The Children(77)

“Oh, well, if Chrissie saw it,” she said scornfully. Her least favorite future sister-in-law, forever attempting to rope her into shapewear-based pyramid schemes.

“It’s not about—” He recentered, turning on the couch to look at her straight. “It’s not about my family, I know that. I’ll figure out something to tell them. Or they can figure out how to mind their own business.”

Guin pressed her lips together hard.

“But the fact that you didn’t even call me while all of this was unfolding? I’m your fiancé, why am I getting breaking news about you from my dad? It kind of worries me, alright? It’s kind of embarrassing.” His face was flushed. He looked childish.

“I did call! You didn’t answer.”

“That was before I saw the video. You could’ve tried again.”

“Here’s what’s embarrassing,” she hissed. “Getting fired from promoting your own book.”

“Fired?” Hank made a face. “How can you be fired if you don’t have a—”

Wisely he left the thought unfinished. She offered a thin smile. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s good. I could use a break from all of it. The memoir, the Ninth City. I’ve spent the last decade standing in for my mother. I’m kind of over it.”

“No, you’re not.” He almost seemed angry. “You like it. You’re good at it. You mean a lot to a lot of people, and it makes you happy.”

Happy? She felt a flash of something, hot and hard to define. Did he think, all this time, she’d been playing Ninth City mouthpiece because it made her happy? He went on before she could speak.

“Can we please talk about what you said in the video? Or are you hoping I’ll just forget?”

Guin forked up a hunk of curry so spicy it made her eyes water. “This is good,” she said, flapping at them.

Hank waited. When she took another forkful, he sighed, picked up his silverware, and cleared his plate in six neat bites, like a man accustomed to a three-minute lunch break. Like the youngest of four brothers, who treated dinner as a blood sport. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel and said, “Guin.”

She shook her head, eyes on her plate. “It’s hard to talk about.”

“You talked about it with that girl.”

“Barely. She talked more than I did, then edited that part out. It was stupid. I was so stupid. I never should’ve met with her.”

Gently he moved her plate to the table and laid his big warm hand on her knee. “It makes sense that you did. It speaks well of you that you wanted to, you know. Condole her.”

Guin nodded. Marla Kaufman’s death happened right before she met Hank. They’d never talked about it directly.

“Honey, what did you mean? When you said what you said about your brother?”

His face was receptive, his mouth soft. And through Guin’s mind passed a great many things. A rush of images as brimming and strange as a fairy host, then gone.

She tried to smile. “Ennis’s show has me paranoid, that’s all. And the memoir. It’s brought up a lot of stuff. A lot of shared history. I don’t want to look back anymore, okay? I want to move forward, with you. No more idiotic conversations with TikTokers. Won’t happen again.” She made a gesture approximating Scout’s honor. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Hank took his hand back, crossed his arms over his chest. “Right,” he said flatly. “After that crystal clear explanation, what more could I want to know? I’m still a little curious, though. So I think I’ll go check out this show. Mother.”

He was testing her. “Traitor.” Guin made herself say it lightly. “You can only pick one Sharpe kid to be friends with. You already picked me.”

Hank rubbed his jaw and said, “You don’t tell me things until you feel cornered. Then you hold your breath and give me the absolute bare minimum.”

She felt a dampening at her hairline. “I don’t feel cornered.”

“The things you said in that video, I get to ask you what they mean. I get to feel angry when I’m being lied to or cut out. Like I don’t matter. Like I’m nothing.” He looked at her with his big downturned McCartney eyes. “I try not to push you, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. Be honest with me, Guin. Talk to me.”

“I do,” she said, a little desperately. “You’re the only person I talk to. Of course you matter, you matter so much. Hank. You’re the only person I like.”

“That’s . . . let’s not get into that. That’s not great, either.”

“I can’t help being an asshole. You know you’re the wonderful one, why do you think I’m marrying you? I need a better half.”

She could hear herself overdoing it, but she couldn’t stop. And his face was queasy when he said, “What the hell are you talking about? You’re just blah blah blah, changing the subject. You’re not saying anything.”

Guin recoiled. It was the meanest she’d ever heard him.

“You’re such a good actor.” His jaw was tight, his cheeks flushed. “I’ve always been so impressed by you. The way you turn it on, pretend to care about all these creepy strangers obsessed with your mother, a person you won’t talk about unless you’re on a stage. Or going through a ghostwriter. The way you get them to talk to you, tell you things. I thought it was kindness.”