Anne & Henry Read online

  He steps closer. “Come on, Henry. You see it, right? You’re ditching events, lying to your mom, to your friends.” He pats his chest. “To me.” I open my mouth to say something, but John doesn’t stop. “You show up for practice, but you’re not even there. She’s, like, bewitched you.”

  Confusion blurs my focus. I scour memories of the past few weeks, the last couple of days, searching for clues that they’re right, some indication that I’ve been blind to a giant neon-red flag. But even Anne’s confession about Mary isn’t enough for me to give up on her. Deep down I want to believe her. I have to. Because without trust, what’s left?

  “Give us a chance to show you,” Catherine says. “We’re not asking you to break up with her. Just let us prove to you that she isn’t right for you. When you’ve seen the evidence . . .”

  “There won’t be any, because she’s not who you think,” I say. But a sliver of doubt has sliced through my shield and is worming its way into my confidence. I push it back. “You won’t find anything.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” John says, and tilts his head. “If so, I’ll be first in line to apologize.”

  “Me too,” Catherine says.

  “Fine,” I say, voice tight. “But when you come back with nothing, that’s the end of it. Right? You’ll give it a rest and accept her?”

  “Deal,” John says. “We’ll all welcome her with open arms.”

  Catherine nods, and for the moment, I trust them, hoping they truly want what’s best for me. And yet as I watch their retreating forms, I can’t figure out why the weight around my heart refuses to lift.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Anne

  My stomach is twisted, all tied up in knots, wondering if I’ll see Henry, scared that I won’t. It’s been a week since everything went from so right to so horribly wrong.

  I’m convinced he won’t be there, that he’s already given up on me, when I spot him. He’s leaning up against my locker, looking helpless and hopeless, as messed up as me.

  I start walking faster and almost crash into his chest.

  “Anne,” Henry says so soft it’s almost a whisper. His hand winds into my hair and pulls me close. I’m breathless and weightless, desperate and raw. His lips graze my mouth, and my body turns to liquid.

  “You never came to see me,” I say, when he pulls away. I’ve spent hours staring at the ceiling, waiting and crying, dreaming of going back to that moment, when everything was—

  Perfect.

  Henry nuzzles his chin into my hair, kisses the top of my head. “I wanted to,” he says. “At first I was furious—what we did, Anne . . .”

  “Was stupid,” I say.

  He nods as though waiting for me to say more, to explain why I acted so out of control. I try to shut out the guilt. I’m not ready to tell him what my mother said, how she thinks I’m to blame for Mary. A part of me is scared Henry thinks so too.

  “I’ve been grounded all week,” Henry says, and runs his hand though his hair. “Shit. That makes it sound like she took away my teddy bear or something.”

  I know without him saying, he’s lost a lot more. “You shouldn’t have taken the fall for me,” I say. “I’m not worth—”

  Henry silences me with a kiss. It’s tender and potent, erasing some of the fear and the doubt.

  “I did what I needed to do for you, for us,” he says, drawing me into his arms. “This will blow over.” He pulls back a little, looks into my eyes. “But it can’t happen again.” His tone is stern. “I can’t afford another mistake.” He wraps his arms around me. Holds on so tight I could burst. “Jesus, I’ve missed you.”

  I nod, because there are no words here that work, and wipe away the tears with the back of my hand.

  “How long until your mom cuts you loose?” I finally say.

  “Tonight—if I’m good,” he says. At my raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “I’m having dinner with a Harvard guy. To make up for missing—”

  “The event you skipped when we were at the theater,” I say. I flash back to our first kiss and my jaw hurts from smiling so wide.

  Henry kisses the tip of my nose. “I’d do it again.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And again.”

  Henry opens my locker, peering inside with a sheepish grin. He pulls out a bouquet of wilted flowers. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back,” he says. “I picked these a few days ago.”

  “From the courtyard?” I say with a smirk.

  He shrugs. “Best I could do with my limited resources.”

