Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(56)

He shook his head. “I’m not mad, Sylvia. I just don’t want your family thinking I’m taking advantage of you.”

“They don’t,” I protested. “My sisters are happy for me. And they know I’m not a child, Henry. I can take care of myself. I came to you, remember?”

“But you’ve said it yourself—you’re vulnerable right now, and from the outside, I’m worried this looks shady on my part.”

“Listen to me.” I put my hands on his chest. “I know what I said. But being with you is helping me get stronger. It’s making me happy. It’s nobody’s business but ours, right?”

He exhaled. “I’d like to think that. And I’m glad your sisters are happy, but what about your kids? I don’t like the idea of having to lie to them. And I’m not good at pretending to feel one way when I feel another. I wish . . . fuck. I don’t know what I wish.” He slid his arms around me again and rested his chin on the top of my head. “I wish we’d met sooner. Or later. I want things to be different.”

“I know.” Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pressed my cheek against his chest. “Our timing feels all wrong, doesn’t it?”

“It’s the only thing that feels wrong.”

We stood that way for another minute, until I began to shiver.

“Go on inside,” he said with gruff affection. “It’s freezing out here.”

I pulled back and looked at him. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“Don’t be sorry. Nothing is your fault.”

“But I made you come here tonight, and you felt uncomfortable.”

He didn’t deny it. “Maybe we just have to see each other in private from now on.”

I almost laughed. “Privacy is in short supply when you’re a single mom living with two kids and two parents.”

“Yeah. But at least you’ve got them. And family is what matters most.” He rubbed my arms and dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”





After going inside, I made myself go up and knock on Whitney’s door. I couldn’t put off this conversation any longer, as much as I was dreading it. Henry was right—family was what mattered most, and my kids needed me to be the parent with her head on straight. Or at least straightish.

“Yeah?” Whitney called, her voice muffled.

“Can I come in?”

“I guess.” She opened the door a moment later. “What?”

“I need to talk to you.” I entered the room and shut the door behind me.

“About what?”

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her heavily made-up eyes, penciled-in brows, and bright pink lips. Beneath it all I saw my baby-faced girl, and my heart ached for her. “About Instagram.”

Immediately I could tell she knew what I meant. She crossed her arms defensively. Stuck out her chin. “What about it?”

“I saw your profile.”

“So take my phone away. Is that what you came up here to do?”

I sighed, leaning back on my hands. “I don’t know, Whit. It doesn’t seem like that would solve the real problem.”

“What’s the real problem?”

“That you lied to me. You hid this from me. I wish you would have come to me and just been honest.”

“Why? You’d have said no. You always say no when I ask about that. You say no without even listening to my reasons.”

I hesitated. Was that true? Had I ever given her a chance to make a case, or had I just refused to consider it because I didn’t trust the rest of the world to treat my child with respect? Was that a parenting success, or was it a fail, because I wasn’t teaching her anything about the world or the way it views girls? Was I protecting her . . . or me?

“And you had an account,” she reminded me. “You posted all the time.”

“Okay, but I am an adult,” I reminded her, “and I’ve stopped posting because I realized how fake it all is. It was making me sad.”

“Well, it makes me happy,” she insisted. “I create a version of me I like better than the real thing.”

“But that’s the whole problem,” I said, realizing that I’d been doing for years exactly what she was doing now—creating a public version of myself that came along with a whole I’m-just-so-happy story that was pure fiction. “Why use it if you’re just going to pretend to be someone you’re not?”

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said hotly. “It’s still me. It’s just a different me. And I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just my face with makeup on.”

“Why don’t you ever post a photo without all the makeup on?”

“Did you ever post a photo of yourself without makeup on?”

I stared at her, annoyed by her keen understanding of things as well as her sassy tone. “You’re making this really difficult.”

“So ground me.”

I sat up straight. “I don’t want to just ground you, Whitney. I want to figure this out, so can you please drop the attitude? I realize you’re angry at your dad and probably at me, and I’m trying to figure out if this is an act of defiance on your part to get back at us, or if you’re just a girl who really likes Urban Decay, all right? Help me out here!”