Too Much to Handle
"Henry!" The piercing squeal followed by arms flinging around his neck could only be one person. He could think of no one else who would be excited to see him—except maybe someone with a serious plumbing emergency—but even then they wouldn't hug him.
"Ellen."
She grinned up at him, eyes a dark green, lips a bright red—a Christmas card in and of herself. Her bright red hair that tinted toward orange waved around her head in crazy swirls.
Color and movement. That had always been Ellen Sims. Long before she'd grown into the woman who stood before him.
"Aren't you excited to see me?" she demanded. The snow in the yard came up to her knees. Knees covered in dark grey tights, not nearly warm enough for a quickly darkening December evening.
"Earth to Henry."
He blinked, looking up from her knees. Her expression was exasperated, but underneath that exasperation was Ellen's usual effortless cheer.
He really hated that she'd grown up, become beautiful, greeted him like no one else in the world did.
The one person he couldn't shut out. And he was the one person she should want to shut out. But she'd never blamed Ken's death on him, unlike her parents.
Unlike himself.
Ellen was too…exuberant for blame, sadness, pain. Which had made the past few whirlwind visits of hers rather painful.
Because she wasn't Ken's younger sister anymore; she'd outlived Ken by about eight years. She was just a woman, and he was just a man. Connected only by the years of his childhood and adolescence when he'd been her brother's best friend.
And his bank account that occasionally got a little smaller on her behalf, but she didn't exactly know about that.
"You're home," he finally managed to say.
"In more ways than one." She trudged through the tall snow drifts, ignoring the path he'd shoveled this morning, pulling him behind her. And he was incapable of not being pulled.
Ellen was a force to be reckoned with. He'd found the older they got, his inability to fight that force was less about his guilt over Ken and more about just…her.
The way she hugged him these days always made him feel like she was way too reachable. Long after he'd decided everything to do with people was way out of his reach.
"See?"
Henry forced himself to look away from her orange gloved hand on his arm to where the other orange glove pointed.
The building was an older house that had been renovated into two separate units, side by side. Henry owned the right side, and the left had been blissfully for sale and vacant for over a year. It was brick and aging like many of the houses he worked on as a plumber for MC Restorations in a river-weary Iowa town that fit him like a glove.
At least until Ellen pointed to the Sold sticker on the real-estate sign hanging from the porch next to his.
Ellen released him, clomping up the stairs, then she spread her arms wide, grinning at him. "Surprise, neighbor!"
"Uh…" That was not good. At all.
*
Ellen did a little twirl. She wasn't surprised Henry was gaping at her. He did that a lot. She liked it though. Liked that she could surprise him, elicit an actual emotion rather than a dead-eyed pat on the head. Disapproval, dismay, frustration. It was all better than her parents giving her whatever she wanted without really caring.
Oh, Henry thought she was crazy, but at least he let her know that. She had always believed that meant he cared, even if it was twined up in Ken's death. Just like her parents' disinterest.
Which was not a happy thought, so she tucked it away. "Can you believe it? I'm home for good and livingright next door." A plan she'd been working on without telling a soul since she'd noticed that For Sale sign on her last visit.
It had been like a symbolic sign, not just a literal one, and Ellen hadn't been able to ignore it.
Henry looked at his place, and then where she stood on her porch. Shock. Possibly horror. Feelings. Real ones. As gruff and detached Henry seemed to the rest of the world, she knew.
She'd seen him cry. She knew.
And as much as Henry thought he was some sort of guardian or protector because he had the warped sense he was at fault for Ken's death, Ellen liked to take it as an opportunity. From here on out, she was going to guard and protect Henry.
He might not think so, but he needed it. And she needed something…worthwhile to do.
"Do your parents know?" he finally said, wariness engrained into every line on his face, the downward turn of his mouth mostly obscured by beard.
She looked down at his roughened work boots. Even though in the years since she'd graduated from college he'd grudgingly accepted she wasn't a little girl anymore—evidenced by the fact he sometimes looked at her with a little more interest than before—he still had a way to make her feel small.
Though it wasn't pleasant, at least someone treated her as though she were a real enough person to make mistakes, to be wrong, to exist.
"I'll take that as a no."
"Reminder—I'm twenty-six."
"Reminder—your parents hate me for good reason."
She took the two steps to the concrete landing next to him. She touched his arm. "It's not a good reason."
The heavy, world-weary exhale he let out was one she knew well. One she'd memorized. Maybe even fantasized about on occasion.
"Not going down this road again."
"Okay, I'll fill in your part. Henry, it's not your fault Ken drove drunk." She adopted a gruff, gravelly voice. "Ellen, I gave him those keys." Back to her own voice. "Henry, you didn't make him drink and drive and—"
He turned abruptly from her, toward his side of the building, walking away. "It's not a joke."
"My brother's dead. I know it's not a joke." But she had lived in the shadow of her parents' sorrow for fourteen years now, all while trying to deal with her own. More than half her life, and she'd learned long ago to find the happy, seek it. Bad came no matter what. She was after the happy.
Now that she was home for good, she was going to spread some of that happy to Henry—no matter how much he resisted. He of all the people needed some happy. To move beyond one bad decision he'd made right out of high school.
"Aren't you going to come in and look around? Check out my plumbing for me?" she called after him.
He stopped, as she'd known he would. He turned around and trudged back to her side of the building. Dread. Defeat.
When he stepped onto her porch, she entwined her arm with his and looked up at him imploringly. "Be happy I'm home."
"If you're happy, I'm happy."
A lie, but she was determined to make it a truth.
Henry wasn't much for lingering around MC unless it was expressly required for meetings. He'd been with the restoration company for four years, and it was by far the best job he'd ever had. Any job that wasn't unclogging toilets on a regular basis was a pretty sweet deal for a plumber.
Unfortunately, the tight-knit group he worked with were forever hounding him to be more a part of the non-business side of things. He dealt with this by being scarce. Or hiding behind the business manager Kyle's steadfast standoffishness.
Unfortunately, Kyle had gone and fallen in love. Which meant Henry was the only enigma left. If he had a dollar for every time Kelly or Susan had tried to pry more information out of him, he'd be a wealthy enough man to live out his dreams of hermitism.
