Perhaps I should have accepted his offer to help, but it’s too late.
A professional wouldn’t require help, and that’s my shield—professionalism.I haven’t dropped it once since arriving here, though perhaps I lowered it slightly during Mr.Massie’s performance.It’s hard to stay professional when Henry’s being clever.
Or apologetic.
Back then, I was the apologetic one, forced to deliver half-hearted apologies whenever I made a mistake or acted on impulse.I don’t think most children are required to apologize as much as I was.He certainly wasn’t.Neither was Ivy.But they weren’tdifficult.
Still, it felt nice to hear an apology from him, like applying an ice pack to a swollen bruise.It numbed some inner pain that I’ve long ignored.Despite my actions, despite my mouth, despite my brain… Iwantedto be liked.
By Maggie, especially.She was the closest to a mother I had.With Ivy’s constant correspondence with hers, I longed for a similar connection.But her half-hearted affection only appeared in rare moments between the trouble she believed I caused.By the end, Maggie wanted all threads of connection between them and me severed permanently.I never blamed her.How could I?I nearly cost her Henry.
Practicing my Ins and Outs, I fix my hair off my shoulders and tie it in a messy bun with my scarf.Armed with garden gloves and my trowel, I plant the tall pitchers first to give the flytraps ample space up front, where they can best be admired.
“Sunflowers in the back and cherry tomatoes up front,”I remember telling Henry when we planted one of our first gardens.“That way, we can reach the tomatoes.”The first time we picked cherry tomatoes from the vine and popped them into our mouths, all warm and bursting, Henry beamed with delight.We’d grown the plants from seeds, cared for them, and finally reaped the juicy rewards.He’d been so proud that he picked a handful for Maggie and raced home for her to try them.Her reaction wasn’t quite as amazed, but she was pleased.
It became the “Summer of the Tomato” for all the pizzas and salads we made with the bounty.The memory makes me smile, and I feel bad for this morning, when Henry tried to reminisce about that ridiculous physical fitness test, and I cut him off.
There’s nothing wrong with keeping our memories, especially if they’re all we have.
Movement catches my attention on the cobblestone street below.A Toyota hybrid pulls to a crooked stop in an illegal parking spot at the curb.The flashers blink on.“My kid is better than yours,”reads the lone bumper sticker on the rear end, which is both presumptuous and categorically untrue.The back door swings open, and a young boy escapes before the driver, a pretty brunette, exits to catch up with him.
Henry reaches him first, appearing just inside my line of vision from the sidewalk below.The boy races into his arms, and Henry lifts him, backpack and all, into a smiling hug.
Warmth blazes through me.This must be Olly.Henry’s son.
I stare, paralyzed by an overwhelming joy for him, for them both, unable to look away, even though I need to battle back the emotional surge inside me.
Olly is adorable.He’s Henry, in miniature.His head rests on Henry’s shoulder, his messy brown hair blending perfectly with his father’s.
They exchange words.As Olly speaks, he presses his glasses higher on his nose, just like Henry does.Henry fiddles with his hair, making him laugh.
The woman comes over, rolling a child-sized suitcase behind her.She is elegant, graceful, and smiling.She wears a floral sundress with sneakers—an outfit similar to what Ivy picked out for me today—and she rests her hand on Henry’s arm as she speaks to him.
Unnecessary touching is a key indicator of attraction.
Olly slides down his father to take control of his rolling suitcase.His mother stops him with a demand for a final embrace.He obeys, waves goodbye, and takes Henry’s hand in his free one.She rushes toward her vehicle, blowing kisses at Olly, Henry, or both, I don’t know.I suspect both.
Waving goodbye, they stroll toward the building, talking nonstop, and disappear from my view.
My thoughts scatter amid wild wonders.I wonder what they’re saying, what it’s like to love and parent and be a part of something so precious.I wonder what it’s like to pack his little suitcase, hold his hand, or pick him up and hold him close.To have a child’s care, well-being, and love in your hands must be life’s greatest adventure.
I wonder what it’s like for someone to bethathappy to see you.
Dread edges in soon and replaces my warm feelings.I don’t belong here.Henry has a life, a family, that I have no business invading.I need to leave as soon as possible.
As my now jittery hands continue their work, I take measured solace in the fact that I’m nobody.Olly doesn’t know me.As far as he’s concerned, I’m another hired worker like Dot and Mr.Massie, here to do a job and leave.With any luck, Henry will sequester them both in their apartment so I can make a graceful exit without any awkward encounters or conversations.
I secure my shields, just in case.I’m a professional.
CHAPTER26
Henry
The full-bodied reliefthat happens when Olly returns home hits me instantly as we walk inside.Though I know Carly takes excellent care of him, I’m uncomfortable when he’s not with me, like a constant tug-of-war between worry and letting go.
He gushes about his weekend until we run into Dot in the hallway.
“Golly, it’s Olly!”
