An hour ago, I’d been so happy, so starry-eyed, my heart so full of hope.

How had everything gone so wrong?

Nineteen

Henry

Waiting for Sylvia to come back to the party was torture.

I didn’t feel like drinking, listening to music, or talking to people, but there wasn’t really anywhere I could hide. I thought about leaving, but in case Sylvia needed me tonight, I wanted to be somewhere she’d be able to find me.

How the fuck had this night gone so wrong so fast?

I returned to our dinner table, where Mack and Frannie were sitting, and dropped disconsolately into my chair, where I proceeded to brood and fret.

“Everything okay?” Mack asked over the music.

“Fine.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them exchange a look. It just made me scowl harder.

“Do you know where Sylvia is? I haven’t seen her in a while,” Frannie remarked, false brightness in her voice.

“She’s at the house with Whitney.”

“Why? What happened to Whitney?” Frannie asked.

I struggled with it for a moment, then realized their own kids were probably going to tell them what they’d seen. “She saw us kissing outside. She got upset and took off.”

Frannie gasped. “Yikes!” She looked toward the door. “Do you think I should go over there?”

“I have no idea,” I said, feeling like the least qualified person to give advice on doing the right thing. “But I might as well warn you, your girls saw the whole thing too. They might say something to you about it.”

“Oh, our girls have caught us kissing a million times.” Frannie reached over to pat Mack’s arm. “They’re used to it, right, babe?”

“Right.” But Mack, who’d been a single father of three young girls, understood what the issue was. “Whitney doesn’t like the idea of her mom with someone else?”

“Apparently not.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” said Frannie. “Wouldn’t she want her mom to be happy? The girls were thrilled when we stopped sneaking around and finally admitted what was going on between us.”

“But that didn’t happen right away,” Mack reminded her. “My guess is that Whitney is upset because she lost her dad and thinks she’s going to lose her mom too. My girls didn’t want to let me out of their sight after Carla left. They used to cry when I dropped them off at school. They thought I might not come back.”

“Oh, I remember that.” Frannie shook her head. “That was so sad.”

“It takes time,” Mack said with a shrug. “I’m sure if you give it a while, things will calm down.”

I nodded, but I didn’t fucking want to give it time. I wanted to be with her now, and I was furious that somehow we’d already fucked this up before we’d even given ourselves a chance.

“You look so miserable, Henry. You really care about her, don’t you?” Frannie gave me a sympathetic look.

I slumped down lower in my chair. “Yeah.”

Just then, a server came by with a tray of champagne glasses. “Almost midnight,” she said, setting a glass down for each place at the table. “Enjoy!”

But the occasion had lost all its appeal.

Just before twelve, I watched the kids light up their sparklers and listened to the crowd count down the last ten seconds of the year, but I couldn’t even lift my glass as the band kicked off Auld Lang Syne. I didn’t drink the champagne or even pretend to sing along. I just kept looking at the door hoping to see Sylvia come through it, and checking my phone in case she tried to send me a message. Each time, I was disappointed, and finally I gave up. Without even saying goodbye to anyone, I headed for the coatroom.

That’s when I saw her come through the door.

She stopped short at the sight of me, about ten feet away, and crossed her arms over her chest. She’d changed her clothes, her hair was pulled back, and her face was bare. She looked young and vulnerable and sad.

I approached slowly. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How’s Whitney?”

“Asleep. All cried out.”

My heart ached. “I’m really sorry, Sylvia.”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Whitney’s feelings have nothing to do with you and everything to do with her dad and me.”

“I’m still sorry you’re going through it.”

She tried to smile, but looked like she might burst into tears at any moment. “Thank you.”

I wanted to ask what this meant for us, but knew it wasn’t the time. I could tell from the way she was standing and the tremble of her lower lip that this Sylvia was a different one than the one I’d been next to at dinner and alone with in her room. Even the tone of her voice was different. That Sylvia had been confident and audacious and strong. This Sylvia looked shaken and fragile, like she would bruise if you looked at her wrong.

“Can I call you?” I asked, keeping my arms pinned to my sides. I wanted to hold her so badly it hurt.

Her eyes filled. “I need some time to think, okay? Things have been moving so fast, and I feel . . . off-kilter. I think I need a few days to find my balance.”

“Okay . . . well.” My chest was uncomfortably tight. “You know where to find me.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes for a second and composed herself. “I need to get Keaton home.”

“Of course.”

“Goodnight, Henry.”

“Goodnight.”

She skirted around me and headed for the kids’ table, and I hurried out of the building without even bothering with my coat. I’d get it another time.

When I got home, I felt like putting my fist through a wall, or taking a sledgehammer and smashing that bathtub to bits. It didn’t even make sense how upset I was—Sylvia and I had only slept together a handful of times. It’s not like I was in love with her. This shouldn’t be so painful. So what the fuck was my problem?

I undressed in agitated, jerky movements, viciously scrubbed my teeth, and thumped myself into bed, punching my pillow several times before burying my head in it. But I couldn’t sleep.

After a while, it came to me, in Sylvia’s own voice—something she’d once said.

I missed the life I thought I would have.

Being with Sylvia had given me hope for a second chance.

And right now, it felt like that hope was gone.

Twenty

Sylvia

I got Keaton home and into bed, wondering if I should bring up what he’d seen earlier tonight or just let it go. In the end, he was the one who braved the topic.

“Mom?” he asked as I was tucking him in.

“Yes?”

“Are you and Mr. DeSantis . . .” he started, clearly uncertain how to end the question.

“No,” I said. “We talked about it, and we do like each other a lot, but we’re just going to be friends. I’m sorry if what you saw upset you.”

“Okay.”

“Did it?” I ventured. “Upset you?”