If You Only Knew

Time for a subject change. “Leo, how’s Evander doing?” I ask. “Evander’s one of Leo’s students, Mom. He’s a real sweetheart.”

Leo gives me a dark look. I kick him under the table. “He’s doing well. Very well. Should be more than ready for the Juilliard audition.”

But Mom has been injured, and she won’t let us forget it. “I’ll let you two get to your night,” she says, standing to clear the table. “I was planning to drop by Rachel’s anyway.”

“I’ll clear, Mom. Thanks for coming.” I hug and kiss her, and Leo says it was nice to meet her, but she gives him her kicked-dog look and slinks away.

I grab my phone for a quick text to Rachel. Mom’s on her way. You’ve been warned. “Don’t be too hard on my mother,” I say to Leo. “She means well.”

“Does she?” he asks. “I kind of hated her.”

“Well, she’s my mother, so get over that.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“You have to.”

“Actually, I don’t.” He folds his arms across his chest and looks at me, lifting an eyebrow.

Ah. Right. The “recreation only” phrase is sure to follow.

“True enough,” I say. “It’s not like you’re going to end up her son-in-law.”

“Correct.”

The word makes my heart hurt. Something flickers through Leo’s eyes. Sadness. Heartache. Something.

Then he smiles, and it’s so unfair, because that smile promises all sorts of things—happy, sunshiny days and long nights filled with ice cream and laughter and sex.

His eyes stay sad.

God, I wish the man would talk to me.

“Give us a cuddle, what do you say?” he says, and pulls me against him.

I’m so stupid with men. Jeesh.

Then he kisses me, softly, and his fingers slide into my hair. “I don’t like anyone picking on you,” he murmurs.

“Except you,” I say, not kissing him back.

“Exactly.” He pulls me against him, and when I fail to hug him, he wraps my arms around his waist. “Come on, now. I made you dinner. I thought about you all afternoon. I defended your honor and fixed your gutter.”

“It’s really your gutter. I just rent it.”

“I’ll clean up the kitchen if you forgive me. And also rub your feet.”

“Done. I can’t believe your wife left you.”

The words are out of my mouth before I think about them. Leo’s expression freezes.

However, the words have been spoken, so...

“Why did she, anyway?” I ask as gently as I can. “You know all my dirty laundry. You can tell me yours.”

He lowers his gaze to the floor. Rubs his hand over the top of his head. The clock on the mantel ticks.

Then he takes a deep breath and says, “You know what, Jenny? We’re not gonna talk about that, because we don’t have that kind of relationship, and we’re not going to. I’m sorry, but I have certain...limitations. And true intimacy is probably one of them.”

My throat tightens. “Wow, Dr. Phil. That’s very profound.”

He doesn’t smile.

If I were smart, I’d break up with him right now. Listen, Leo, you’re a great guy, but we want different things. I wish you only the best, but I want a family. I want true intimacy. I want someone to love me.

The clock chimes the half hour.

“A clean kitchen and a foot rub, huh?” I hear myself say. “What woman could resist that?”

His smile is my reward. After all, a more chipper voice says in my head, he’s practically living with you. What he says and what he does are different things. He’ll come around.

I recognize this is not necessarily true, so I preach it all the harder.

As I said, I’m pretty stupid about men.

* * *

A few nights later, I get home a little late. One of my brides came up from the city to have dinner and show me her wedding album; she was basically the perfect client, letting me make her whatever I thought suited her, and the result was a glorious mermaid dress that’s gotten me four new clients. This happens a lot; my brides and I become friends. There’s something very intimate about making a dress for the big day; it’s like a window into the personalities of the players involved. In Jo’s case, the personality is lovely, and I hug her as we part.

“Hey, I didn’t even ask,” she says. “Are you seeing someone?”

I hesitate, then answer. “I am, actually.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I get invited to the wedding,” is all she says, then blows me a kiss and gets into her car.

It’s an awfully nice thought. And Leo, despite his words, is acting like the world’s best boyfriend.

I believe I shall pop in on him and rock his world. The sun has just set, and the sky is a Maxfield Parrish–blue. What could be more romantic?

But when I pull up in front of our house, I see a note taped to the courtyard gate.

My heart is already sinking as I get out of the car.

Lessons are canceled for today due to an emergency.

Oh, God. I pull out my phone—there are no new messages or texts—and hit his number. It goes right to voice mail. “Leo, it’s me. I’m at home, and I saw the sign. Call me right away, okay?”

Maybe he left me a note. I run up to my door, where there’s nothing, and then dash inside and look around. No note anywhere a person might ordinarily leave a note, not by the phone, on the counter or table, on the fridge. Nothing.