Page 159 of The Unlikely Pair
“You never told me,” he says quietly.
“No. I didn’t.”
How can I explain that after hearing Harry talk about how his father had fought for justice against his abusive headmaster, I didn’t want to be the one to disillusion him. I didn’t want to steal his hero from him.
But equally, tonight, I couldn’t bring myself to shake his father’s hand and pretend everything was fine.
Harry and I just stare at each other.
Then he’s moving into my space, nuzzling his face into my shoulder, resting there like that’s where he belongs, like that slot was designed specifically for him.
“Toby,” he whispers.
And I can’t help turning my head to kiss his temple. Because Harry’s here right now, he’s come to me, and somehow, that helps heal the jagged, gaping wound inside me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s not your fault.”
It’s taken me a long time to come to the realization that Harry is not his father. That what he and I have together is not an echo of our parents. This is our own story.
Potentially equally as tragic, but definitely our own.
He raises his head, his mouth finds mine, and we’re kissing, stumbling up the stairs towards my bedroom, shedding clothes as we go.
It’s frantic and desperate. I’ve thought Harry and I have had fevered and unrestrained sex before, but nothing like this.
Never with this completely raw, unfettered need to connect, fingernails digging into flesh, teeth scraping across skin. Through our ferociousness and urgency, we’re trying to merge into one, erase the divisions and boundaries that exist between us.
I’m moving inside him, hard and fast, and he’s clinging to me, and I’m trying not to think about the repercussions of this moment. About the unspoken words that still linger between us.
I’m trying not to think about the feeling of wholeness that comes from being with Harry, one I’ve never experienced at any other point in my life.
In the quiet aftermath, I trace the lines of Harry’s face with my fingertips, absorbing the softness of his cheeks and the first traces of stubble along his jaw. His eyes flutter open.
“I came here to talk to you, but somehow, we’ve ended up in bed,” he says.
“Well, sex has always been our most effective method of communication, hasn’t it?” I say, stretching to kiss him again.
It’s true. Harry and I can say everything to each other with our bodies that we struggle to say with words.
Harry kisses me back, his lips lingering on mine, and it’s so familiar that my chest aches.
When I pull back, his eyes search mine. “Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is gentle.
I’m surprised to find the answer is yes.
So, in stilted sentences, I tell him the truth as I know it.
My mother, determined to save enough money to buy our own flat instead of renting, started a side hustle of refurbishing old furniture. Our flat had been strewn with half-finished chairs, tables with missing legs, and cabinets waiting for a fresh coat of paint. She loved the process of creating something beautiful out of the broken pieces.
Harry’s father, as the minister of state for food, farming and fisheries, had been visiting one of the Saturday farmers’ markets when my mother had used the opportunity to talk to him about how unfair the tax system was for secondary income. He’d invited her to a series of policy roundtables, ostensibly to get her perspective on small-business challenges. But over the months, their discussions slowly strayed beyond tax codes and regulations, and the line between professional and personal started to blur.
My mother had been attractive, witty, and intelligent. I can easily imagine how she caught his interest. And he spun her all the usual crap of being in an open marriage that he only stayed in because of his political career.
“It’s such a cliché, how it happened. Rich, sophisticated, aristocratic man meets a single working-class mother, sweeps her off her feet, only to dump her and leave her heartbroken.”
I pause, swallowing hard against the memories of my mother’s pain, her silent tears, and the way she tried to shield me from her heartbreak. Harry’s hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own.
