f**ked up story.”
And strangely, her saying that, her seeing it that way, her confirming what I knew to be true in my heart seemed profound. So profound it opened something inside me that felt like it shone out, starting to burn away the last vestiges of my disguise.