Page 158 of The Unlikely Pair
“I loved her. I truly loved her. She was warm and witty and…” He trails off, rubbing a hand over his face.
“She talked about her son, Tobias. All the time. I never realized…”
My father seems incapable of completing sentences at the moment.
I’m struggling to know how to reply. I’ve never felt so disillusioned, so perplexed, so utterly lost. I don’t know how to reconcile the father I love with the man who could so callously treat a woman in such a manner.
The reason behind Toby’s instant dislike of me when we first met becomes painfully clear. The inexplicable barrier I perceived between us during our time in the wilderness suddenly takes on a new, troubling significance.
My father’s folded in on himself, and I’ve never seen him look so diminished, so…little. A little man.
I think about my father going into battle against Dentworth, of the relentless campaign he waged to bring the abusive headmaster to justice.
And it dawns on me how the hero in one person’s story can be the villain in someone else’s.
There was so much anger on Toby’s face, but underneath, I saw a glimmer of the vulnerable teenage boy who helplessly watched his mother’s heart break at the hands of the man standing before him.
And I can’t move past the fact that my father hurt Toby’s mother and, by extension, hurt him so much.
I know Toby will be hurting again right now.
Which means I need to see him.
Chapter Forty-Six
Toby
I’ve scripted out many versions of that confrontation with Arthur Matheson over the years. It’s been one of those fantasies lurking in the back of my head, what I would say if I ever had the chance to confront him for his behavior.
But in none of my imaginings was Harry ever by his side, shock and horror all over his face.
And I never expected I would care what Harry thought about his father’s behavior, care about the impact the revelation would have on him. I never imagined that seeing his hurt and confusion would somehow amplify mine.
Harry is not his father.
I know that. I know him.
And it’s not just the romantic stuff I know about him, either. I know the small, mundane things. I know his morning breath, the determined set of his jaw when he believes he’s right about something, the small crinkle in his forehead when something confuses him.
I know the meticulous way he stacks firewood, the way his eyes water and redden when smoke blows into them, the soft snuffling sounds he makes when he sleeps.
I know every unromantic, mundane detail about this man.
And I still love him.
Because, fuck it, there is no other word I can use to describe my feelings for Harry Matheson.
I’ve been so delusional for so long, trying to pretend my feelings for Harry were simply a product of what we went through together rather than facing the unpalatable truth.
I fell for him the same way my mother fell for his father. And like his father, he will eventually forsake me for his career.
I know this.
Yet when I hear the knock on the door, I pad down the stairs in my stockinged feet, across my polished tiles, and open my front door to the person I know will be waiting there.
Harry’s still in his tuxedo, his hair expertly slicked back, his perfectly symmetrical handsomeness accentuated by the shadows on my doorstep.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Harry?” But I can’t get any anger into my voice, only weariness.
