At the thought of going to bed alone every night for the rest of my life and wishing she was beside me.
At the gut feeling, deep in my bones, that I’d fallen in love with Sylvia without even trying.
And there was nothing I could do about it.
Twenty-Two
Sylvia
On Thursday morning, as soon as I’d gotten the kids to school, I threw on all my warmest winter gear and raced over to the winery. It was a sunny day, but freezing cold, with air that stung the inside of your nose and bit at your lungs when you inhaled. Still, my body warmed with anticipation as I counted down the last few minutes before I’d see Henry again.
His truck was in the lot, and my heart pounded harder at the sight of it. I’d missed him so much when I was away. I’d struggled with the decision to call him while I was gone—part of me knew I should just let the guy be—but in the end, I’d so longed to hear the sound of his voice that I’d broken down and reached out. He had this way of calming even the worst chaos in my head, of helping me keep things in perspective, of reminding me what really mattered. He knew how to make me laugh too, even at the most difficult times. I always felt understood with Henry. Accepted for who I was, faults and all. I never would have gotten through the last six weeks without his friendship.
When I’d gone to see him in the vineyard that first time after New Year’s, I’d been stunned when he told me he was still willing to coach me. I thought once I told him there couldn’t be anything romantic between us, he might get angry. Resentful. Bitter.
But he hadn’t. He’d been sweet and understanding. Undeniably disappointed, but without making me feel bad about things I couldn’t change. He’d comforted me. He’d taken me in his arms and reassured me that I wasn’t a terrible person—I was human, I was doing the right thing, and I was forgiven.
Still, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take advantage of his kindness. I wouldn’t be a bother to him. I wouldn’t show up there every day expecting him to pay attention to me.
But of course, that’s exactly how it happened.
No matter how little or how much time I had to spend with him, he made it feel like a gift. He was patient and funny and kind. He answered all my ignorant questions thoroughly and never once got irritated when I asked him to repeat things. We laughed often. We told each other stories. We confessed our guilty pleasures—his were cheerleading competitions on ESPN, Krispy Kremes, and Restoration Hardware. I giggled every time I thought about him secretly surfing the RH website and holding himself back from purchasing a reclaimed oak table or Italian leather chair.
He made fun of my list too.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to disqualify your food item. A salad is not a guilty pleasure.”
“Have you ever had a Greek salad at National Coney Island?” I demanded. “It’s drowning in feta cheese! The beets are canned!”
“Canned beets? My God, the horror!” He reached over and pulled my hair, making me giggle.
But other than that, he never laid a finger on me. Not once.
Sometimes I caught him looking at me—and he would catch me looking at him, but we never said a word about what had gone on between us . . . or what was happening still. Somehow, in my mind, if we just didn’t give it a name or put a label on it, we were safe.
But we weren’t. Of course we weren’t.
I burst through the tasting room doors and saw Chloe behind the counter, unpacking new glasses from shipping boxes.
“Hey,” she said, “how did it go with the house?”
“Good,” I answered breathlessly. “Is Henry around?”
“Downstairs. Too cold to work in the vineyard today. Do you want to—”
But I was already rushing across the cement floor toward the cellar steps. I spotted him right away, standing over a barrel with a long glass tube I now knew was called a “wine thief.”
He heard me bounding down the stairs and looked up, a grin breaking out on his face. “Hey, you.”
When I reached him, I was breathing heavy and I thought my heart was going to burst right through my chest, but it wasn’t just from exertion. “Hi.”
“How was the rest of your trip?”
“It was good.” I was dying for him to hug me and couldn’t help feeling disappointed when he kept his arms to himself. My entire body was like one huge live wire being so close to him.
“Kids do okay?”
“Yes. It was tough, and Whitney cried a lot, but I was expecting it.” My hopes began to wither . . . He wasn’t going to touch me. Not even an informal, good-to-see-you elbow nudge.
“Poor thing.” He took a sample of the wine from the barrel. “You glad to be back?”
“Yeah.” God, I missed the feeling of his arms around me. Would I never feel it again? “I feel like . . . like we can really move forward now.”
“When do you close on your house?”
“I’m still waiting for the exact date, but I’m hopeful we’ll have keys within the week.” I tried to smile, but suddenly felt like crying for some stupid reason. What the hell was the matter with me? Of course he wasn’t going to touch me—he was respecting my wishes like a good man would. Had I expected anything less from him?
“Optimism is a good thing,” he said. “So what would you like to work on today? It’s too cold to be outside, but you’re welcome to hang out with Mariela and me down here or ask Chloe what she could use help with upstairs.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Maybe I’ll head upstairs and see what Chloe needs.”
“Okay.”
I turned around and started to walk away.
“Sylvia,” he called softly.
“Yes?” I looked back at him, my heart splintering in my chest. Every bone in my body was aching to run at him, jump into his arms, beg for another ending to this reunion scene.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
I smiled, although tears threatened. Were we doomed to this forever? Missing each other all the time, even when we were standing right next to one another? This was agony, and I saw no way out of it. “Me too.”
Upstairs, I told Chloe I felt sick, which was true—my stomach was suddenly roiling.
My sister looked at me. “Yeah, your color doesn’t look good. Why don’t you go back home and get some rest? You’ve probably been going nonstop for days.”
“Okay.”
I bundled up again and walked home quickly, unshed tears burning my eyes, sobs trapped inside my chest. I didn’t stop moving until I was inside my bedroom with the door closed, then I threw myself onto my bed, curled into a ball, and let it all out. I hadn’t cried so much since Brett left me.
But this was my own fault.
I’d moved here to find peace and security, to feel grounded and safe and strong, to create a haven for myself and for my children, to piece my heart back together again and keep it better protected.
Instead, I’d fallen in love. I felt exposed and raw and vulnerable, and I hated myself for it.
Suddenly I knew I was going to be sick, and I rocketed from my bed into the adjoining bathroom, barely making it before losing the contents of my stomach.