"Henry!"
He froze. He was hallucinating because of the shock of Ellen showing up yesterday. The shock she was going to be living right next to him. Sharing a wall with him. The only positive in the situation being Ellen never stuck with anything for long.
Henry swallowed and turned to face Ellen. She was standing in the lobby of MC, coat hung over her arm, her body clad in some green, tight…thing that made every curve very…
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, probably too harshly.
"Oh, Henry, there you are." Leah, MC's electrician, appeared from the kitchen, an I've-got-your-ass-on-a-platter grin stretched across her face. "This young lady was looking for you."
"Thanks," he said curtly.
"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Leah's amusement set his teeth on edge.
"No."
"Rude," Ellen said, stepping forward, arm outstretched, big smile stretched across her face. "Hi, I'm Ellen. An old friend of Henry's."
"Old friend, huh? You don't look very old."
"Bye, Leah." He took Ellen's elbow, propelling her toward the door. "I was just heading out anyway."
"Oh, good, I need a ride." She looked over her shoulder. "Bye, Leah, nice to meet you. I'm sure I'll see—"
Henry pulled the door closed behind them before she could finish. Which earned him a nose-scrunched glare.
"Are you embarrassed of me or something?"
"I did not invite you here."
Her mouth curved downward. Not really frowning, more like wilting. Damn it all to hell.
"I looked up where MC was and thought you could drive me home instead of having me hike around in the ice and snow, but heaven forbid—"
"Why don't you have a car?"
"I needed new brakes."
"I—" Henry raked his hands through his hair. Why oh why did she have to be so…here? "You can't drop by my place of work."
"Well, I'd say you can't be a jerk to your oldest friend, but you're doing a fine job of that."
"Ellen."
"Henry," she said, mocking his grave tone.
He'd never understood it, for years upon years, how her making fun of him always made him want to laugh. Usually being a standoffish dick wasn't exactly something he found humorous, but something about the way Ellen called him out on it made it funny.
What the hell was that about?
"What are you afraid of? Your friends will think you have the pervy hots for me?"
He didn't feel like laughing anymore. Pervy hots. Yeah, that about covered it. Because it was perverted to even remotely notice the attractiveness of someone he'd known since she'd been a squalling bundle of baby limbs, even if that memory was a little fuzzy.
Ellen gave him a sideways glance, the curve of her mouth unmistakably pleased.
"I don't have the pervy hots for you," he lied through his teeth.
"Okay, just the regular hots?" She grinned up at him, all cheery and good fun, any hurt forgotten or at least put aside for now. "It really wouldn't have to be pervy, not that I mind a little perversion."
"This is my truck. Hop in."
"That's not an answer."
"You're off-limits, Ellen."
"That's not much of an answer, either."
Christ. He really needed her to get bored with Bluff City quicker than she usually did. "Get in, please."
"Yes, sir." She gave him a little salute and he did not watch her clamber up into the truck even though the, yes, perverted part of him really, really wanted to.
She was seven years younger than him, he'd known her when she'd carried around a Barbie twenty-four-seven. He had been instrumental in the tragic death of her brother.
Why on God's green earth had she always insisted on being part of his life? Stopping by when she was home, calling him when it had been "too long" since they'd caught up. Emails. Texts. Why did it have to get so much harder as time passed? Maybe if he told her about the money he routinely gave her parents so they could fund whatever whim she pursued she wouldn't be so keen on being friends.
Or maybe she'd take it as easily and philosophically as she took everything else.
*
Ellen watched the snow buried buildings pass as Henry drove from MC Restorations to their townhouse. She kept her expression blank and pleasant, but inside she was giddy happy dancing.
Henry had the hots for her, and he couldn't even adequately lie about it. That was progress. She ignored the niggling voice in her head that tried to tell her it was complicated. She refused to accept that. It didn't have to be complicated.
She thought he was hot. He thought she was hot. They knew each other. Quite well, really, given how little time she spent in Bluff City. She'd be good for him.
She'd really like to be good for someone.
He pulled his truck into the little drive next to his side of their building. Oh, he'd probably hate it if she called it theirs, but it was. Theirs.
"Going to invite me in to dinner?" she asked as they got out of his truck.
When he only scowled, she flashed a wide smile. "Haven't had a chance to go grocery shopping yet. Don't want me to starve, do you?"
He closed his eyes and headed for his door, and Ellen tramped happily after him. He was so easy sometimes.
She took off her coat and other winter gear, laying it across the back of Henry's threadbare brown couch. The whole living area was all very masculine and Spartan. Plain. Kind of dreary. "You should let me rearrange and decorate. I may not have finished my interior design degree, but I know enough to make this place a little more cheerful."
"No, thank you," he replied, hanging up his coat and carefully taking off his boots and putting them in the closet before heading for the kitchen. Also sparse and dreary and brown.
She sighed. Henry's hanging on to dark and dreary was so similar to what her parents did—never changing anything for fear it might make them forget some perfect memory of Ken.
"So, whatcha gonna make me?" Ellen leaned against the counter in the kitchen while Henry pawed through the pantry.
"Soup."
"Canned soup? I can make you some real soup."
"Not necessary."
"Not a crime to let me do something for you."
He sighed. "There's nothing you need to do for me, Ellen, except possibly move."
Ouch. Yeah, that hurt a little. "I'm not so horrible to live next door to."
"It's not about you being horrible. It's about you being too old to be rebelling against your parents." He took a can of soup out of the cabinet, grabbed a can opener.
Again, his words stung. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"What else could moving next to me be? Especially if you haven't told them yet."
"Maybe I wanted to be next to someone who likes me. A friend. Someone I know I can trust. Maybe not telling my parents isn't rebellion or revenge but protecting myself from another way they won't care."
He shook his head, dumping the contents of the can in a small, ancient-looking saucepan. "Of course they care."
"No, Henry, their care died with Ken." She didn't like to say this stuff out loud, because it was depressing and decidedly not happy, but Henry needed to understand she wasn't here to enact some childish revenge. She skirted the counter, so unless he kept staring at the soup, he'd have to look at her.
"They've been afraid to touch me for fear I'll disappear, too, and as much as I can't imagine how hard it must have been for them to lose a son, they put more energy into hating you than loving me and thathurts. So don't tell me I'm being childish when I'm just trying to be happy."
