Something About Harry(84)
Harry swiped at them with his thumb. “Your parents died when you were a kid, right?”
“Not as young as Mimi and Fletcher, but yes. I was almost thirteen, and it was awful. Keegan did all the right things, but because he claimed he sucked at expressing himself, too, I felt the brunt of it. There was nowhere to go with all the pain of losing my mother and father.”
He grinned suddenly. “But look at you. You turned out pretty good.”
Anger made her lash out at him. It wasn’t something to joke about. “If by good you mean in the future you’re comfortable with Mimi making baby potions because she’s single, lonely, and can’t find anyone who wants to start a family with her, keep this up.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I mean, not about how pathetic you’ve made yourself sound. That’s just not how everyone else sees you, me included. I mean about listening to them and talking about Donna. I’m bottling up all the memories because they always lead back to the same thing. She’s gone, and she’s never coming back.” Harry paused, his voice raw and low. “Sometimes it’s almost more than I can handle feeling all at once. She was a great mother, and that makes her a hard role model to live up to, but worse, it hurts to talk about her in the past tense.”
Her heart pulled again, clenching and unclenching. “And you’re going to be a great father. Don’t doubt that, Harry. I don’t.”
His eyes remained blank, his head cocking in question. “You say that as if you won’t be around to see it.”
Her eyebrow rose when she poked a finger playfully at his chest. “You say that as if there isn’t a conflict between us. Aside from everything else, you don’t want to be like me, remember?”
He gave her the look. The one that said he was tired of her razzing him. “Just because I don’t want to be like you, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you.”
She smiled the smile of someone who had a secret. His words brought a girlie high, but then she remembered two things: her age and tomorrow. “Do you know how old I am, Harry?”
“I know all about the eternal thing. You’re not going to scare me off with that.”
“Good. Then how old am I?”
Harry frowned, a crease cutting across his forehead. “Nothing but trouble can come of that question.”
“Oh, stop. You can’t offend me. Just give me a number.”
“I dunno. But you don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
She snorted.
“Good save, right?”
She giggled. “Super save. But here’s the deal. Around everyone who’s human, I’m technically thirty-five. But in reality, I’m sixty-five.”
Harry’s mouth fell open in that adorable way it always did when he was trying to process something he just couldn’t wrap his mind around.
She patted his hand. “We age very, very slowly, Harry. So we won’t age appropriately together. I’ll look like this for a long time to come—you, not so much.”
“You could be my mother . . .” His revelation appeared to stun even him.
“Well, at least I’d be someone’s mother.”
“I was joking. Wait. No. I wasn’t joking, I was opening my mouth before I thought about it. I can stick my foot in it myself,” he teased with a grin.
Mara laughed at him, rubbing his arm, loving the feel of his muscles encased in a sweater. “It’s okay. Technically, it’s true. No hard feelings, or feet either.”
He let his cheek fall to the cushion along with her. “Did I ever tell you my mother named me after Ralph Waldo Emerson? Harry was my father’s name, but she loved Ralph—quoted him all the time. He said, ‘As we grow old . . . the beauty steals inward.’ I don’t much care what you’ll look like. Sure, you’re beautiful on the outside, but that’s not the most important factor with you, Mara. Not by a long shot.”
Her heart stirred again, this time deeply, shifting, changing, opening up, and as much as she wanted to fight it, she couldn’t. It was so rare, such a gift, she chose to accept it. “Well, you say that now, and those are very pretty words, but you can’t possibly know what the future holds. Everything’s in too much of a jumble.”
Instead of acknowledging her truth, Harry changed the subject. “You really wanted children pretty bad.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. One he’d clearly given thought to—wondered about, if his expression was any indication. One that sounded as though it came without judgment, even if in her want, she’d run amok in his life.