Anne & Henry (17 page)

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It's okay. I'm just not real great with—”

“Girlfriends,” she says, and grins, like she's filled in the blanks, has got me all figured out. Maybe she does.

“Look, I get it,” she says. “This place can feel like a prison. Making friends is tough.” She leans forward and presses her hands on either side of my cheeks, forcing me to stare at her. “You know everything about me—and I feel like I know nothing about you. I'm not asking for you to tap a vein here, just let me in a little. Friends share things.”

“There's not much to tell,” I say, pulling out of her grip. Her handprints leave warm tingles on my skin.

“Bullshit,” she says, laughing. “What about ex-boyfriends? Your old school? I want the dirt. A girl like you has to have secrets.”

My cell phone chirps and I look down at the text, eager for a distraction. These topics are taboo, off limits, sealed in a vault.

“Was that Henry?”

I look up and nod, warmth spreading through my body. He's on his way to the beach to pick me up, an impromptu date.

“Trust your knight in shining armor to save you from deep conversation,” she says.

“I told you, I don't believe in fairy tales.”

Sam arches an eyebrow. “How about knights on white stallions?”

“Funny,” I say.

When she doesn't laugh, I whip my head around. Holy shit. Sam's not joking. Henry straddles an enormous horse, loitering at the edge of the beach and watching his friends play volleyball. A couple of girls hover around him, stroking the animal's long mane and ogling my boyfriend.

My boyfriend.

“Is that allowed?” I say, my voice filled with such wonder even I'm embarrassed.

Sam shrugs. “He's a Tudor.”

As if that should explain everything.

Henry watches the game a few seconds more, stealing glances at his cell, scanning the beach, looking for—

Me.

I fire off a quick text:
I see you.

Henry checks his phone, lifts his head, and looks our way. He waves when he spots me, sending a delicious shiver along the nape of my neck. I begin to stand, but Sam grabs my wrist, holds on like she's afraid I'll leave. Her eyes cloud with concern. “Promise me we'll talk about this again?”

She's right—if I'm ever going to fit in and find my place in this town, I need to start opening up. “I promise. And I do appreciate your concern. Honest.”

The soft whinny of Henry's horse alerts me to his arrival, and I turn, unprepared for the way my heart speeds up at the sight of him.

“Something wrong with your Audi?”

He raises his eyebrow. “Figured we could slow things down a bit today.”

The double meaning isn't lost on me—or Sam, who whistles low and playfully, reminding us she's there.

“Bacon could use a run.”

“You call your horse Bacon?” Sam says, tilting her head with disbelief. Henry presses his lips together, and I can't tell if he's joking.

“Hey, Sam,” Henry says. “Mind if I steal your friend for a few hours?”

“Like I have any choice in the matter,” she says, and sticks out her tongue.

There's something so girlish about her, so innocent and
naive. In my skeleton-imprinted hoodie I must look like the bad influence, the troublemaker. I'm struck by our differences, how it must be true that opposites attract, and when I look up at Henry, the feeling intensifies.

Henry holds out his hand and my blood freezes.

“You don't expect me to get on that thing, do you?” I say.

The horse chuffs as if I've offended him. Snorts. Nuzzles up against Sam.

Henry's expression darkens, and for a second I think he's upset, annoyed that I'm a chicken, that I've ruined his surprise. “I've never been on a horse before,” I admit.

Henry pumps his eyebrows—twice. This is so corny,
he
is so corny, but damn if I'm not laughing, giving in to his invitation. “You're not really scared, are you?” he says.

Challenge accepted.

Henry guides me through the steps: one hand on the horse's shoulder, one toe in the stirrup, I bounce, propel myself up and over the saddle, shuffle my back into Henry's chest as he wraps his arms tight around my waist and gathers the reigns. His breath is hot in my ear. “See, that wasn't bad.”

My heart thumps so fast, it's like a drumbeat accompaniment to his voice.

“Have fun, kids,” Sam says as we trot away from the beach toward the thickly wooded forest surrounding the semiprivate cove of sand. A chorus of voices taunts us and
teases, fires shots at my back. Henry's oblivious, or doesn't care—either way, I'm envious of his ability to deflect.

We move onto a well-worn path and the horse's hooves crunch over the fallen leaves, the scent of evergreen blowing across my face with each of his long strides. Overhead, sun cuts swaths of light through the shadows.

I grip the animal's white mane so tight my knuckles appear translucent. In spite of my fear, I'm captivated.

“You
are
taking me to your serial killer cabin in the woods,” I say.

Henry nestles his mouth on the nape of my neck, his lips cool and wet. “Believe me, murder is the last thing on my mind.”

I try to breathe, but it's like someone's hands are gripping my lungs, squeezing them tight. The deeper we go into the woods, the more anxious, nervous, excited I become. I focus on the path, on how Henry commands the horse with a subtle tug on the reins, how it seems to know just where to go, what curve of the path to follow.

“It's a bit cheesy,” I say, teasing. “This whole horseback riding trick. A little over the top, even for you.”

Henry chuckles. “The Tudor stables aren't far from here,” he says. “Bacon needed a run anyway. I thought it might get your attention.”

I think about the crowd gathered on the shore, watching Henry, his horse, the two of us riding off together, and I swallow the unease. Maybe his friends are used it, but I
don't like being in the spotlight. “It got everyone's attention.”

He nuzzles his cheek against my neck. “Yours is all that matters.”

Through the pocket of trees, a meadow unfolds at the crest of a small stream. An open wicker basket rests on a bright red sleeping bag at the center of the patchy grass. A single rose springs from a tall vase resting between two empty wine glasses. It's all I can do to stop the tremble in my voice as I try to remain nonchalant.