He lifted his gaze from the saucepan, brown eyes that were always so much more expressive than the rest of him. All you had to do was look. And, whether he wanted to show it or not, he obviously cared.
"All right." He finally said, and when his gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest of seconds, her stomach did an excited jittery roll. What would it be like to kiss Henry? It was something she'd fantasized about enough, but usually she didn't get to do the fantasizing with him so close up. She couldn't see the dark blond whiskers of his beard and wonder what they'd feel like against her skin, or how the slightly chapped lips might feel pressed to hers.
"Ellen." His voice was low and raspy. She stepped forward. So they could be close, so he could say whatever he had to say and she could feel his breath across her cheek or he could reach out and touch her.
Kiss her.
"What do you want to drink?"
She blinked at him, then let out a gusty sigh. She should know better than to think Henry was ever going to kiss her of his own volition.
But that didn't mean it was never going to happen.
Henry stepped into the townhouse and immediately scowled. Someone was in here. Cooking. Humming. Filling his apartment with good smells and good company and how the hell was he supposed to be noble in the face of that?
How about she's Ken's sister? You secretly gave money to her parents to fund parts of her life. And she's too. Young.
He jumped when something brushed against his leg. He looked down to find an animal. In his apartment. He was pretty sure it was a cat, but it didn't look to be in the best shape.
Ellen appeared, all brightly painted red smiles. "Hi, honey, you're home!"
"That spare key I gave you was supposed to be for emergencies." Then, because he couldn't let it go, he pointed to the sad little creature at his feet. "That's a cat."
"Yes."
"Why the hell is there a cat in my house?"
"When I went to pick up my car today, I happened to pass the humane society, and, well, I wanted some company for my place and this poor guy was about to get the ax."
"Why is it so…scabby?"
"He has this disease. I've got medication for him though. I'm going to nurse him back to health." She kneeled next to the cat, which happened to be at his feet, which meant if he looked at her the view was down her shirt.
The freckled tops of her breasts. A flowery bra. He had to move. He had to walk, because Ellen's head was way too close to his uncomfortably hardening dick.
The cooing noises she was making at the damn cat weren't helping. He circumnavigated her, going for the closet and hanging up his coat, putting away his boots. "Did I know you were going to be here?"
"Nope," she said cheerfully. "But I wanted to cook, and I hate cooking for one. Especially pasta."
He stepped into his kitchen and frowned at the mess. "What the hell happened in here?"
"I made it from scratch." She pushed past him, stirring something in one pot, then lifting the lid of another.
It smelled amazing. His place never smelled amazing. The cat brushed his leg again and he grimaced. "Your cat is gross."
"Aww, poor scabby cat. He just needs some love and medicine and he'll be an adorable little fluff ball again."
Henry wasn't so sure.
"Why don't you set the table? I brought over a bottle of wine. Pour that. We're almost ready."
The smells, her, the cat. It all felt so domestic. Cozy. Things he'd always envied about the Simms house growing up. Sure, Dad had been a good father, done the best he could, but he wasn't a home-cooked-meal kind of man. There had been a lot of frozen food, bare walls and backslaps. Laughter and love, too, but it was different than the Simms household.
Much different than the easy way Ellen infused everywhere she went with warmth. Which made it impossible to say no to her, to this. The comfort wrapped around him and turned all his self-preservation into acquiescence.
So, he set the table and poured the wine, and gave in to the fact that Ellen and her cat were probably going to be fixtures of his life until Ellen got bored. Maybe that could be okay. Maybe it could even be nice.
As long as he could remember to keep his hands to himself.
*
A curl of satisfaction wound around Ellen's heart as she looked at Henry's empty plate and empty wineglass. His relaxed, handsome face.
She'd done that, and as tightly wound as Henry held himself sometimes, relaxing him was quite an accomplishment.
What else can you relax out of him? Oh, she shouldn't think like that. Shouldn't want more from him. But spending all this time here reminded her of why she'd always had a crush on him.
He was one of those people always trying to do the right thing, and he was always too hard on himself. So self-sufficient he didn't even realize he needed something or someone.
Someone like her to relax him. To remind him to be happy. Would it really be so terrible if she pushed him a bit on the romantic side of things?
She ignored the little voice in her head reminding her she hadn't told her parents about buying this place yet. Hadn't even told them she was home for good. Or home at all.
Because that wouldn't be happy. Not even a little.
Oh, isn't that nice, dear. Have you been to visit your brother? I lay flowers on his grave every day.
"You okay?"
She looked up to find Henry studying her. She forced a smile. "Yup. Just thinking about the unpleasant task of cleaning all this up."
"I can handle it. It was the best dinner I've had in ages. I'll clean everything up."
That was Henry, always cleaning up messes, even if they didn't belong to him. But she wasn't interested in that. She wanted to give him something. A little something, like he gave her.
She gathered up her plates and took them to the sink where he was already starting to work. He took them from her, rinsing them in a quick, methodical manner before placing them into the dishwasher.
His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and there was a streak of something white across his forearm, a scrape across his knuckles. She wanted to run her fingers over both. Then maybe kiss the scrape better.
Then maybe kiss everything better.
She should move. Maybe gather more of the dishes she'd left haphazardly about his counters. But she didn't. She stood next to him as he pretended she wasn't, while he carefully loaded the dishwasher as though his life depended on the proper organization.
When he got halfway through, he sighed and finally looked at her. She flashed her brightest smile as if it was completely normal to lust after someone loading the dishwasher.
She knew the exact moment when his gaze changed from frustrated to something else. The frustrated she could recognize. This other look was less familiar. Some kind of study, but it had more consideration in it than his frustration.
So, she didn't say anything, didn't move, because consideration was something she wanted to encourage, and Henry was like a scared animal. One little flinch and he'd hide.
"You have…something in your hair." He hesitantly reached out, as if touching her hair might burn him if he handled it the wrong way. Gingerly, he brought the strand of hair clumped together by pasta dough in front of her eyes.
"Oh, that." She started to pick out the crusted dough while watching him carefully, watching for that consideration to grow. "I always get pasta dough in my hair."
