Page 86 of Familiar Things New

Even though Mrs. Meyer’s words were nothing but kind, Andrew’s heart began to ache. Because regardless of whether or not the woman thought of him as a son, Andrew knew how fragile a mother’s love could be. Especially for a son like him.

“He, uhm—”

The words caught in Andrew’s throat. Telling Mrs. Meyer the truth could cost him his business. He could lose his home. Just like before, he could lose everything.

Andrew was still struggling to know how to respond when his eyes found Edwin’s suit jacket, which was still in a heap on the floor. And he realized, then, that perhaps he’d already lost everything.

Judging by Edwin’s behavior before he’d fled—not to mention the fear and shame in his eyes—there was little chance that they’d ever mend things between them. Either their relationship had already ended or it soon would.

And how long would it be before Edwin retaliated somehow for all they’d experienced together, especially in the bedroom? Theodore had been so repulsed that he’d immediately sought to ruin Andrew’s life, revealing Andrew’s secret to his family. And then, more than likely, he had proceeded to reveal it to everyone else Andrew had known as well, though Andrew hadn’t stuck around to find out for sure. And Theodore had only ever been a friend. A best friend, yes, but not someone with whom Andrew had been intimate even once. And if Edwin was so ashamed of what they were . . . then maybe he’d retaliate, too. And so, perhaps Andrew ought to blow up his own life. Before someone else did it for him.

“Edwin and I . . . we were . . .”

Andrew paused. Even though he wanted to, he couldn’t make himself say it.

With a somewhat shaky hand, Andrew set the tea on the nightstand nearby. He took another breath to try to cultivate enough courage to admit his truth, even knowing it would mean starting over.

“Our friendship was . . . special to me.”

Drat. How vague he sounded. How overly sentimental, too. Why, oh why, couldn’t he make himself say the truth about what he and Edwin were to each other?

“Ah,” Mrs. Meyer said. There was a small pause. “I think I may know what it is you’re trying to imply.”

Andrew’s stomach sank. He braced himself for the inevitable unkind words that would soon follow. But then, Mrs. Meyer caught his eyes—his misty, worry-filled eyes—and a warm, comforting smile stretched across her face.

“Oh, Andrew, I’m not upset with you. I know people can’t control these kinds of things. Why, I fell in love with my husband even though he wasn’t the person my parents wanted for me. Of course, I know that’s not the same thing, but I’ve long been aware of people like you—women or men who have special friendships with other women or other men—and I’ve always assumed that they must not be able to help who they love any more than I could have.” She took a pause. “You can tell me if I’m wrong, but—”

“You’re not,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry for . . . everything. All of this.”

Mrs. Meyer huffed a small laugh. “Didn’t you hear me? You have nothing to be sorry for. Finding out what kind of friendship you had with Edwin doesn’t change the way I see you. Or the fact that you’ve become like family in some ways. You’re like a son to me, even still.”

Slowly, Andrew reopened his eyes. His chest filled a wonderful, hesitant warmth, sparked by the genuine care in her words.

Mrs. Meyer’s smile faltered a little. “I am sorry, though, to hear that something happened between you and Edwin. I hope the two of you can mend things. I can see how important he is to you. And I can see that you’re important to him as well.”

Andrew’s cheeks began to burn as he mentally fumbled for a response. How strange it was to be talking to her about this. Still, he ought to try to say something.

“Thank you, Mrs. Meyer,” he managed. She leveled a playfully irritated look, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Sorry. Prudence,” he amended. “Thank you, Prudence. I really hope Edwin and I can mend things, too. But I’m not sure when—or even if—I’ll ever see him again. He left, in, a, uhm, a hurry. I-I must have made a mistake or—or he became afraid because of . . . of what we are. Or, what we were, rather. I’m not sure whether he still wants to be that . . . with me.”

“Give it time,” Prudence said. “He’ll talk to you when he’s ready. I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Andrew, the way Edwin looks at you, I can see how much he adores you. Not that I ever thought he adored you in this particular way. But still, I knew the two of you must have been close. Edwin seems like a fine man. And I can’t imagine that he’d put an end to your friendship so easily, especially not without talking to you about whatever it was that happened between you.”

Andrew’s mind lingered on her reassuring words, and he tried to make himself believe her. It was accurate to say that Edwin wasn’t the sort of person to leave things ambiguous, at least, wasn’t it? And maybe he wasn’t the sort of person to lash out, either.

Edwin really was a fine man.

“You’re right,” Andrew said. “Thank you. Again.”

With a smile and a firm nod, Prudence stood.

“Bring my teacup back later. And I’m happy to make you more, too. Anytime.”

Prudence walked back to her home, leaving Andrew alone with a half cup of lukewarm tea and a whole lot of heartache.

Chapter Twenty-Three