Page 46 of Just My Ex

Henry works his jaw. “I’ve been exploring some options.”

“You have?” He’s been exploring options? I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “It would have been nice to talk with me about them.”

“What about one of our other resorts?” Sebastian offers. “We recently acquired a few in Maine that are nice.”

Henry shakes his head. “The problem with that is it’s easy to make the assumption that that’s where she’ll be. If I’m her family, one of the other resorts would be my first guess of where she would go,” Henry says. “I’m thinking of other places that would be easier to hide in.”

“You certainly know all about hiding,” Oliver says.

Henry nods. “I learned it in my job, Oliver. My job. I do what I have to do.”

“There are other jobs,” Oliver counters. His eyes simmer just on the edge of heat.

“Guys,” Sophie warns.

But it’s too late. Presenting: Can of Worms—Tate Family Style.

Oliver places a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Soph, this seems like a good time.” He turns and addresses Henry. “The whole ‘missing the wedding’ thing has made me feel like the subject can now be broached,” Oliver stands from his chair, his arms wide. “We’ve been tiptoeing around this long enough, afraid to say anything that might make you upset for fear of pushing you even further away. And yeah, Mom said more than once that we just need to support you and love you. We were supposed to be okay with the fact that you rarely reach out. That we have to worry about you constantly. That you breeze in and out on Christmas, checking off a box, barely saying a word.”

Sebastian bristles. “The wedding’s over and done, Oliver. Henry, you missed it after saying you’d be there. No amount of fighting can fix that.” He hesitates. “I will say one thing, when Mom got sick a few weeks ago, you were the only one not to visit her in the hospital, which feels more negligent than missing Oliver’s wedding. I guess it would help if you apologized.”

The lump in my throat grows. I wish I could say something so they’d know the truth. Henry’s sitting there, staring at the table. No response. But there’s not a mask over his face, the checked-out mask he used to have. His expression is new. Raw.

“Henry, I understand,” Sophie offers. “We missed you, but it’s okay. I understand you couldn’t get away from work.”

“None of us know what Henry goes through,” I say quietly. “The memories from the Army. And his current job is dangerous, too. I think we’re dealing with PTSD and I’ve suggested,” I shoot him a look, “strongly at times, that he get professional help. But we’re not in his shoes.” I plant my elbows on the table. “There’s obviously more to the story than we know. I think talking this out is a good thing. Hopefully that will help us all move on.”

Henry works his jaw, blinking rapidly. He looks so war-torn, even more so than when he was still in the military.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Mom or Oliver or for anything else. I’m also sorry that none of you can know the truth about why. You don’t understand.”

Henry’s face is jagged, sawed open.

“Then tell us!” Oliver shouts.

And just like that, the trap door slams shut again, the mask over Henry seals tight. The same thing I fought all those years to love away—when I still hoped I could—is all zipped up again.

Chapter 17

Quinn

Henry is still shook up, even though the meeting has been over for hours.

He’s been stewing on the balcony just off Sebastian’s suite while Navie and I have been hanging out in the great room, and I’m trying not to obsess over the fact that I have no job, I can’t go home, my cousin is threatening me, and she and possibly my aunt think I’m a selfish, horrible person, and oh yeah, my ex-husband is filling up all the spaces in between, infiltrating my heart bit by bit, like he did when we first met at UC Irvine eight years ago.

Back when we were married and something hard happened or he’d have a nightmare about Afghanistan, Henry did better if I gave him some space. He’d go in his metaphorical man cave and process in the only ways he knew how—exercise, reading endless thriller novels, watching sports—and then he’d pop back out again. I’d ask him if he wanted to talk about it, and I tried to be a safe place for him. But nothing I did worked. He never wanted to discuss it. He never wanted help.

Now, we’re playing the same game, but this time, I feel oddly separated from it.

This is his stuff. I can’t fix it for him. I can’t manage it.

I can only be there for him as a support if he wants me to be.

It feels freeing, in a way.

Not that I didn’t feel his anguish as his family came down hard on him this morning. I did. But anger can be a teacher. If the Tate family can try to work through their grievances, there’s hope for freedom on the other side.

I’d love to say all this to Henry. But not until and unless he’s ready.

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