He was still staring intently at her hair, and her stomach did a little flip. This was not friendship staring. This was pervy hots staring. Mmm.
"Why don't you pull it back, then?" he finally asked, scowling as he went back to attacking the dirty dishes.
"My hair looks terrible up. Stupid big ears. Half of why I quit dance. Those awful buns," she joked.
He looked at her like she was crazy. Yes, she knew that look well, too.
"You always look beautiful," he said, as if it were some indisputable fact.
"Beautiful?" Henry had called her beautiful. Even though she had been pretty sure he was attracted to her, those words, that compliment, so easily said, with his eyes on hers…
Oh, she was sunk. She leaned forward, but he stepped back and cleared his throat.
"I didn't mean… I just…"
"I've never been called beautiful before. Gorgeous once. But the guy was trying to get in my pants. Is that what you're trying to do?" Please, please, please.
"No!"
"Hmm."
"You should head home, Ellen. I'll handle the mess."
"Nope. You clean, I clean, goose." She was sticking by his side until she could get a more satisfactory answer to the getting into pants question.
Ellen was sitting next to him. He'd lost track of whatever was happening on some movie she'd found on TV that was apparently "so good."
He couldn't concentrate beyond the fact her leg was pressed against his—no matter how many times he tried to inch it away. She just kept plastering to his side.
Someone was dancing on screen and Ellen sighed. "Remember when you came to my dance recital at Moore?"
"Yeah." He did. Vividly. Too vividly. She hadn't visited home much those two years away at her first college. But, when she'd asked him to come to a dance program her parents couldn't attend because it was the anniversary of Ken's death, he'd scrimped and saved to drive to Pennsylvania and see her.
He felt he'd owed it to her, to Ken, to her parents. Then he'd gotten there and she'd been…beautiful. Grown up. It was the first time, really the first time he'd seen her as something other than Ken's little sister.
And he'd hated himself for it. He still hated himself for it, for having an erection over the memory, over her pressed next to him. Everything about wanting her was wrong. She refused to see it, but he couldn't let himself be blinded by Ellen's exuberance for life.
Ken had had the same kind of cheery goodwill. Everything was good. Everything worked out. Until your best friend didn't take your keys away and you drove yourself into a tree and died.
Ellen needed to stay away from him, to preserve that happy goodness about her. Henry would never… He ended things like that.
He scooted again, opened his mouth to tell her to go.
But she smiled and spoke first. "I don't know if I told you at the time, how much that meant. Having someone there." Her hand rested on his thigh.
This was an invitation, and his body wanted to accept, was so ready to accept.
But he always led with his brain when it came to Ellen. He had to, because his body was a lying asshole.
"You should go," he said abruptly, pushing himself off the couch.
She cocked her head and studied him. Her gaze dropped to his crotch and her mouth curved.
Oh, Christ.
Then she unfolded herself from the couch and crossed to him. "I think, I really think I should stay." She reached up and brushed her fingers across his beard.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from his face. It took way too much willpower to let go of her arm. He wanted to feel the pulse pumping through her. Feel her.
But she didn't seem to understand the edge he was on, because she stepped into him, pressing against him. "You don't have to push me away, Henry. I don't want you to push me away."
But he had to, so he did. Took her by the shoulders and moved her back and away from him. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish. You want me to admit I'm attracted to you? Fine. I admit that. But that doesn't make you any less Ken's sister. Any less the daughter of people who hate me. Nothing like this can happen, Ellen. I don't understand why you're pushing it."
"Because none of that matters."
It was enough of a slap in the face for him to be able to move out of her reach. Shut it all down. "You're very, very wrong about that. What happened matters. It will always matter."
"I know. It's the one thing that defines all our lives. This tragedy, and don't ever think I believe it wasn't a tragedy, but I am here, Henry. Me." She slapped her palm to her chest, eyes shiny and fierce. "I am living and have to keep living and so do you. Why should tragedy and pain be the only thing we let in?"
She was standing too close. Everything was too close to the surface. He wanted to push her away, or hold her close, and because he was torn between the two, he just stood there.
"Kiss me, Henry. Please…let yourself have something."
"I most certainly shouldn't have you."
"You should have what you want. We both should. And I want you."
"I can't." And he couldn't. It would be…betrayal. And wrong, no matter how right it felt. "You should leave. I don't just mean my apartment. You shouldn't be living next to me. Move on to the next thing, Ellen. Find somewhere you belong. It isn't here."
"You don't get to decide where I belong," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I'm not moving. I'm not walking away. You know why? Because I'm alive and I have all the choices he doesn't. Stripping yourself of choices and friends and joy is a slap to Ken's face, not penance for your…mistake."
That burned, a searing pain he'd felt so many times since Ken's death. Painful enough to snap at her, even if he was afraid she was right. "Pretending he doesn't exist so you can be happy isn't exactly honoring his memory, or dealing with it."
"When you've dealt with it, talk to me. Until then? Bite me." Finally, finally, she turned around. She grabbed her coat off the back of the couch, scooped up her damn scabby cat.
He wouldn't feel guilty. He wouldn't. Because what he'd said was true. She wanted to call it "finding happy" or whatever the hell bullshit, but all she was doing was pretending the bad had never happened, and he refused to dishonor Ken that way.
She wrenched the door open, but before she stepped out, she turned, tears streaming down her face.
Well, fuck.
"I thought you were different than my parents, you know." She sniffled, wiping at her nose with her free hand. "But you're all the same. Was he really that much more important than me? So much better? He's dead and no one can even acknowledge I'm here? No one can care about me? It's all about him. Well, I, for one, hate him. I hate that he decided to drink and drive. And I hate that he was so damn important that no one can live their damn life years after he's gone."
And then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.
Ellen hated crying. She'd spent most of the first few months after Ken's death crying and it had become something of an obsession to make sure she never did anymore.
But Henry's words made her cry, and him making her feel like her parents made her feel when she thought he understood…
She sniffled into a patch of Scabby's fur that wasn't scabby. And then someone knocked on the door.
The only person it could be was Henry, and she was torn about whether to answer or not. On the one hand she didn't want to be yelled at any more, but on the other hand maybe he was interested in what she'd been offering.
