Anne & Henry Page 11

  “Helmets, at least,” I say.

  She nudges her chin toward my clenched fist where the locket dangles. “A gift from Henry?”

  I bite my lower lip, nervous and a little alarmed. It’s only been a few hours since Henry and I first kissed. “News travels fast.”

  “I may have heard a rumor or two at swim practice this morning.”

  And suddenly, I wonder if Sam is angry about the news, or if she even believes it at all. I’m anxious about backlash, what people will think. But one glimpse at the sparkle in my friend’s eyes, and I know there’s nothing malicious about her teasing. “I was going to tell you,” I say.

  She waves me off like it’s no big deal, and relief eases through me. No question Catherine and her friends will hate me, but I need Sam, her friendship, the belief I’ve got at least one person on my side.

  “Do you want me to help you put it on?” Sam says, and holds out her hand. “It’s okay, you can let go. I promise not to run away with it, even if I am a bit jealous.”

  Jealous? “I didn’t think Henry was your type.”

  “Oh, he’s not—” She zooms in on the necklace. “Henry puts on a show, pretends he’s a typical rich boy. But I’ve seen him at council meetings. There’s more to him than most people realize.”

  I hand her the locket, turn, and lift my hair. The chain is cool against my skin and the heart thumps against my chest. I clasp my hand around it as I turn.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a klutz when it comes to putting on jewelry.” This simple locket is the most expensive thing I’ve ever worn, and my eyes swim with emotion I can’t process.

  Through my blurred vision, a trio of girls walk toward me, smirking and pointing.

  Too late I realize they’re friends of Catherine’s. There’s no time to turn around, to hide the locket or the look of joy on my face.

  “Nice necklace,” Liz says, flashing a sinner’s sneer. “I think Catherine has one just like it.” The three of them pass, cackling.

  “Forget them,” Sam says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget everything I said before and wear that locket with pride, girl. You deserve it. Hell, you’re practically a rock star now.”

  My throat dries. “More Johnny Rotten than John Lennon,” I say, thinking that clearly not everyone will be excited about this turn of events. Has Henry told his friends about me, about us? Are we a couple now?

  Sam snorts. “Haters will hate. But you’re a symbol of hope.” She squeezes my forearm. My body is thirsty, drinking up her encouragement. “I obviously underestimated you. If you can knock Queen Catherine off her pedestal, there’s reason to believe in all kinds of miracles.”

  A rush of satisfaction wells up inside me, a perverse thrill that my developing relationship with Henry has stoked such gut-deep and varying emotions.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you something to eat,” Sam says, and points to my plain paper lunch bag. “I guarantee the infamous fries in the cafeteria taste better than anything you’ve got in there.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, dumping the bag in a trash can as we make our way to the expansive lunchroom, working to ignore the sharp sense of dread that seeps down my neck. “My mother makes a mean cheese sandwich.”

  Despite Sam’s assurances that I should wear my new relationship status like a badge of honor, I stare more at the floor than straight ahead as we make our way to the cafeteria. Sam talks the whole way, loud enough to drown out the hollow echo of my pulse.

  My anxiety peaks as we cross the threshold, too late for me to turn around, retrieve my bag lunch from the trash. I lift my head instead.

  It’s not the greasy smell of fast food that hits me, but rather the crisp scent of fruit and fresh-baked bread. Unlike at my old school, there’s no fried chicken on the menu, no slop to pass off as soup.

  My eyes widen as I’m handed an overflowing plate of fries after ordering. “I know, right?” Sam says, nodding with approval at my tray. “I’d suggest we share, but that’s really against my nature.” She pulls her tray up against her chest. “I’m sure you’ll manage those on your own.”

  Catherine’s friend Marie slides into line beside me, and I brace for confrontation. “You know what they say,” she says, and eyes my lunch. “One moment on the lips, a lifetime on the—” Her hips shift, bump against mine.

  She’s off and laughing before I can respond. I resist the urge to trade in my fries for greens, but exchange the soda for bottled water. As Sam pays, I scan the room for an open table.

  There are a couple of spots beside Liz and Marie. Liz shoots me a sly look and I avert my gaze. I’m so not ready for this.

  “Hey, Anne, we’ve got room,” Marie shouts, her lips twisted with amusement. It’s more dare than invitation. And I’m now the focal point of sixty-some sets of eyes.

  The cafeteria noise grinds to a halt. There’s a split second of silence before a few muttered whispers break the hush. Pieces of conversation float through the air.

  “Can you believe—?”

  “Henry and . . . her?”

  “He’s crazy.”

  The gossip bubbles up around me until I can’t tell where it’s coming from anymore. My chest hurts, as though someone’s using me in a bench press—and all I can think of is Henry, how I wish he were here, deflecting, defending, blocking the harsh whispers and accusing stares.

  I shake my head, pull myself together, tune out the cacophony of gossip, and follow Sam to a long table dotted with familiar, friendly faces and nonjudgmental looks. A cute boy with spiked hair and ice blue eyes shifts down on the bench to make room for me.

  “Hey,” he says like I’m not a spectacle, like we’re the only table of people in the crowded room. “I loved your reading of Le Deuxieme Sexe in English last week. A bold choice.”

  Sam rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to forgive Chris. He’s a bit of a geek when it comes to French literature.”

  “And educated ladies,” he says, winking.

  “Back off, tiger,” Sam says. “Anne is definitely off the market.”

  I bite into a crispy fry and wash it down with a long gulp of water. I forget about Liz and Marie, focus instead on Sam and Chris, the others gathered around the table talking, teasing, and having fun. Maybe I can fit it here. Build a new life. Forget the past.

  For a few blissful minutes, I almost believe it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Henry

  The glass-covered rooftop patio of the London Tower restaurant boasts the best view of Medina. Below, the town is a sprawling kingdom of forest, water, and beach. Houses, even the Tudor mansion, resemble pushpins on a map, fading into the maze of streams, trees, and back roads.

  But it’s not at all the view I’m checking out.

  A strand of hair sticks to Anne’s lips. Lips I haven’t been able to take my eyes off since the waiter seated us. The way they move when she talks, smiles, laughs—Christ, it’s the worst when she laughs.

  She tucks her hair behind her ear, tilts her head, and sighs. “It’s beautiful here.”

  I’m speechless.

  People often mistake the restaurant for a castle, wedged into the side of a mountain at the end of a narrow tree-lined road. White Christmas lights hang from the branches all year long, giving the impression you’re at the entrance of the Enchanted Forest. It’s the perfect place to take Anne tonight—exclusive, expensive, and private, with an emphasis on private. I can’t get enough of being alone with her.

  Our table is tucked in the corner, surrounded by so many flowers, the smell is cloying. Flickering flames from the tabletop candles alternate shadow and light across her face, and I’m at once both anxious and thrilled. Anne is the unknown, my Cracker Jack box surprise.

  I raise my water in a toast. “To beginnings.”

  Our glasses clink. Her eyes meet mine.

  The waiter sets our plates on the table. The scent of onions and red wine melds with the smell of braised chicken wafting from A
nne’s dish, something I can’t pronounce, French maybe.

  “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.