  “They’re perfect.” I kiss his blushing cheek. “You’re perfect.”

  The bell chimes and Henry presses a mass of paper into my hand. “I wrote a letter for every day we couldn’t talk,” he says. “Toward the end they get a bit cheesy.”

  By the time I hit class, I’ve read them all through. He’s right. Some are cheesy. But I don’t care. I’ve soaked in every word. Through them, my understanding of his feelings—the worry, confusion, frustration, even anger—deepens.

  Now, as the class erupts in the chaos of prelunch socialization, a silhouette falls across my desk. I know without looking it’s Marie—her presence is an ominous cloud, a shadow of foreboding. I’ve heard more of the rumors and know she’s one of the girls behind them.

  I stare at my open textbook, doodle in the margins. When I stop, the pen bleeds ink onto the page.

  Finally, I look up. Marie is flanked by two henchwomen, Liz and some girl I’ve never met.

  “Anne, darling, we’d love to chat,” she says.

  “Thanks, I’ll pass,” I say, gathering my textbooks. My hip catches on the edge of the desk as I stand, too rushed to get away. Pain spiderwebs across my midsection. The doctors have stopped worrying about my head, but the rest of my body has yet to fully heal.

  “I think you’ll change your mind,” Marie says. She takes a step closer, so close I can see the outline of her bra through her thin white blouse. “Do you know what people are saying about you?”

  “Because I care?” I swallow the little white lie, stuff it down so far it disappears in the pit of my stomach. The classroom is empty now and it’s just the four of us in the room.

  “Bet you’d care if Henry knew,” Marie says.

  I pull my books into my chest. “Henry doesn’t listen to gossip.”

  “Maybe not now,” she says. “But the rumors will just poke and poke.” She thrusts her finger at me and almost touches my arm, punctuating her point. “Everything you do will be under close scrutiny. You won’t be able to cough without someone telling Henry you’ve caught mono.”

  “The once innocent gossip will transform into lies,” Liz chimes in.

  Marie perches on the edge of my desk. “And the lies just keep growing and growing until—”

  “Henry snaps,” the nameless girl says, ending the sentence with a cluck of her tongue.

  “He’s not like that,” I say, though my voice trembles a little, betraying my doubt.

  Guilt creeps under my skin. It’s because of me his life has become stressful. With Catherine, he had acceptance, approval, solid footing. I’ve brought him nothing but trouble.

  “It’s not too late,” Marie says. She reaches out toward me and rests her hand on my forearm. I resist the urge to flinch, to pull away. “There’s still time for you to change what people are saying about you.”

  I choke on impossibility. “How?”

  Liz shrugs her shoulders. “By hanging out with us, for starters,” she says. “Instead of avoiding us, join the group.”

  I scan her features, looking deep into the corners of her eyes for the mockery I’m sure is there. Do they think I’m an idiot? That I’m stupid enough to believe they want to spend time with me—the school misfit, the girl who knocked Queen Catherine—their friend—off her throne?

  “Funny,” I say, and bend down to pick up my purse. Henry’s letters poke out and I stuff them down, afraid they’ll fall out and that Marie and her friends will see them. “I get it,” I say, feignin
g nonchalance. “You don’t like me, and that’s okay. I’ve never been in with the mean girls. All that really matters is what Henry thinks.”

  Marie’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, we figured you’d say that,” she says. “Because Henry said the same thing.”

  My eyes widen. “He did?”

  Liz nods. “Of course. He really cares for you.”

  “More than we thought,” Marie adds. “We didn’t want to believe it, because we just assumed Henry and Catherine would always be together, you know?” She twirls a piece of her hair around a well-manicured fingertip—bright red with black polka dots—and shrugs. “Henry set us straight.”

  They stare at me expectantly, like they’re waiting for me to have that moment of clarity, to thrust my hand up and shout, “Aha!” Instead, I regard them with caution, try to figure out their angle.