That thought alone propelled her from bed and down the stairs. She opened the door and looked up at Henry standing there sadly in the dark, big puffy coat on. She gestured him inside.
"I…I'm sorry for that. I am, but I can't… I could never feel right about getting involved with you."
"Never?"
He shook his head. "There are things you don't know. No matter how beautiful and amazing you are, you'll never not be Ken's sister."
There it was again. Just like her parents. Defined by what had been lost. Something that had nothing to do with her. "I'm Ellen. Who I am is who I am. Regardless of who I'm related to, or how they died. And, Henry Peterson, who you are is who you are, and it is not defined by the one night you didn't take your irresponsible friend's keys away from him."
"You know how you went to that dance camp the summer after Ken died?"
"Yes, but what does that have to do—"
"I paid for that."
She tried to make sense out of him paying for her dance camp, but she failed. How could he have—
"After Ken's funeral, when you were staying with your grandparents, I think, I went to your parents to apologize for my role. They said because of the costs of the funeral they couldn't afford to send you to that dance camp you wanted to go to. So…"
"So what?"
"I gave them the money I'd saved up for—"
Her heart stopped or dropped or both. "Tell me they did not take money from an eighteen-year-old."
"I offered."
"That does not make it right. That doesn't make any of that right! You…you were going to go to Iowa State. You were going to… God, I'd forgotten all about that. You and Ken were going to be engineers."
"Close enough."
"Close enough. Close enough? What is wrong with you? That's… They never should have accepted that. That's awful—more awful than I've ever given them credit for."
"They were grieving."
"They will always be grieving. It does not give them the right to prey on a teenager."
"It was hardly like that."
"They should have said no."
"Well, they didn't, and it's not the only thing I've given them money for when it comes to you. So, understand that this is far more complicated than you want it to be."
It felt like a blow, like she'd been knocked flat. Her parents had taken money from Henry so she could follow all her different whims every time she'd run away trying to find happy.
"Look, you may not agree with it, but I will always, always feel responsible for what happened to Ken. I knew he was too drunk to drive, but I was tired of being the responsible one. Some girl was going to let me go home with her, and I let that be more important than my best friend's safety. I can't let that go."
"He did it! Why do we all have to blame you?" Ellen's throat was tight but she didn't want to cry anymore, so she let the anger overtake the sad. "It's his fault. His! Not yours. Not Mom and Dad's. Not mine. We should all hate him for it."
"Ellen—"
"How much?"
"What?"
"How much money do I owe you?" She had to make this right. She turned into her apartment to find her checkbook. Of course her account was on the zero side since she'd bought this damn townhouse. Taking money from Mom and Dad for this would be ludicrous. But she had to—
"You owe me nothing. Not a cent."
"No. I…it's not right. You changed your life all so I could go to some dumb dance camp? I'm not even a dancer! This is awful."
"It's fine. I chose—"
She whirled on him. "To be an idiot. A stupid, guilt-ridden, moronic… You were wrong. So damn wrong."
"You don't get to tell me that. Sorry. I did everything I did because it was the right thing to do."
He said it so resolutely, as if there were no other option. It was such utter crap.
"Everything you did is because you enjoy being sad and miserable and in pain. That's why you do it, Henry. Just like Mom and Dad. You all love being fucking miserable, because if you'd ever try to be happy again something bad might happen. Well, it's a crappy way to live, and I won't go around pretending it's not." If she lived like they did, she'd never be able to get up in the morning. "I'd like you to leave."
"I just had to explain to you that this isn't as simple as you think it is."
"No. No, it's an excuse. Your life is excuses for hiding away from anything that could possibly go wrong or cause you pain." Her way might not have been much better, running away, living off of other people, but she was changing that. She was here to change that.
"You would know. That's what you're doing. Chasing happy. How is that not avoiding anything that would cause you pain?"
She paused because he was right. But that didn't make her wrong. "Good night, Henry." And she closed the door in his face.
Henry stepped out of the dilapidated old building his boss, Jacob, was thinking about buying. Leah ahead of him.
"Have to rewire everything, and I mean everything," Leah said to Jacob. "There's not crap for restoring, electrically speaking."
"Plumbing, too. Have to redo everything. Shit hole." Which was a little harsh, but Henry was feeling harsh. And he was feeling like a jackass, so why not be one?
"Pipe dream, Boss." Leah clapped Jacob on the shoulder.
They kept on talking, pointlessly, in Henry's estimation. This whole thing had been pointless. As pointless as, say, pretending he wasn't all twisted up over how things had gone with Ellen a few nights ago.
The irritating part was that he wasn't wrong. He would never feel right about getting involved with her. It was the stuff she said about her parents, about him being like them, and them all enjoying their misery.
It hit a little close to something. Not the truth, because he didn't enjoy his misery, but he could see how Ellen might think that, and might feel slighted because of it. In a weird, warped way, wasn't that his fault?
He really needed to find a way to stop thinking about this. About her. About the way she'd asked him to kiss her. Please. About how that was the thing he most wanted—and absolutely couldn't allow himself.
He looked over at Jacob and Leah, still chatting away. "You two gonna blab all afternoon? Freezing my balls off." He marched over to the truck, refusing to feel guilty about being a jerk.
He settled himself in the backseat and Leah climbed into the passenger seat.
"What crawled up your butt and died?" she asked, jerking her seatbelt over her lap. "Something young and pretty?"
Henry held on to the bitter retort by sheer force of will. He might be a little grumpy and snarly with his coworkers on occasion, but he did like and respect them.
Leah turned in her seat. "It is young and pretty."
"You want me nosing into your life, Santino?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "And she's not that young," he grumbled.
Leah chuckled. "How young is not that young?"
"What do you care?" Okay, he was starting to fail at not being surly. Luckily, Jacob finally climbed into the driver's seat and Leah looked straight ahead.
Best to focus on business. "You're not going to offer on it, are you, boss?"
Jacob made a noncommittal sound.
"Oh, damn it, Jacob. Why on Earth would you make an offer on it?" Leah demanded.
He shrugged. "Sometimes you gotta take a chance."
Leah groaned, but the words lodged uncomfortably in Henry's brain. A chance. No. There were no chances when it came to Ellen. It was too wrong.
But the idea was there, and he couldn't quite get rid of it.
