Anne & Henry Page 17

  Before Arthur died I was quite happy to live spur of the moment, carefree, even careless. My father’s last will and testament didn’t just shackle me to a future I wasn’t sure I wanted, it snuffed out any hope I had of breaking free from all of this. Tonight, though, I wonder if I’d be so resistant to it all if it wasn’t shoved down my throat. If I’d made the choices myself.

  “I don’t know anymore,” I say, which is only partially a lie. I want to make my own choices, follow my own path. Explore theater and the arts. Maybe I’m destined for politics—but it’s so hard to tell when there doesn’t seem to be a choice. But more than all of it, I want Anne.

  As if reading my mind, my mother says, “I know you’re upset with me about her.” A brief pause and then, “But I’m looking out for you. I just don’t think she’s the right girl.” She taps her stomach. “My gut tells me she isn’t.”

  “It’s not your gut that matters,” I say, though my mouth is dry.

  “I know that too,” she says. Through her veil of disapproval, the tough exterior she’s worked so hard to keep strong, I see into her core and catch a glimmer of the mother I once knew. “But consider this, Henry. If you don’t follow this path, become the politician—the man—your father wanted you to become, what kind of life can you offer any woman, let alone Anne?”

  She stops to kiss the top of my head before leaving me alone with my thoughts. I consider her words, how far she’s come, how far we’ve traveled in just this one talk.

  In time, maybe my mother can even accept Anne. At least there’s hope.

  Another buzz cuts through the silence of the room and I reach under my pillow, grab my phone, anxious and eager, filled with the belief that I can have it all if I want it, if I’m careful. Not just Anne, but all of this, too. I can fulfill my father’s expectations, secure my mother’s dreams, give Anne whatever she needs. The life she deserves.

  The first text causes a lump in my throat.

  By the second, that lump is in my chest.

  I can hardly stand to look at Catherine’s third message. My eyes blur, my pulse races. Adrenaline pumps through my blood, hard and fast. I fling my cell across the room and it smashes against the wall.

  I flip open my notebook. My hand tremors as I enter one last lie.

  Love conquers all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anne

  Smile pretty,” Marie says before I can even shrug out of my coat and take in my surroundings.

  The steady thump-thump-thump of a heavy bass riff keeps time with the overwhelming trill of squealing, laughing, chatting, and singing. People emerge from behind every corner, like snakes slithering out from under rocks.

  Liz’s home is the poor cousin to Catherine’s or Henry’s. Not enough glitter, not enough white. The light blue and tan color scheme gives the illusion of a beach setting, as though compensating for its lack of a lakeside view. The kitchen buzzes with animated chatter on my left, there’s dancing to my right, and then there’s Marie, her smartphone camera aimed right at my face.

  “What kind of smile is that?” she says with a sad shake of her head. Loose curls swing left and right. “This is for Henry. Let’s see some sass.”

  My throat goes dry. “He’s not coming?”

  Marie rolls her eyes with exaggeration. “He’ll be here.” She snaps another picture. “I just want to give him a little incentive to hurry up.”

  I pose again, this time with my hands on my hips, chest pushed out a little. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s for Henry. And the way Marie “oohs” and “ahhs” with each tilt of my head makes me feel pretty, almost sexy, like a model.

  “That will get his adrenaline pumping,” she says.

  I rub my hands together and look around, not sure where to go, what to do, whether I even belong. I held off on arriving until the last minute, hoping Henry would already be here. But it’s clear the party’s in full swing, and those not on the dance floor slug back drinks. Maybe that’s what I need.

  The music switches songs and everyone on the makeshift dance floor disperses. Liz emerges from the crowd and slinks over. The V-cut of her shirt is so low you can almost see her ribs.

  “What’s your poison?” she asks, a little out of breath. A sheen of sweat covers her forehead and neck. “I’ve got a little beer and a lot of vodka.”

  I consider the options. Thomas dropped me off, but I’ll be cabbing home—which means I don’t have to worry about overdoing it. Still, the last time I drank vodka didn’t end so well.