  “So, you think we should, what? Eat lunch together? Maybe get pedicures?” The words snap from my lips with the razor-sharp edge of disbelief. “We could even start dressing alike.”

  She giggles. “You’re cute,” she says. “But we had something else in mind.”

  Liz slips her hand into the pocket of her blouse and withdraws a slip of paper. “This is my address. I’m having a party tonight. You should come.”

  “Henry will be there after he attends some function, one last demonstration of his renewed commitment to his future,” Marie adds, rolling her eyes.

  I bite my lip. It’s true Henry won’t be grounded anymore, but that doesn’t mean we’re free to go out. At least not alone. I haven’t decided how to deal with his mother’s warning to stay away from her son, don’t know whether or not I should even tell Henry. This party may be the only chance we have to talk.

  “Why the hesitation?” Marie says. “You know you want to come.”

  “Will Catherine be there?” I hate myself for asking, but I’m not strong enough for that fight yet.

  Marie and Liz exchange glances. “Yes,” Liz says. “Look. She’s been through a lot, between Arthur and . . . this. She gets it, though. Henry’s moved on. We’ve been friends a long time, and change is hard.”

  I stare down at the ground, count the black scuffmarks on the tile.

  Something stirs in my stomach, a sharp little thrill. Maybe I’m making a mistake and this is one big joke. It’s likely I’ll show up and no one will be there, or worse, they all will and I’ll be the center of attention again, the butt of their collective joke.

  But with Henry in my corner now, I’m stronger.

  When I look up, Marie and her friends are staring at me like they’re made of stone. Expressions unreadable. Cold masks that betray nothing, offer no comfort.

  “Well?” Marie says, and the firm set of her mouth cracks into a smile. “You coming, or what?”

  I inhale a deep breath. Blow it out as I throw my purse over my shoulder and shrug, faking an indifference I don’t feel. I may be about to make the biggest mistake of my life, but Marie’s right. Henry is hanging on by a loose thread, and I have to do something to ease the tension. He’s sacrificed so much for me—surely I can handle a few hours with his lifelong friends. “Sure,” I say. “Why the hell not?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Henry

  The open notebook glares at me. Sentences I’ve scrawled across the paper in black ink—an effort to unjumble my thoughts, figure out the lies.

  This is for your own good.

  You’re just like your brother.

  Your father would be proud.

  All the untruths my family, friends, perfect strangers have tried to make me believe.

  But my father wouldn’t be proud.

  I’m nothing like Arthur.

  And no matter what argument anyone produces, whatever evidence my friends think they’ll find, keeping me from Anne is most definitely not for my own good.

  I slam the notebook shut. I’m so angry I’m beyond language, beyond rational thought. All I see when I close my eyes are my mother’s lips, going back on her word, grounding me for just “one more night.”

  What the hell kind of game is she playing?

  I loosen my tie, glance at my cell. It’s a useless piece of crap. My mother may have given it back to me, but not before deleting Anne’s contact information. I tried texting, but the message came back blocked, undeliverable. I’m tempted to buy one of those pay-as-you-go things, but my mother’s frozen my bank account. I’m penniless.

  One more night.

  I check my watch. Liz’s party is just getting started. I doubt Anne will even show. Or, when she realizes that I’m not coming, that I’m stuck at home for yet another night, she’ll leave.

  I tug at my tie and shake the knot loose, unbutton my collar. Kicking off my shoes, I flop down on the bed and glare at my cell. What the hell is happening at that party?

  I stare up at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars above my bed and pinpoint the big dipper, counting the dots to pass time. They’re the only unorthodox accent to a room so typical, it’s boring. So boring it’s fucking lame.

  My cell phone chimes. I glance at the text, knowing it’s not Anne, and pause before opening John’s message. She just got here. Looking good.

  I toss the phone on the bed, pretend he hasn’t irked me, that I’m not picturing what she’s wearing. With a sigh, I snatch back the cell and type: Send a picture.