*
Ellen stood in front of her childhood home, a pretty, well-kept two-story in the middle of one of the nicer areas of Bluff City. The neighborhood had changed subtly over the years, except for this place.
There were happy memories here and she wanted to remember those, but all the unhappy snaked around her heart.
It was why she hadn't even moved permanently back to Bluff City until now. Unhappiness lived here.
Unfortunately, unhappiness had lived in Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore and Seattle, too. She kept moving, but it always dogged her eventually.
So she'd come back. After everything Henry had told her, she didn't have a clue as to why. Home was just a bunch of pain.
But she'd bought a house. She'd made a commitment. If her parents refused to find happiness, if Henry refused to allow himself some happiness, well, that didn't mean she had to ignore her own.
She forced herself to move up the walk. Then she stood on the stoop and stared at the door. Go right in or knock? Always such a dilemma.
In the end, she did both. Knocked, then gingerly pushed the front door open.
"Ellen. You're home." Mom's smile was pretty and wide and for a few seconds, Ellen allowed herself to hope. Hope it would go better than the last few times.
"Hi, Mom. Hope you don't mind me stopping by unannounced."
"Well, I was working on the forums." Mom pointed to her computer. The last few years she'd started moderating grief forums online. In some ways, Ellen was glad it gave her something to do, somewhere to go with her grief.
In other ways, though, perhaps selfish ways, it would always make her feel like she wasn't enough. Much like the entire house did. A shrine to Ken with his pictures everywhere. Couches fading with age, curtains out of date and tired looking. It didn't match the stately outside of the house at all, but heaven forbid they change anything since Ken's life had left this house.
It might as well be a tomb, really. Ellen swallowed and forced out an apology. "Sorry."
"It's all right. I didn't even know you were coming home until Christmas."
"I decided to move up the trip a bit. Where's Dad?"
"Phoenix until Friday."
"Ah."
Uncomfortable silence settled over the room, so Ellen pressed forward. She had plans. She was going to enact them. She was going to live.
"Does Mrs. Armstrong still have that bakery on Main Street? I didn't see it when I was down there."
"Oh, yes, she just moved to a better part of town." Mom's eyes drifted toward her computer and Ellen wondered if it was possible to shrink from the inside out.
"Remember when she offered me a job the last time I was home? I thought I could take it. If she's still interested in having an apprentice."
"I'll ask. Does this mean you're staying?"
Ellen smiled. Mom almost sounded excited. "Yup. I even…put an offer in on a house." Little white lies wouldn't hurt, right?
"Wonderful. You'll be able to visit Ken more often. It's a lot of work keeping his space cleared and filled with flowers. Those groundskeepers at the cemetery are worthless."
Like the movie she'd watched with Henry the other night, it reminded her of the dance recital. They couldn't leave Ken's side. Even when he was dead.
"I should go."
"Where are you staying, sweetie?"
"With a friend." A flat out lie. She didn't feel much like caring at the moment. "I'll call before I come next time so I don't interrupt."
"All right, honey. See you later."
Ellen stood by the door blinking back tears. Ken's pictures littered the mantle. Ken's ghost choked the air out of the living room that hadn't changed in fourteen years.
And she was invisible in the midst of it.
She'd promised herself she wouldn't run away this time, but she was beginning to think it was a promise she'd have to break.
Henry stood in pet food aisle of the grocery store and hated himself. Hated himself for waffling. Hated himself for the guilt, and the blame, and all the dumb shit in his brain.
He couldn't get Ellen saying she just wanted to be happy out of his head. Happy. He was trying to remember the last time he'd let himself be that way, and he…couldn't. Any happiness usually got squashed by the fact he was here to enjoy it and Ken wasn't.
All because he'd made a mistake.
Well, they'd both made mistakes, hadn't they?
Henry cursed under his breath, grabbed a stupid bag of cat treats and threw it into his cart. He went through the self checkout, grumbling at himself the entire time. People probably thought he was nuts.
Considering he was planning on going to Ellen's house when he got back, they wouldn't be wrong.
He drove back to his place, having no idea what he was going to say or do. Nerves churned in his gut, but so did something else. Something foreign and dangerous.
Excitement.
Shit.
He pulled his truck next to his side of the building, grabbed his bag and then marched over to Ellen's side. This didn't have to be anything about the attraction stuff. They were friends, and he cared about what happened to her.
That was it.
Sure it is, buddy.
He pounded on the door, venting some of his frustration.
Ellen opened, her expression blank. Which…never happened. And actually made him pause enough to lose whatever momentum he'd had storming up here.
"Can I help you?"
"In a million ways, probably."
The blankness faded into a smile. "A million, huh?"
Yeesh, he wished he hadn't said that, but might as well keep going. "I hate having you next door and pretending like we don't know each other."
She crossed her arms over her chest, chin up, resolute. Sexy. "I hate it, too, but I'm not going to pretend I don't feel more than friendly toward you."
"You don't even know me."
She smiled at that. "I know so much about you, Henry Peterson. Maybe not everything, but I've known you longer than almost anyone. Maybe you didn't always pay attention to me, but I always paid attention to you."
She uncrossed her arms, then rested her hands on his chest, fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt, making everything in his brain short circuit.
"I know you're kind and generous and loyal to a fault. And I think the reason you're so bound and determined to feel guilty is because you feel so deeply. And you miss him. And you want there to be a reason he's gone, even if you're the reason."
"I'm part of the reason."
"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll never really know. Maybe there's no reason. No one at fault. Maybe it just happened. A stupid, senseless tragedy we can't change. No matter how much we run, how much we blame, how much we wallow. It doesn't go away."
He wanted to believe the hollow, scary feeling in his chest was disagreement or disappointment that she didn't understand, but he couldn't deny that it was plain old fear.
Fear that he'd spent his adult life blaming himself and marinating in guilt simply because he wanted there to be a reason Ken was gone.
And if there was no reason? If it happened without blame, what was he supposed to do with all these unresolved feelings still stewing inside him?
"Come inside. It's cold."
Her place was cozy and colorful. Something she always seemed to bring with her. Ellen's expertise. Making something feel like home.
"What's in the bag?"
