More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(14)

“He thinks?” Tina couldn’t help prompting, and his eyes snapped back into focus and he winced.

“Shit.” He shook his head. There was something close to vulnerability on his face, and it made her curious.

“Harris?”

“Look, don’t tell Libby, okay? It’ll just upset her more,” he said.

“Don’t tell her what?”

He sucked in a deep breath between his teeth and shook his head again, and this time she knew she wasn’t imagining the vulnerability in his expression. Or the pain in his eyes. He clearly wanted to tell her. If only to share whatever this was with someone else.

“He thinks I’m Clara’s father,” Harris admitted grimly. His voice cracked a bit on the statement, and Tina gasped in horror. This was so much worse than Greyson just accusing Libby of adultery. Accusing her of sleeping with his own brother was seriously twisted. “I told him he was wrong, and I think maybe I got through to him . . . but . . .” Another headshake, this one filled with confusion and a little bit of helplessness.

If he were any other man, Tina would have breached the distance between them and . . . something. Maybe patted his shoulder or taken his hand. Anything to give him the comfort he so clearly needed. But he wasn’t any other man. He was Harrison Chapman, and she despised him.

“It was bad enough before, but that . . .” She shook her head in disgust. “That’s seriously messed up.”

“Don’t tell Libby, please.” It was the please that did it. She probably wouldn’t have told Libby anyway; her friend had enough on her plate as it was, and this information should come from Greyson or Harris, if it ever needed to come out. Tina was not going to burden her friend with this as well. And that softly voiced, desperate little please tacked onto what could have been a command strengthened her resolve.

“She won’t hear it from me. She has enough to deal with right now.”

“Thank you.”

“So polite, Harris,” she couldn’t help stating, her voice carrying just the gentlest hint of mockery.

“My mama raised me right,” he said, his words light but his voice burdened with what sounded like sadness and regret.

Tina chose not to respond. That instance when his upbringing had failed him so completely never far from her mind. She could tell he was thinking about it, too, because he cleared his throat and then shut his eyes for a long moment, as if willing the memory away.

“Take care, Tina.” His voice was abrupt, his words final, and he departed seconds later. Leaving her feeling shockingly bereft.

“Are you sure?” Tina asked Libby a month later, watching while her friend breastfed the always-voracious Clara. Libby was running a tender hand absently over the infant’s downy-soft black hair. She always seemed to be touching Clara in some way. As if she couldn’t help herself. While, to Tina’s eternal regret and shame, she could barely bring herself to look at the baby. She loved Clara with everything in her, was happy to spoil her from afar, but something inside of her seized up in terror at the thought of actually holding the infant. She knew her behavior confused and hurt Libby, but she couldn’t explain it. Not without opening a Pandora’s box of shameful and painful, long-held secrets.

Tina had hoped that constant exposure to Clara would help her overcome this one terrible obstacle that was starting to trip her up with much more frequency recently, but instead she found that she was getting worse instead of better. She spent longer hours at work, reorganizing files that were fine, cataloguing a backlog of books that had been lying around for months, updating their electronic lending system. When she got home she was usually completely exhausted, and Libby tried her best to leave her in peace. She knew her friend was starting to feel like a burden, and that was the last thing Tina wanted, but she didn’t know how else to make this bearable.

And now, the worst had finally happened: Libby was leaving. And Tina knew it was because her friend felt unwelcome, but she had no idea how to make her understand. And she knew that if she told Libby the truth, it would make her feel even worse and even more determined to move out.

“Libby, I know I’ve been distant, but work has been full on this last month. I’ve loved having you and Clara here.” Not a lie, not really . . . she did like having them here. She liked watching Libby with her baby. But that was all she wanted to do . . . watch. Not participate.

“I know, Tina,” Libby said, her eyes gentle but not quite convinced. “I just want to get away from Cape Town, away from Greyson.”

“Has he called? Bothered you?” Tina asked sharply, and Libby smiled, the movement of her lips bittersweet.

“Not at all. Harris calls every day; so do my parents . . .” Libby also visited her parents regularly so they could see their granddaughter often, but she adamantly refused to move in with them, despite their constant pleas that she do so. “And, of course, Constance and Truman have called a few times.” Her in-laws weren’t the most demonstrative of people and didn’t seem quite sure how to respond to the situation between Greyson and Libby, but they were clearly interested in their first grandchild and often sent their chauffeur—Libby’s dad’s replacement—with gifts for the baby. They had visited only once, and fortunately Tina hadn’t been there to witness that awkwardness, but Libby had told her it had been truly horrendous. The only bright spot, apparently, had been the way they had cooed and fussed over Clara.