We were both silent for a moment.

“How long were you married?” I asked.

“Ten years.”

“Do you miss her?”

Exhaling, he sat back, staring into the fireplace. “I don’t know. I don’t miss the fights or the tension. I guess I miss some things about being married, but I sure as hell wouldn’t go back to the marriage I had, not the one I had in the end, anyway.”

“Same,” I said. “There are things I miss too, but I don’t miss him. It’s more like I miss the life I thought I had, if that makes any sense. Or the life I thought I would have. But can you miss something you never had in the first place?”

“I think you can.” He looked down at his coffee again. “I know I do.”

My throat tightened up. What was the right thing to say here? I didn’t like it when people said, Oh, you’re still young and beautiful, you’ll meet someone else, because to me it was dismissive and insensitive, so I didn’t want to say it to Henry. But I didn’t want him to give up on his dreams of fatherhood either. He’d be such a great dad. “Have you thought about adopting a child on your own?”

“No. I don’t even know if a single man can adopt, and I don’t really want to be a single parent anyway.” He looked up, his expression contrite. “Sorry—I know you’re in that position right now.”

“Not by choice, believe me. So I understand.” I took a breath. “Sometimes I want to kick myself for feeling so complacent. I thought I had everything figured out, you know? I mean, by the time you get to this age, aren’t you supposed to? And now . . . here I am starting over again.”

Henry studied me for a moment. “I think it’s really brave, what you’re doing.”

“Thanks, but I don’t feel brave. I just feel . . . broken.”

“You’re not broken, Sylvia.” His voice was firm.

“No?”

He slowly shook his head. “No.”

My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to thank him for listening to me and talking openly about himself. I wanted him to set his coffee cup down, move closer to me, put his hands in my hair.

Was he thinking about it too?

“I should go,” he said, rising to his feet.

Reluctantly unfolding my legs, I stood up too. “Here, I’ll take your cup.”

He handed it to me, and our fingers touched, sending a hot little current buzzing up my arm, which then shot directly between my legs. Immediately—and I swear to God, I have never done this before—I looked at his crotch. His crotch! What the hell was wrong with me?

Quickly I turned around and headed for the kitchen.

“Thanks again for inviting me,” he said, following behind.

“Thanks for coming.” I set our cups in the sink, nervous to turn around and face him because he’d see how flushed I was. Had he seen me looking at his zipper? I tried to make my voice sound normal. “You’ll be here tomorrow night, right?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good.” Forcing a smile, I turned around and hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Let me get your coat.” I had to pass him in order to reach the front hall, but I was careful not to brush against him. I wasn’t sure I could handle it.

From the closet, I pulled his wool peacoat from a hanger and while he put it on, I took out the Carhartt I’d borrowed earlier. “Thanks for lending this to me.”

“No problem.” He buttoned his coat. “Don’t let me catch you outside without a coat again. You’re not in California anymore.”

I laughed nervously. “No.”

He pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then he took the Carhartt from me, folding it over one arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, we just stood there in the darkened hallway. Facing each other. Nearly chest to chest. The house was silent, but my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I held my breath. Kiss me, I thought heedlessly. I don’t care if I’m ready or not, I just want to be kissed by you tonight. Held by you. Desired by you.

“Mom?” called a voice from the top of the stairs.

Henry and I sprang apart, although we hadn’t even been touching.

I moved to the landing and peered up at Whitney, who looked like a ghost in her white nightgown in the dark. “I’ll be up in a minute, Whit. Everything okay?”

“Yes. I just need some water.”

“I’ll bring you a glass. Go back to bed.”

She disappeared down the hallway, and I turned around to find Henry pulling open the front door.

“Goodnight,” he said, without looking back.

“Night.” I stayed put on the landing.

Only once he’d pulled the door shut behind him could I breathe again. After making sure the door was locked, I leaned back against it.

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

If Whitney hadn’t interrupted, would something have happened between Henry and me? Would we have kissed? Would we still be standing here in the dark, wrapped in an embrace?

I closed my eyes and imagined it. Chills swept over my skin. I placed a hand over my heart and felt it thumping hard. What would it be like to feel his beating against it?

Then I forced myself to stop being ridiculous, go get my daughter some water, and put myself to bed. It was late, and I was acting like a delusional teenager, not a responsible mother of two.

I could not have a crush on Henry. I could not kiss Henry. I shouldn’t even allow myself to fantasize about it.

But I did.

All. Night. Long.

Six

Henry

I got out of bed early Tuesday morning and went right to the gym, thankful as hell it was open for a few hours on Christmas Eve.

I needed to let off some steam.

And not the angry kind of steam I was used to letting off during a workout, not the kind that made me want to punch things and kick things and make my muscles suffer to take my mind off a deeper kind of pain—no. This was something else entirely.

This steam was tension. This steam was need. This steam was born of an attraction to Sylvia so fierce I could feel it in my bones. All day yesterday at work and all throughout a second sleepless night, I’d thought of nothing but her and the chance I’d blown to touch her the night before. Kiss her. Take her in my arms and make her feel good again. Make her forget that her asshole ex ever existed, even if it was just for a little while. Make her feel brave and beautiful and sexy—all the things I saw when I looked at her.

But did she want me to?

There were moments when I was pretty sure she did—I could see it in her eyes, sense it in her body language. But then it was almost like she caught herself thinking something naughty and shut it down.

And maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part. Maybe she was just being nice, staying up late with me, talking to me, trusting me with her feelings. After all, she was still pretty messed up over her divorce. She flat out told me she felt broken. Even if she didn’t appear at all that way to me, what kind of monster would I be if I took advantage of that?

In any other situation, I’d have made a move last night at the door. If she were anyone else. If the circumstances were different. Maybe even if it were a year from now, when our wounds weren’t still so raw.