Anne & Henry (16 page)

“The moon looks huge from up here,” she murmurs.

“I've always had a fascination with space,” I say.

“Me too. When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut.” I sense her embarrassment and she shrugs. “I saw this movie about space camp, and that was it for me.”

It's rare for her to open up. I lean in close. “And then?”

Anne sighs. “I realized how much science I'd need to learn—not my best subject. By the time I hit middle school, I'd flipped through a dozen or more career options. English teacher. Dancer.” She cuts into her chicken, takes a bite.

My eyes follow her lips again as she chews, swallows, moans. I was wrong before. It's the worst when she moans.

“I also wanted to be a chef,” she says, and her eyes go all dreamy. “To be able to cook like this . . .”

My wild boar looks bland and pale in comparison to Anne's dish, and my stomach is too twisted for food. I force down a forkful anyway. “What stopped you?”

Her expression darkens and she looks away. “I worked at a fast food joint for a few weeks.” Anne pushes her food to the opposite side of the plate and holds the fork there, thinking. She glances up at me, expression heavy. “After my dad left, things got tough.”

I get it. But while Anne has seemed hesitant about life with her new stepdad, I kind of wish my mom would just chill out and meet someone else, get remarried even. Find a new purpose instead of clinging to the past. I'm almost jealous Anne has a second chance at a real family.

“I'm sorry,” I say, but the words seem inadequate.

“What about you?” Anne says. She slices off another piece of chicken. Stabs it with her fork and holds it out, a silent invitation for me to taste.

I allow her to feed me, my heart pulsing so hard I'm surprised it hasn't popped right out of my skin. “Delicious.”

Anne folds her hands on top of the table and tilts her head. “So . . .” At my vacant stare, she laughs. “Did you always want a career in politics?”

I cough. “Fuck no.” I spear a piece of asparagus, fold it over my fork, and stuff it into my mouth. Chew. Gather my thoughts. “It runs in my blood, though. My grandfather was a senator. Dad, too. Primed for the presidency, some say. And then Arthur. Well, we all know that story.”

“Not really. You never mention him,” she says. “Or what happened.”

A knot forms in my chest. Even before he died, talking about my brother had never been easy.

“Years ago, my grandfather started this tradition, a charity hike up the face of Gander Mountain,” I say. “My dad never supported it, thought there were easier ways of giving back to the community. I guess he got real good at writing checks.”

I pause to take a sip of water, let the words gather. Anne reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Her touch gives me the motivation to keep talking. “When my grandfather died, I restarted the tradition. Dad still wrote checks, but my grandfather loved nature and I wanted to keep his spirit alive.”

“That's nice,” Anne says. She rubs her thumb across the top of my hand, distracting me from the memories I'm dredging up.

“I ditched out on the last year's hike.” I drop my gaze to avoid eye contact. “Went on a date instead.” Looking back makes me feel more like an ass. I barely even remember the girl's name. “Even though I'd made a commitment to be there.”

Anne nods.

I clear my throat, pull away my hand. “So big brother came to the rescue. It had become a regular occurrence, him saving my ass.”

The rest of the story hangs on the tip of my tongue. Arthur wasn't much of an outdoorsman, hadn't spent his younger years exploring the paths, navigating the cliffs. He shouldn't have been in the lead—but Tudor men don't belong at the back of the pack. I look away from Anne, hesitant to tell her the rest.

“We had a lot of rain that year. It wasn't safe.” I rush through the rest. “He slipped on a rock and went over the edge. . . . It should have been me.”

Anne shakes her head. “That isn't true.”

I appreciate her sympathy, maybe even crave it, but she's dead wrong. Arthur never should have been on that hike. And after he died, everything changed.

“So now you're expected to follow in your father's footsteps? Do what Arthur—”

Couldn't.

I poke around at the food on my plate. “Yeah.”

“You seem to hate it, though,” she says. “Why not try something else?”

The question jabs at me, makes me squirm. Maybe I could have stood my ground, challenged my father's will, left the politics behind and pursued my dreams. In time I might
have even been able to let go of the guilt. But one look at the hope, the
desperation
in my mother's eyes and—fighting it felt like a lost cause.

“I guess I never thought I had a choice.”

Anne raises her glass, her eyebrow. I lean across the table and stop any more questions with a light kiss, terrified she'll ask if I'm okay, scared I'll have to admit that I'm not.

“It's not as bad as it seems,” I say, working up a smile. “There are certainly worse career options.”

“Except you're not following your passion, Henry.”

Her words slice through my insides like a hot knife. I blink. “You can't possibly understand.”

Anne sits upright, her muscles rigid, voice tense. “Then explain it. What if you weren't expected to be just like your dad? What would you do? What would you
want
to do?”

“
What if
is a dangerous sport,” I say. Our eyes meet and we both know it's the game we've been playing since we first met. “Besides, it's not like I can just drop it now. I live in a different world, Anne.”

“Bullshit.”

My stomach does a slow roll, tensing up at the direction this conversation is heading.

“Why would you even want to be a politician? I have a hard time respecting a bunch of assholes stepping over the poor to make themselves richer.” Her eyes flash, but behind the anger, there's something else.

I open my mouth to interject—this isn't how the night's supposed to go—but Anne silences me with her eyes. She pushes aside her empty plate with disgust. “Do you know what it's like living in a dump, Henry? A place where you become immune to the smell of shit because it's better than asking for help from your creepy-ass landlord?”

Anne's shoulders stiffen, her whole body tenses with rage, with passion.