  “Vodka,” Liz says, as though I’ve taken too long to respond. She’s gone before I can stop her; back in a blink, handing me a tumbler filled with ice. “It’s light on the Seven-Up.”

  I take a sip, force myself not to cringe. She’s not kidding about “light.”

  Someone cranks the stereo and another upbeat tune blows through giant speakers. Against the back wall, the shelves are stocked with bottles of various shapes and sizes. It looks more like a nightclub than someone’s living room. Empty glasses clutter the tables. Pretzels, nuts, and popcorn spill from various bowls scattered on every available surface.

  Liz leans close and links her arm through mine. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she says, raising her voice over the music. “It’s not as fancy as Henry’s, but there’s a game room down the hall. If you’re smoking or toking, take it outside.”

  I sip more vodka and nod with understanding. She dislodges her arm as a boy I don’t recognize drags her onto the dance floor. Glancing back, she gives me one of those helpless looks, and before long, their bodies become a blur of motion.

  My cell trills with an incoming text from Sam: U there?

  I respond: Yes . . . he’s not.

  My eyes flit to the front door, willing it to open, for Henry to walk through.

  Sam texts: Something feels off.

  I got this, I reply.

  The text offers more confidence than I feel. My nerves bounce around in my stomach at the anticipation of being with Henry again. Even though he insists again and again that we’re okay, that he’s not mad anymore, doesn’t regret covering for me, I sense that maybe things aren’t okay, that there’s something he isn’t saying. He’s starting to slip away.

  I can’t lose him. This is exactly where I need to be.

  Sam responds: I get it—you’re tough. But watch yourself. I can’t protect u.

  I never asked you to.

  Annoyed, I stuff my phone into my purse. I’m sick of the warnings and advice. Why doesn’t she understand that I’m doing what I have to, whatever it takes to show Henry I can be who he needs me to be?

  “You know the saying, right?” says a slimy voice from behind me. My back goes rigid.

  I turn slowly to face John. Maybe I’m willing to make an effort with Catherine and her lemmings, but Henry can’t expect me to be okay with John. I gulp down the rest of my drink. John’s taint doesn’t go away, sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I give up.”

  John smirks. “A watched door never opens.”

  I move to sidestep around him, but I’m stopped by Catherine—her phone is aimed at me, as if she’s the self-appointed paparazzi. “Smile, you two,” she says. And before I can protest, escape from being photographed with John—of all people, John!—the flash blinks in my eye, blinding in the otherwise dim light.

  I haven’t even recovered when Liz slides in and replaces my empty tumbler with a new full glass. “A little more Seven-Up this round. I may have made that last drink a bit strong,” she says, before leaving me alone with my glass.

  I’m surprised at how easy this is, how for the first time I don’t feel as if anyone is judging me or shaming me. Maybe if I just try a little harder, I’ll really fit in, become part of this group. If not for me, then for Henry.

  It’s always about Henry.

  A squeal from the kitchen draws my attention. I spin around to see Catherine, Marie, and Liz now crowding around the counter, their wrists lying upright on the
marble surface. John squeezes lime onto their skin, sprinkles it with salt, and then hands them each a shot glass.

  Tequila. My stomach roils a bit at the thought. Even with lime and salt, that shit is nasty.

  I turn away, nervous I’ll get called into action. Immediately, my body collides with a broad chest now covered with my vodka and Seven. “Fuck,” I say, eyes locked on the wet splotch spreading across his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not forgiven.”

  My head snaps up and I connect with the most sparkling pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s not exactly handsome, but there’s something friendly about his face.

  I pause, study the material of his shirt. Not quite a sweater, too thick to be a T-shirt. “Want me to pay for dry cleaning?”

  “How about a dance instead?” he says.

  I hesitate, glance around, and wonder about Henry, about what’s taking him so long, what he’ll think if he comes in and sees me dancing with this stranger. But the dance floor fills with couples and not only couples, girls with girls and boys randomly throwing their arms around. It’s just one dance.

  “Why not,” I say, and like magic, Liz is beside me again to remove the now empty glass from my hand.

