“But wasn’t there one thing you wanted more than anything else?”
Escape from my parents. Felix picked up the silver hallmarked photo frame on his bedside table. Ella on their wedding day, wearing a beautifully understated dress and carrying a bouquet that Mother had criticized openly. No veil, a simple hairdo, and dramatic earrings only Ella could have designed. Even then, Ella knew her heart. She had always known her heart. That was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with her—her certainty, her confidence. Enough confidence for two. “I wanted to fall in love with the perfect woman.”
“And you did,” Harry said.
Felix smiled. “I did.”
“Sammie’s being really nice to me.” Harry tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “She gave me this.”
Now the little pony on the very small T-shirt made sense. What a relief. A moment ago, he’d feared his son was regressing.
“She’s cute, your Sammie.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?”
The heating kicked on and a rush of hot air filled the room.
“Are you two officially going out?”
“Doesn’t really work like that these days.” Harry gave a lopsided grin.
“You like her, though.”
Harry messed with the pillow. “I think I’m in love with her.” Then he flipped over and lay on his back. “And the timing sucks. I feel horribly guilty, like I should be worrying about Mom, not thinking about being in love.”
“I’m sure your mother is thrilled. Falling in love for the first time is a rite of passage.”
“Mom doesn’t really know about Sammie. I mean, she knows I have a crush on her, but we haven’t talked—I mean, really talked—recently.”
Harry had told him something before telling Ella?
Harry’s arm flopped over the edge of the bed and swung back and forth as if he were lying in a boat, trailing his arm through the water. When they went back to England this summer, he would take Ella and Harry to Oxford, and they would punt on the River Cherwell. Maybe they’d have a meal at the Cherwell Boathouse. Or they could pack a picnic of cucumber sandwiches and fresh strawberries with clotted cream and champagne. He might even let Harry have a half glass of Mo?t, since he would be close enough to the English drinking age of eighteen.
“I want to be with Sammie forever. She’s perfect.”
“That may change. First love is a fickle monster.”
“Do you remember your first kiss?”
Did he ever. “Playground.” Felix ran his hands over the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t shaved since Friday morning. “She kicked me in the shin, and it bloody well hurt. Have you and your mother talked about . . .” His voice dried up. He’d learned the facts of life from Tom. He’d learned everything useful from Tom.
“Talked about what, Dad?”
“Sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll—condoms.”
“Yeah. Mom told me everything when I was little. And then I told Max and he got into trouble, and Max’s mom had words with Mom in the school parking lot.”
“Really?” It was as if his family had lived a whole life he knew nothing about. Felix jiggled his wedding ring. Actually—they had.
Harry smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“For what?”
“Being honest with me about Mom. About how sick she is. It’s worse when people won’t tell you the truth, because your mind fills in the gaps. And”—Harry wriggled to get under the duvet, then molded Ella’s pillow round his head—“it’s reassuring. To know you’re scared, too.”
“Solidarity in fear?” Was this the big, amorphous it of the father-son relationship? Being honest even if it stripped you bare?
“I guess. This pillow smells of Mom.”
I know.
Harry nestled deeper. “Does Gramps know about Mom?”
“No. It’s not a decision I agree with, but your mother’s very protective of your grandfather. Again, she’s doing what she feels is right. We have to respect that.”
“Dad, why don’t you ever talk about your father?”
“I prefer to forget him.” If only I could.
“Why?”