“No, I don't suppose you would,” she says.

“That's harsh,” I say, prepared to debate the finer details of our national budget. “Do I think finances could be handled better? Absolutely.” I fold my napkin into a tiny square and tuck it under my mostly untouched plate. “Don't you think this is an overreaction, though?”

“You've never experienced . . . poverty,” Anne counters. “Money corrupts people. All people. But politicians especially.”

I resist the urge to remind her I'll be one of them someday. “That's a very broad brushstroke you're painting with.”

She folds her arms across her chest, pale skin nearly translucent against a dress so plum it's almost black. She averts her gaze, bites her lower lip. Even in the throes of her anger, I can't take my eyes off those damn lips. “How can you deny all of the perks and freebies you get?”

I quirk an eyebrow. This is starting to feel like an inquisition.

She picks up her fork and pokes at the empty plate. A steady scratch of steel against porcelain grates on my eardrums, my nerves.

A flush of red creeps up along her neck. Maybe I'm an idiot or something, but I can't figure out what's got her so worked up. My instinct is to give her a hard time, try to lighten the mood. “Hoarding a few misdemeanors, Ms. Boleyn?”

Too late, I realize I've mocked her.

“I'm glad you're amused,” she says and tosses her napkin on the table. “But I bet you didn't even have to make a reservation at this restaurant. If I'd come here with someone else, we'd still be outside in line.”

The thought of her being on a date with someone else makes my stomach churn.

I reach across the table for her hand but she pulls back. “Anne, I—” My heart settles at the bottom of my rib cage and I fold my hands in my lap, unsure of what to do with them, yearning to touch her, console her, even though I don't really know what's wrong.

A heavy silence hangs between us. I play back our conversation, try to figure out how we got on this track, how I've hurt, offended,
insulted
her. And that's when it hits me,
whollops
me right in the gut. She's right. I
don't
know what it's like to grow up without money and privilege and possessions. Have never worried about a roof over my head or not being able to pay for college.

I tilt my head back, close my eyes. “I'm an asshole.”

She doesn't deny it, but the corner of her mouth tilts up.

“Maybe just a jerk,” she says. “And I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite, because ever since my mom married Thomas, I've received some”—she looks at me through hooded lashes—“perks too.”

Her words spark something in me—but I can't put my finger on it. A feeling, a purpose, something unexplainable and . . . freeing.

In our moment of shared silence, the music starts. It spills onto the balcony and fills the air. I stand, hold out my arm. Anne hesitates, then fits her small hand into mine. My throat swells as I lead her to the dance floor, curl her into my chest.

A soft purr travels the length of her throat.

I kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose. I'm drunk on her power, mesmerized, and I'm spinning out of control.

Anne stands on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around my neck, and rests her forehead against mine. She presses her mouth to my cheek, my jaw.

Our lips touch.

I pull her tight and the feelings I've suppressed uncoil and thrash inside me.

I taste her.

Breathe her. Feel her.

Only her.

“What have you done to me?” I whisper.

I
stretch out on the blanket, pull my hoodie over my ears, and prop myself up on my elbows. Late afternoon sunlight reflects off the white page of my history text, further blurring the words, my focus.

“I've gone over this so many times, I think I've fallen
into
the Great Depression,” I say. “Nothing is sticking. I'm going to flunk Ms. McLaughlin's test, for sure.”

Sam rolls onto her side. “Who the hell brings their homework to the beach?”

“Someone who actually wants to pass Ms. McLaughlin's test tomorrow?” I squint at her through my sunglasses. Despite the sun, there's a seasonal chill in the air. Goose bumps pepper her bare arms and legs. “You're questioning my sanity when you're out here in shorts and a thin T-shirt? I can see your nipples.” She smirks and I add, “Let's grab a coffee.”

Her gaze lifts over my shoulder and I know without looking what she sees, the reason we're sprawled out on the damp sand, shivering in the lackluster autumn sun.

“Forget that. Things are just starting to heat up around here,” she says with a blush.

I roll over so I can check out the action too. A crowd gathers around four guys in swim trunks playing a sweaty game of volleyball. Bile creeps along my throat as John's torso extends to meet the ball midair. He drives it over the net, straight at Charles.

Sam sucks in a gasp.

Charles takes the dive—misses. The smirk on John's face sends a tremor of disgust along my core. He slaps Rick in a high five, and then falls back to take the serve.

“John's such a creep,” I say.

Sam lifts her sunglasses onto the top of her head and sits up, folds her legs into a pretzel. Reaching back, she pulls her hair into a loose ponytail and sighs. “He's certainly no prince.”

I sit up and dust off my textbook, tuck it into my bag. “Whatever. Fairy tales are overrated anyway.”

Sam scoffs. “Ironic, since you're living one now.”

My stomach twists. Despite Sam's early support of my relationship with Henry, an occasional snide remark slips out, a hint of jealousy or something . . . more, something raw and honest, uncomfortable even. “No, seriously. I don't believe in Happily Ever After.”

Being with Henry has given me the courage to move on from the past, to let go of some of my guilt and shame. It's freeing, but I'm not naive. There's no such thing as forever.

“Yeah, I get it. Your life has been so rough.”

I flinch as though burned. “Low blow. You say that and don't even know me.”

“How can I? You never talk about yourself,” she snaps.

Sam grabs my wrist. I stare at it, take a few calming breaths, and then look up to meet her gaze. Where the hell is this coming from?

“I'm sorry,” she says. “That wasn't fair.”