“Premeditated romance?”

He squeezes my waist and the horse comes to a stop. “I wanted—needed—time alone with you,” he says in that low, gravely tone that turns my insides out.

Henry helps me to the ground and motions for me to sit while he ties the horse's reins to a tree. The animal dips its head into the stream, extending its long tongue into the water.

Henry reaches into the basket and pulls out a bottle of wine, pours us each a glass, holds his up to offer a toast. “To us,” he says. For the first time, I notice the light freckles under the corner of his right eye.

The pterodactyl wings smash against my rib cage and I blink to slow down the tears. No one has ever been so nice to me, treated me with such care, and I realize with a shuddering terror that if ever I believed in forever, in Happily Ever After, it might be right now.

“It's been a tough few days,” he says, setting his glass on the blanket. He reaches into the basket and produces a strawberry dipped in chocolate. I remember the first night we met and try not to taint this moment with thoughts of John. “I couldn't wait another minute to see you.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Didn't you have football practice or something this afternoon?”

Henry shrugs. “Probably.” He lifts the strawberry to my mouth. I part my lips. My whole body tingles with anticipation. “I'm having trouble focusing on anything but—”

“Us,” I say, and take a bite.

Chocolate sticks to the corner of my mouth and I lick it away. I'm on fire, burning up with expectation and wanting. I lean, crash into him. Our tongues find each other and tangle into knots.

A subtle shift and I'm flat on my back, Henry's body hovering over mine.

“I can't get enough of you,” he says.

I breathe out an inaudible response and arch my back, an invitation. But Henry pulls away. He sits upright and runs his hand through his hair, mutters a curse. “I'm sorry.”

“Too soon,” I say, breathless and scared. It's more of a question than a statement—I don't want him to stop.

He chuckles without humor. “Jesus, Anne. I can't control myself when I'm with you.”

“Is that so bad?” I say, sliding into sitting position.

Henry stares off into the distance and I'd do anything to know what he's thinking, feeling. “My mother doesn't approve.”

“Neither do your friends,” I say quietly. I'm not surprised by the admission—I'm just not sure what it means for us. A seed of doubt roots itself in my gut.

“They don't know you,” Henry says, reaching for my hand. He rubs his thumb absently over my flesh. My skin tingles where he touches it. “If they just took the time to—”

I press my finger to his lips.

“We both know it wouldn't change anything if they did.” Sam's words echo in my subconscious, rendering me vulnerable. If I want to fit in here, keep Henry, give
us
a chance, I have to confide in him. Yet, I can't bring myself to find the words.

Henry drops his head and sighs. “No, it wouldn't matter. My mom's stubborn.” He falls so he's flat on his back and motions for me to lie next to him, pulling me in to his chest.

“Protective,” I counter.

“Maybe I'm just a stereotype,” he says. “Rich kid whose parents were never really around. The guy who eventually goes off the deep end and—”

Hooks up with someone like me?

I clear my throat. “I don't believe that.”

His face turns more somber. I bury my head deeper into his arms and he squeezes me close. “I don't know. I've made some pretty stupid mistakes.”

“Haven't we all?”

Henry shifts a little, and I untangle myself from his arms. He props up on one elbow, so that I'm facing him, and focuses on the overhead clouds dotting the endless sky. Then he turns and gives me a lopsided grin. “I don't know. You're pretty perfect.”

Henry's words hit me in the middle of my chest. He doesn't realize how wrong he is, how I'm so far from perfect that maybe his mother and his friends have a reason not to trust me, to believe I'm not right for him. Tears well in the corner of my eyes.

“Oh, hey, don't cry,” he says. “I don't care what anyone else thinks. It can't change how I feel about you. You're everything I want.”

“And if I'm not?”

He thumbs away a tear. “What's really going on here, Anne?”

The words come out in a rush. “I've hurt people,” I say. “People I love.”

He reaches for my hand. “Shit, who hasn't? Sometimes it's the people closest to us we hurt the most.”

A pained squeak escapes my lips. “But it shouldn't be like that.” I'm really crying now, my cheeks streaked and wet.

“Anne, tell me. What happened? What is it?”

“I'm so fucking stupid, Henry.” My shoulders shake from sobbing. Everything hurts. “My sister caught me with her boyfriend.”

M
y body tenses as I take in Anne's words.

“You have a
sister
?”

I play back conversations, look for actions and clues, some indication that Anne isn't an only child, that maybe she's told me this important life fact before.

She shifts, presses her body flatter against mine. I don't move out of reach, but my blood cools under the waning sunlight. Anne has a sister. Jesus. What else hasn't she told me?

“Her name is Mary,” she says, in a voice so quiet I have to strain to hear the words. “She's a couple of years older.”

I mull this over and wait for her to continue. Maybe I'm overthinking it, but I don't understand how I couldn't have known, how I've never heard her—or her mother—talk about an older sibling. Not even a whisper.

“Is she in college?” I say, because it's clear Anne needs prodding.

She pushes herself upright and sits cross-legged at my side. I roll over to face her, wanting—expecting—more.

“Well, she's in a . . . hospital,” Anne says.

The quiver of her lower lip transforms my anger and confusion into worry. I reach over and take her hand. “Is she sick?”

Anne laughs without humor. “That's one way of putting it.”

With her free hand, she pinches off a blade of grass, drops it on the blanket, and flicks it aside. Repeats until there's a small pile. “Mary is in the psychiatric ward,” she says, and pulls away. She rubs at her wrist and my eyes are drawn to the pale, unmarked flesh there. “The doctors think she's depressed. Suicidal.” Her voice softens. “They say she's certifiable.”