  Seconds later, Anne’s face swims onto my screen and instant desire sets my body aflame. Leather pants hug her hips. The black tank underneath her sheer shirt covers just enough skin. Christ, I’m an idiot for asking him to send me a picture. I zoom in on her face. Fuck me. Black liner circles her eyes, and I’m trapped, sucked right in.

  I’ve got to get out of here. But there’s no easy way to escape, not without my mother catching me. I’ve only just earned back some of her trust—break it again, and I’m done.

  The soft knock at the door pulls my focus. I click the image closed, turn the ringer to silent, and tuck the phone under my pillow. My mother inches open the door and peers inside. Her expression is hopeful.

  “Fixed you a snack.”

  I choke. “You actually cooked something?”

  She steps in a bit farther, silver tray in her hand, and tilts her head to one side. “Well, no, but I carried it myself. That counts for something, right?”

  I slide upright so my back presses against the headboard and draw up my legs to make room at the end of the bed. A silent invitation. “Depends what’s on the tray.”

  Taking this as permission, my mother sits on the edge of the mattress. This is a first step, an olive branch, but we’re a long way from normal. I’ve screwed up, caused important people to raise their collective brows. It’s her job to bring them back on our side and make them understand I’m young, that it’s natural for me to act out. Jesus, what do they expect?

  “BLT,” she says. “Extra B.”

  A family favorite—typical Tudor comfort food. And not a bad ploy if my stomach wasn’t doing backflips. My cell buzzes from under the pillow, so softly I’m sure only I can hear it. But knowing I have a text inspires me to keep the peace, get my mother out of the room faster, with less drama.

  I lean in and sniff the sandwich. “Smells like turkey bacon.”

  She shrugs. “That’s all we had.”

  “Dad would never have settled for this,” I say with a half smile.

  At the mention of him, we both go quiet.

  “Your father knew which battles to fight,” she says, and lifts half the sandwich, takes a bite. Her jaw stretches and flexes until at last, she swallows. “After your performance at dinner, I anticipate a call from Harvard any day. You did well. But this is only the beginning. You know that, right?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “What are you fighting for?”

  Freedom.

  The opportunity to be myself. To not live under my brother’s shadow or be guided by my Dad’s final wishes.

  Anne.

  Another vibration. Another text. “Not eve
rything has to be a war,” I say.

  My mother stands and walks to the window, gazes out over the lake.

  “Your father was just like you when he was young,” she says. I open my mouth to protest but no words come out. “I know you think you’re so different.” She walks across the carpet, pauses at the photograph of me and Arthur, hands behind her back. “You may not believe this, but your dad was wild when I met him. Rebellious.”

  I try to picture him this way, but can’t get past his stoic posture, the permanent stern expression on his face. I can’t even recall the craziest thing I’ve ever seen him do. The realization saddens me.

  “He drove too fast, drank too much. Fancied himself a real painter.” She turns around and her expression softens. “Maybe you’ve noticed his obsession with art.”

  The Pollock at the top of the staircase.

  Van Gogh in the dining area. Monet in the master suite.

  Our annual charity art gala.

  “Did he have talent?” I say.

  My mother perches on the edge of my rolltop desk, knocking my marble paperweight onto its side. She picks it up and rests it in the palm of her hand. Rolls it back and forth. “In time, he could have been good, I suppose.” With care, she sets the weight on a stack of papers and folds her arms across her chest. “But your father was smart enough to know painting wasn’t going to cut it.”

  She spreads her arms wide, as if to encompass everything in my room. The expensive furniture, the opportunities afforded to me, even the medals on the wall and trophies in the case. Without privilege, I might never have entered Medina Academy. “His art wouldn’t have supported us, couldn’t have provided all of this . . .”

  But what good is all of this if you don’t have anyone to share it with? The question lingers on my lips. Instead, I say, “It’s just stuff.”

  “That’s true.” My mother nods. “So, what do you want, Henry?”