  “Have fun,” she says, a slight slur in her voice.

  Tequila, I think. That stuff is bad-bad-bad.

  “Geoffrey,” the guy says as we ease onto the floor and bump elbows with thrashers. “I’m from across the bridge. Seattle.”

  My stomach knots into a big, roiling mass like a bucket of eels. Medina is secluded, tucked away from the bright lights and skyscrapers. A million miles from my past. I focus on dancing, on not making a fool of myself. My head feels a little spinny, but I’m sure it’s from the overpowering scent of cologne and perfume mingling and mixing, sending tingles to my temples, making me dizzy. “I’m Anne,” I say.

  “You’re beautiful,” he shouts.

  Warmth creeps up my neck.

  “And you’re cute when you blush,” he adds.

  As I tilt my head back to laugh, I catch Catherine’s silhouette in my periphery. She snaps another picture and gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Geoffrey, and run after her. As I catch up, she’s just finishing a text and a balloon of dread swells in my chest.

  “Did you send Henry that picture?” I say. The question snaps out and I try to grab it back, sound less defensive. We were just dancing, not even touching, I want to clarify, even though it sounds ridiculous.

  Catherine shows me her phone and I read the message: See, Anne is having fun. Told you we would all make an effort.

  I chew on my lower lip, hoping he’ll message back. “Is he coming?”

  Catherine grabs her phone. “Very soon,” she says, and glances down at my empty hand. “But you need more booze, hon.”

  “I’ll hold off for Henry.”

  “Nonsense,” she says. She tugs on my hand and drags me to the kitchen. “Look, I know we got off to a rough start. I’d like it if we could start fresh.”

  I’m not even sure what to say to that, so I let it go.

  Marie and Liz are doing tequila shots again, or maybe they never stopped. A half-empty bottle sits on the counter surrounded by a sea of squeezed lime wedges. When the girls see me, their eyes light up.

  “Anne! Do shots with us!”

  I shake my head no, but a drunken Liz grabs my wrist and slams it on the counter with enough force that I wince. She leans onto my arm, looks up at me, and giggles. Her curly hair fans out in front of her eyes. The scent of alcohol leaches from her skin. She’s so wasted I feel sorry for her. “Shit, did I hurt you?” she says, and gasps. “Wait! I can make it better.”

  She squeezes a wedge of lime and a seed shoots up and hits me in the face. I yank my arm away, a little pissed.

  “Here, let me help,” comes a deep voice from behind.

  My stomach drops to the ground and I want to walk away, to just leave, but Henry will be here soon, Catherine keeps saying, and no matter how big Liz’s house is, there’s no way to avoid John.

  He takes my wrist in his hand. I don’t pull away despite my better judgement. He squeezes some lime onto my skin, follows it up with salt. Our eyes meet when he hands me the shot glass and a dangerous spark zips along my spine. He’s daring me to drink. To keep up. To fit in.

  And even though I know better, know without question that this is a terrible horrible stupid mistake, I lick my wrist, down the shot, and slam the glass on the counter. A shudder makes my whole body tremble. It tastes horrible, burns my throat. And yet I say nothing when John pours another shot, and another.

  “That’s enough, John,” Catherine says, snatching the fourth, maybe fifth glass from my hand. I swirl my tongue across flesh that is red and raw. Camera flashes blink and click in my side vision and I sway a little. The room is fuzzy. My balance is off. I teeter and grip the countertop for support.

  “When is Henry coming?” I slur to anyone who will listen.

  “Soon,” Marie promises.

  “Any minute,” Catherine adds.

  The room spins. I want to sit, lie down, clear my head. But then the music kicks in, and before I can stop him, John drags me toward the dance floor. We’re spinning and laughing, and somehow I have a drink in my hand. I suck it back, start to sing. All around me, people are hooting and whistling.

  I’m having fun, so much fun that it’s okay I’m dancing with John, drinking with Catherine and her friends, because when Henry gets here, he’ll be proud that I’m part of the group now, that I’m working so hard to fit in. He doesn’t have to pick sides.