He rolled his eyes at himself. "Damn cat treats," he muttered, but his mouth curved in response to her smile.
"Aw, you love Scabby."
"You did not honestly name that cat Scabby."
"It was appropriate." She shook the bag of treats until the mangy beast appeared. "You like it, don't you, sweetie?" She dropped a few treats on the ground and the cat's purring filled the room.
Ellen looked at him, and he looked back because he wasn't sure why he was here. What he was hoping to do. Or not do. He should be hoping not to do.
"You're the only one who sees me, Henry. Who knows me. I don't know how to let anyone else into my life the way you are. I don't know how to make anyone else understand. How am I supposed to not want that?"
He couldn't answer because he felt the same. Ever since Ken had died and he'd shut his life away, Ellen had been the only one to see inside.
How am I supposed to not want that?
*
Ellen wasn't sure what Henry's intention was in coming here, being sweet, bringing her cat treats. But she knew what she wanted from him.
Especially after the visit to Mom. She wanted him. The man who didn't look through her as if she were only a window in front of what he really wanted.
He might still grieve Ken, his guilt might be a crutch and out of place, but when he looked at her, he saw her mostly. He did things to make her happy only because he wanted her to be happy.
She briefly thought about asking him to kiss her again, but that seemed awfully desperate. She'd said she wanted him. What more did the guy need, an invitation?
"Can't I have something that has nothing to do with him? Can't you look at me and not have it be about him?" She hated that tears burned in her eyes, refused to let them shed. She'd just ask and deal with the fallout.
Maybe that's what she'd been missing for these past so many years. Dealing with the fallout. Instead of running away. Instead of pretending only happiness mattered.
It all mattered, but she wanted to focus on the happy when she could. Find the good when she could.
Henry was so, so good.
"Believe it or not…" Hesitantly, carefully, Henry's hands reached out and grasped her shoulders, those dark brown eyes looking deep into hers. "I don't think about Ken when I look at you. I don't think about you being his sister. You are… Like you said the other day. You're you. I see you. I force myself to feel guilty about that, but…"
"You shouldn't. You should be sad he's gone, sad he didn't get to live his life, but you shouldn't look at me and see him."
"I don't."
She was about to say, "Then kiss me," but he did it of his own volition before she even said anything.
It was better than anything she'd dreamed or imagined, because it was real. His lips warm on hers, the graze of his beard against her face, coarse but arousing. His palms flush against her back, warm and soothing.
He pulled away slightly, his arms still around her. "I think you are a wonderful, beautiful person."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Well, thank you."
"If your parents are too blinded by grief to see that, it's not your fault. I hope you know that."
"I do."
"Good."
"Henry?"
"Yeah."
She moved onto her tip toes and kissed him, winding her arms around his neck, pressing his body to hers. Henry. Kissing her. She sighed against his mouth. Better than she'd dreamed.
Unfortunately, he didn't push things further. He pulled away again. "There is, uh, one last hurdle we should discuss before we…"
"Before we what?"
He cleared his throat. "Move…forward…with…this."
"'This' being?" She couldn't help teasing him when he got all stuttery and uncomfortable. He was just too adorable.
"I guess, I, um, mean a relationship."
"We have a relationship."
He gave her an exasperated look to go along with his exasperated sigh. "A romantic relationship. One, I was thinking…that we should take slow."
She snorted. "You have a right to your opinion, but no. The many years I've lusted after you are plenty. Now what's this last hurdle?"
"Ellen."
"Hurdle now, or I start undressing." She moved to unbutton her sweater but his next words stopped her and all humor.
"Your parents."
Ah, yes, that was a bit of a hurdle. "They don't get a say."
"But you do need to tell them." She opened her mouth to argue, but he kept going. "I understand why you wouldn't want to, I do. But, I also think…" He pushed some hair back from her face, all sweet and gentle and something she'd been dreaming about…forever.
"I think it's important that you do. Hiding from them isn't honest, and I know telling them won't be happy, but if this has a chance of working out, they need to know."
Not happy. No, it certainly wouldn't be, but maybe that was part of coming home. Facing it all.
"All right. On one condition."
"Name it."
"You can't let them guilt you out of it. And, for God's sake, don't give them another cent on my account."
He winced. "I was only trying to—"
"Do the right thing. I know." She smiled, fingers tracing over his beard, lingering over his face since he was letting her. Wanted her to. "It's one of the things I like best and worst about you."
"I don't—"
But she cut him off with a kiss, because confronting her parents was a bad thing for another day. Today, she had Henry. And that was enough.
Ellen had procrastinated all week. It was wrong, and she hated the way Henry just…didn't say anything about it. Was all sweet and awkward and perfect. Meanwhile, he wanted her to tell her parents about them. She hated everything about this.
Except Henry.
Sitting in her parents' living room while Mom decorated the Christmas tree, she should be smiling about happy Christmas memories. Instead, she was smiling because of Henry.
A week with Henry had been very nice indeed. Even if it was silly, she was going to miss him when he went to spend Christmas weekend with his dad in Des Moines.
Also silly she kept putting off telling her parents about him.
"Oh, Steve, remember the Christmas we got Ken his first bike?" Mom said, hanging a bike ornament on the tree. "He was so excited." Mom's eyes filled with tears. "It's still in the basement. I thought…"
"Remember the Christmas we went to Alaska?" Ellen asked, trying to deflect the topic. "That was so cool. We should do another trip like that. Those cruises are great."
But Mom just made a little noise and turned away, and Dad didn't say anything, and Ellen…Ellen felt like she didn't exist.
"I'm in love with Henry," she said into the silence of the room. She'd meant to ease them into it, find some calm way of explaining, but she was so desperate to make herself exist to them, it burst out.
Both of her parents stood perfectly still. Frozen. As if the words had broken the space and time continuum.
"Who's Henry?" Mom finally said.
"You know who Henry is."
"No. No, I do not know who Henry is because the only Henry I know is responsible for the death of your brother, and no daughter of mine would be so cruel and awful to love that monster." Mom wasn't looking at her, and Dad sat there as if he wasn't even present.
"He's not a monster. He's a man." She wanted them to see, not for her—but for themselves. So they could move on. Just a little. "And at the time he was a boy, and so was Ken. Careless, irresponsible boys."
