The Children(78)

She held herself very straight. “And what do you think it is now?”

“I think you’re trying to figure out how they work. How other people act. Like you’re a . . .” He looked at her sideways.

“A what,” she said through gritted teeth.

His jaw shifted, left to right. “You should have friends. You don’t have any friends.”

“Yes, I do,” she said reflexively, then corrected herself. “I don’t want them. You’re my best friend.”

“That’s not enough.”

The bald way he said it unnerved her. She held up her left hand, before remembering his ring was on a chain around her neck. “You’ll have more than enough of me. Legally speaking, I’ll be your problem till the day you die. Or at least until you’re one hundred. Then we can renegotiate.”

It was like he didn’t hear her. “When you sent me that video of your dad, I thought we were gonna talk.”

There was a heat in her throat, bright and dry. “I didn’t need to talk. I needed . . .”

He tch’ed. “Anyone can give you that.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Hey. Guin?” Hank squared up. Faced her with his hands placed upward on his knees, as if to show he was unarmed. “I love you.”

“Me, too,” she said, then realized it was a trap.

He breathed out, a short, sharp sound, and repeated himself. “I love you.”

“I know, Hank, I—me, too!” She punched her knees with both fists. “Of course I do! What do you want from me!”

Softly he said, “Wow.”

“Hey.” Guin slid closer, slid her hands over his thighs. “It’s not that I don’t—I do. So much. It’s only that, sometimes I . . .” She laughed a little, nervously. “You ever get that feeling like you’re not really a grown-up? Like you’re just wearing a grown-up suit?”

He looked horrified. “What?”

All these years she’d held on to Anne’s words. Found them charming, even profound. Spoken aloud, their magic drained. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m kidding.”

“I had a nightmare.” He moved back, out of her grip. “The other night, in your bed. We were married and we had a little baby, and we were walking through the streets of this weird misty city, all empty except for us. Then suddenly I couldn’t see you anymore. You turned a corner and you were gone. I called out, my voice made no sound. I tried to run, but our baby was too heavy in my arms. And when I woke up, I felt no relief. I realized if you did disappear, there wouldn’t be a single person I could call to help me find you.”

“Why would I disappear? There’d be no one to call because I’m an orphan. Because my last living family member is a narcissist who refuses to even talk to me. Because growing up half world famous and half . . . savage country mouse isn’t actually a recipe for being a well-adjusted adult. There you go,” she added brightly. “There’s something true about me, just for you. I have no one.”

“No one but me.”

“That’s right.”

She said it evenly, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. They’d walked to this edge before, and Hank had made a hasty retreat. Not this time. “What kind of parents were they?”

“Dead ones.”

He shook his head. “You can scare other people off, Guinevere, but not me.”

“Guinevere,” she said acidly. “Now I’m in trouble.”

He watched her. Ready to catch whatever she threw at him. And she did think about it, giving him everything. The thought did cross her mind.

“I’ve told you,” she said. “They were bohemian. Too many houseguests, too much drinking. My dad either seducing someone who wasn’t his wife or dug into one of his Welsh moods—that’s what she called them. Edith.” Her skin rippled. “She was, you know. Brilliant. Distracted. Strict about us keeping out of the way when she was working. A little wild when she wasn’t. Almost as big a flirt as my dad. I do think she liked the book versions of me and Ennis better than the real ones. To be fair, they are a lot more likable.”

Hank stabbed a finger into the back of the couch, voice rising. “And that is nearly word for fucking word what you told me about them when we’d been dating for a fucking week.”

A ringing moment followed in which he sat back, like he was startled, too. But he went on.

“Your brother, Peter Pan. Your father, Dylan Thomas. Your mother . . . your mother.” Hank rubbed his mouth, hand trembling. “I can count on one hand the things you’ve told me about Edith Sharpe that I couldn’t find on her Wikipedia page. Or in that schmaltzy pamphlet you’re calling a memoir.”

Her mouth fell open. “You said you wouldn’t read it till I said you could!”

“I lied!”

She looked away first. Toward the blank fridge, the front door, the windows smeared at the bottom with lights. At the food on her plate that looked like play food.

“Honey.” Hank almost whispered it. “Was it bad?”

She felt the snake-slide of her throat muscles, more revealing than words.

His voice cracked. “Guin. How bad?”

It was easy to let a tear fall, and he closed the space between them when he saw it, folding her into his arms.