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Not in the hallway of my family home, but behind closed doors.
Spencer asked me once if we ever fought because he had never seen any evidence of it.
I step in and firmly shut the door behind me before I face Hettie. She crosses her arms. “About me,” I add, just to clarify.
She lifts her chin. “I did,” she repeats without an ounce of apology. “I thought he should know that you blame yourself. I thought he might be able to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
The words slip out automatically and the expression on Hettie’s face tells me I’m so very wrong.
“Is that Bo?” comes Abigail’s voice from the other room. “She’s almost ready.”
“I don’t want to eat dinner,” wails Tema.
“Is everything okay?” I demand.
“It’s fine. Tema is just being Tema. You lost me once.” She lowers her voice. “Are you willing to risk that again?” Now it’s my mouth that drops open. “You should talk to your father.”
More voices from the bedroom, and suddenly Tema laughs. The sound does something strange to my heart.
“She’s fine,” Hettie adds. “Abigail’s got her.”
I don’t want Abigail to get Tema. I want to be the one who makes everything better for her.
For my daughter.
But just looking at Hettie, I know there’s no chance of me getting that opportunity unless I— “He wants me to talk to a therapist,” I admit. I might be welcome in Tema’s life, but already I know I want more.
I want to be able to get her, to make her laugh like Abigail does. To comfort and console and help her with her homework—
I’m jealous of Abigail and that’s a horrible way to feel about my friend.
Hettie looks thoughtful and clearly doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on in my mind. “That might be better.”
“I’ve never—I don’t know—”
She reaches out and squeezes my arm, her hand lingering on my forearm for an extra moment. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“Hettie…” And then I look at her—really look at her—and I forget what I’m about to say.
Her hair is long and straight and… glossy. The light hits the top of her head and gives her a glow. She’s wearing makeup—not a lot but enough for me, who vividly remembers every freckle and birthmark on her body—and a dress.
At least I think it’s a dress; it’s black, short sleeved and looks like an over-sized T-shirt that hits at her knees. Tights.
Yes, I check out her legs. “You changed,” I say stupidly because my mind flashes back to another Hettie—twenty-years old and impossibly beautiful in a pink dress with flowers in her hair. Walking toward me on a warm autumn day with a smile brighter than the sun.
Why did I ever make her leave?
“I’m about to dine with royalty.” She tries for casual, but there’s a note in her voice that I suspect is fear. I’m glad I didn’t make her go down alone.
“It’s my family,” I counter, my own voice sounding strained.
“What’s wrong?”
“You—the dress.” I motion to her legs, which probably isn’t a good thing. “Made me think of you in your wedding dress.”
“Oh.” Her hand slides off my arm.