Mom whirled around to face her. "You will not say that about my son."
"He wasn't perfect or a saint. He made a mistake, and he paid for it."
"They shouldn't have let him drive!" This time Mom threw the ornament in her hand, and it crashed to the floor.
Dad still didn't move, and Ellen wanted to back down, but…this was wrong. Running away hadn't solved anything, so it was time to go head-on. No matter how upset Mom was, no matter how detached Dad was.
"Maybe you shouldn't have let him go to that party. Maybe I should have made him play Nintendo with me like he'd promised that morning. There are a million maybes, a million ways to find blame, and the fact you took money from Henry as some sort of penance for that blame is shameful."
"No. I refuse to accept this." Mom shook her head so vigorously it had to hurt. "I refuse to discuss it."
"That doesn't change it, Mom," Ellen said quietly. "You can't pretend me away. I exist. I'm here. All I ever wanted was for you to love me. To pay attention to me. To care. But everything you have is wrapped up in your son dying, so your daughter doesn't matter. Well, I don't want to pretend that's okay anymore. I'm going to be with someone who doesn't treat me that way, even if it hurts you. Because I am done hurting over things I can control. There's enough hurt with the things I can't."
"Of course we love you, Ellen. Don't be foolish. Choosing someone who was responsible for Ken's death over your own parents is its own kind of tragedy." Dad's voice was almost bored.
"I'm sorry you feel that way. I know you love me. I know that losing Ken is not something any of us will ever get over. It is a tragedy, but it's also…awful that I feel like I'll never be as important to you as someone who's not even here."
"If this is how you feel, then I don't know why you even bothered to come home. If you think I'll ever accept that man as anything other than a monster at fault for my child's death, then you don't belong in this house." Mom turned away.
Ellen brushed at the tears on her cheeks. "I hope when you sit down and think about this, you'll feel differently. I'll always be around if you change your mind, but I'm not living like this anymore. Trying to make you see me, trying to pretend you'll want to someday. Not when I actually have someone who cares about me. I love you both, and I miss him, too, but I don't want to be overshadowed by his memory. I need to be equal to it."
"I hope you never have to lose a child, Ellen. But if you did you'd see how unfair you're being."
Ellen walked to the door. Maybe she was being unfair. But staying away because they made her feel like nothing had been unfair to her, and the life she wanted. Living as if the only thing that mattered was someone who could never be brought back hurt too much to bear.
So, fair or not, she walked out of her parents' house, and hoped that someday they'd be able to mend this break. But if not, she'd surround herself with people who could see beyond one tragic moment, and find the happy in the here and now.
*
When Henry stepped outside, duffel bag over his shoulder, he figured he'd have to leave for Dad's without saying goodbye to Ellen. It shouldn't be that big of a deal. It was only for a few days, but…
As ridiculous as it was, he'd miss her. Miss her smile and her cheer and the warmth she infused his life with.
But there she was. Wrapping Christmas lights around the bushes next to his porch.
"I think you're a little late."
She didn't look up from her work. "Never too late for Christmas cheer," she said, sounding anything but cheerful.
"Ellen?"
She finally looked up, and her face was blotchy red. At first he thought she'd been out in the cold too long, but as he stepped toward her he realized it was tears.
She must have told them.
"Oh, El, I'm so sorry."
She shook her head and sniffled. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
He'd faced a lot of truths he'd been ignoring. Truths he'd been ignoring for years. And she'd brought to surface things he couldn't bury again. Hope and light and, more, the fact that Ken's accident, while partially brought on by his negligence, hadn't been solely his fault. And, regardless, there was nothing he could do to change it.
All he could do was live. He'd always be sorry he didn't make a different choice that night, but it didn't have to rule his life any longer.
"Maybe I don't," he finally said. Because she was right that her parents' choices weren't something he could blame on himself. "But I don't want to be the thing that comes between you."
"I know." She finally released her death grip on the strand of lights and managed to smile at him. "You're not. They're the ones drawing this line."
He put his hand to her red cheek. It was slightly damp and cold. He wished he could do something. Anything. "I hope they'll come around."
"I do, too." She covered his hand with her own. "I love you, Henry."
He let that sink in. Those words. Love. Things just a few weeks ago he'd never let himself have because he didn't think he deserved it. And here Ellen was giving it to him so easily.
How could he not take it? No matter how much he worried that he couldn't live up to her expectations, or deal with the situation with her parents, or that his memories of Ken would be too difficult, her love assuaged all those fears.
She dropped her hand from his. "I know, I shouldn't have said it so soon. It's just—"
"I love you, too."
Her smile was wide and beautiful and exactly what he wanted to give her. Her smiles and her happy, even when the bad stuff came their way. "Yeah?"
"Yes, I do. Maybe it is fast, but you're kind of hard not to fall in love with. You made me face some…uncomfortable truths I've been hiding away from, but more than that…you feel like home, Ellen."
"You feel like home, too," she said on a teary whisper. "I didn't know that's what I was looking for. I was really only looking for happy, but home is even better."
He leaned in to kiss her, remembering he'd been on his way to Dad's only when his phone buzzed. "That's probably Dad. I told him I'd call him when I was on the road."
"Oh." She kept smiling, but it didn't seem to have the same wattage it had had seconds ago. "You should go, then. Christmas waits for no man."
"You could come with," he blurted. "I mean, we could figure something out so you'd be back for Christmas with your parents if you wanted to try, but… You don't have to, I only thought…" He cleared his throat, trying to figure out how to say the things he really meant.
That he'd like to take her home, re-introduce her to his father, cement this thing between them.
She flung her arms around his neck, much like she had the first day she'd been back. Happy and exuberant and everything he needed.
"Give me ten minutes to pack." She started toward her door. Then turned around. "Maybe twenty."
"Take all the time you need."
She grinned. "Thirty minutes, tops." She took another few steps, then stopped and turned again. "Can I bring Scabby?"
Henry sighed. "I'll go get a sheet to put down in the back."
Ellen tramped through the snow to give him another tight squeeze. "You are a damn fine man, Henry Peterson."
He'd never felt much like one, not in his entire adult life. But she made him feel like he could be.
"I'll be ready when you are." Ready for anything that came their way.
***