  I study John’s profile, the grin on his face.

  Could I have been wrong about him?

  To my left, Liz dances on a table as if she’s some kind of stripper. Her hands rub against her hips, slide up and down her sides. There’s a crowd of people watching, catcalling, hooting and hollering. I join in with a whistle.

  Now Catherine’s on the table. She reaches down and yanks Marie up, and all three are giggling and writhing against one another. They’re mesmerizing.

  The table is full, but I want up there too. I stagger forward and the girls help me, and now all four of us are dancing and giggling, showing off. John reaches up and presses another drink into my hand. Alcohol spills from the glass, drips onto the table, the floor, but no one notices, and I’m having such a good time I don’t even realize I’m suddenly dancing all alone.

  Surrounded by a circle of cheerleaders. They’re whistling, egging me on. My body weaves to the beat, my hips sway slow and seductive. And with every movement, the cheering grows louder. I get caught up in the music, really put on a show. One of my hands rubs my body, my hips, my stomach, my chest—while the other pours vodka into my mouth. I can’t even taste the Seven-Up anymore. Pure alcohol burns my throat. But it’s okay because they like me. I can sense it, their growing acceptance, and I wait for Henry to get here and see how I’m trying. How I really can fit in.

  I stumble, regain balance.

  Glance down at my adoring fans.

  Catherine and Liz sway together, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling at me from behind their phone cameras. The overhead lights blink, flash, pulse with color like a disco ball.

  I toss aside my now-empty glass and give my body a sexy little shake. Really swing my hips. The heel of my boot catches on the edge of the table. I lose my footing, stagger forward. My ankle twists and I begin to fall.

  The room spins in slow motion.

  I’m sure I’ll hit the ground, knock myself out cold, maybe shatter my whole skull, but then—

  Strong arms are wrapped around my waist, holding me upright and steady. I blink twice and open my eyes, stare into John’s face. One of his hands is on my ass, but I’m too drunk to push it away, too embarrassed to make a scene.

  “Thank you,” I say with a slur, and crash up against him.

  Our noses bump.

  Our eyes lock.

  John pr
esses his cool lips against mine. I open my mouth to protest. He takes it as permission, an invitation, and jams his tongue into my mouth, the taste of tequila too strong. I try to pull away but my legs are wobbly and his hand grabs tighter, holds me in place. A flash of light streaks my vision.

  I turn to witness Catherine’s knowing smirk and it all begins to make sense.

  Shit.

  Her laughter sounds wicked over the music pounding in my head.

  No. No. No. This is wrong.

  Henry.

  My world spins off kilter, lights blare behind my eyes. Bile rises, burning my throat, and I turn away just before my vomit splashes across the hardwood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Henry

  Mayor Stephen Mandell raises his glass, grins at me from behind the bubbling champagne. “To your future,” he says to me, and takes a sip.

  “To our future,” Susan Mandell says. “I have a feeling Henry is going to do great things for all of Washington when his career gets going.”

  Over the past couple of days, the Tudor mansion has undergone another transformation in anticipation of this dinner—a welcome distraction from the chaos in the rest of my life. Roses replace orchids on the long dining room table. Elegant, but not overbearing, a setting fit for the mayor and his wife. My mother is in prime form this evening. Focused, strategic.

  She reaches across the table and wraps her fingers around my wrist, giving the illusion of warmth. We’ve made amends, but it’s only a first step. She doesn’t know the real reason Anne hasn’t been around for the past few days—only thinks that she’s won.

  My mother beams. “The country,” she says. “Henry will do great things for this country. He is destined for the presidency.”

  I have a hard time not choking on my champagne.

  Mayor Mandell sets his glass on the table and picks up his knife and fork. Hovers his utensils over a plate full of prime rib, seared vegetables, and roasted potatoes. An intimate dinner to celebrate.

  Motivate.

  I’ve already messed up my chance at an internship with Catherine’s father. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s shut me out, but the rejection stings. Now that I’ve convinced my mother I’m back on track, she’ll strong-arm the mayor into finding me a position on his team.