Anne & Henry Page 18

  This dinner is also my mother’s way of keeping me from Anne.

  My stomach churns at the thought of her. I’ve studied the pictures from the party more than a hundred times, thumb poised over the delete button. Anne keeps texting and calling. I don’t even know what to say. The images confuse me, incriminate her, piss me the hell off.

  I steal a glance at my phone. Another text from John. He’s itching to show me the rest of the pictures from the party, the proof my friends have collected. No matter how much I want to avoid him—all of them—I promised to hear them out.

  Susan Mandell unfolds her napkin and sets it on her lap. “I understand there’s a new young lady in your life, Henry,” she says.

  Across the table, my mother’s face reddens and her eyes narrow to slits. While I’ve done what she’s asked, followed every damn rule, the subject of Anne is still off-limits in this house.

  “You know, I really liked Catherine,” the mayor says. He cuts his meat, inspects the color, and shoves it into his mouth. “You two were good together. What happened there?”

  I glance to my mother for help, for some indication of how she wants this conversation to go. Somehow, I doubt honesty is the best policy. I take a bite of potato to buy me some time, relieved when the mayor’s wife cuts in.

  “Oh, Stephen, don’t go badgering the boy. They’re just kids. I’m sure Henry had good reason for breaking things off.” She tilts her head a little and one of her diamond earrings sparkles under the overhead chandelier. “You’re dating the Boleyn girl, right?”

  I nod, still a little nervous. “Anne and I are seeing each other,” I finally say. The words catch in my throat. Such a simple explanation for something so . . . complex.

  “Her stepfather is quite the talent,” Stephen says, launching into a detailed description of the architectural projects on Thomas Harris’s work list. Beyond the theater, he’s in charge of redesigning half of downtown, including City Hall. “Our new council offices will overlook the lake.”

  “Won’t that be nice,” my mother says with forced enthusiasm. I recognize the gesture as a way to change the topic off Anne—and for once I’m not opposed. I’ve done everything I can not to think about Anne.

  But the Mandells aren’t picking up on the clues.

  “Dating the architect’s stepdaughter will certainly give you some clout,” the mayor says. “But an internship with Catherine’s father would have given your career the real boost. It’s a competitive world out there.”

  “With that in mind, what do you have planned for Henry?” my mother says, a skilled interception. “I’m positive you’ll find a position that fits.”

  The sing-song echo of the doorbell interrupts his response. I stand, but my mother motions for me to remain seated. “The butler will get it,” she says. “There’s no need to interrupt dinner.”

  The bell chimes again, and then immediately a third time, like whoever’s on the other side is desperate or frantic to get inside. I shift, once again trying to stand. My mother stops me with a pointed look and I settle into my chair. A wave of foreboding washes over me, and then—

  The foyer erupts with voices that rise with increasing intensity—one female, the other our butler. The air around us balloons with tension. But it’s impossible not to hear what’s going on.

  The female voice rises to a hysterical scream, bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the whole main floor.

  There’s a loud crash.

  A bellowed, “Stop. You cannot go in there!”

  And then, the distinct thump of heavy footsteps across the hardwood floor.

  I know it’s Anne before she even crosses the threshold of the dining area. Her nostrils flare. Wet streaks trail from her eyes to her chin. Her mascara is smeared, giving her giant raccoon eyes that seem more gothic than alluring. Matted chunks of hair stick to her forehead, the side of her face, along her neck.

  My stomach flips. She’s an emotional train wreck, but fuck she’s a beautiful disaster.

  “Henry, why haven’t you answered my texts?” she says, oblivious to the room, to the shock on my mother’s face. “I can explain. . . .”

  Pushing back my chair, I stand, open my mouth to say something—but no words come out. My whole body fills with humiliation. For me. For Anne. For all of this.

  The mayor’s wife covers her mouth. There’s barely a sound, like she’s gasping for breath, or hiccupping.

  “Anne,” I say, and almost trip over my chair in an effort to get to her, to escort her out before she makes things worse. “This isn’t the time.”

  Her wild eyes darken, turn almost matte. Anne backs away, holding her hands upright, like she’s fending off some beast. “Shit, fuck, shit. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. Bursts into tears. “I’ll leave,” she says, already starting for the door.

  She glances back at my mother, the mayor and his wife. Mrs. Mandell’s jaw is slack, her eyes wide and sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” Anne says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I chase after her, deflecting the low whispers at my back. My mother making excuses, Mrs. Mandell assuring her everything will be okay, the mayor tsking, questioning my decisions, my choices. When I catch up to Anne, she stands at the open door looking helpless and lost.

  Her motorcycle lies on my front lawn, her helmet on the sidewalk, leather coat strewn across the front step. It’s like she half-stripped when she got to the house.

  “We can’t do this now,” I say, wincing as her face falls with understanding. “This dinner is important.”

  Her voice is barely a whisper. “Aren’t we . . . important?”

  Pain wraps around my heart, squeezes so hard I gasp. I don’t have the words to make this okay. The more entrenched I become in the life that is expected of me, the more I wonder if my friends and family aren’t right—maybe Anne really doesn’t belong.

  “Look, I know those pictures look bad,” she says. “It’s not what you think.” She takes a step toward me, but I back away. “I was drinking. They forced . . .”

  “Go home, Anne,” I say. My voice is so soft I barely recognize myself. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She nods, begins to leave. But at the base of the steps, she turns back, her bottom lip trembling, eyes welling with tears. “I love you, Henry.”

  “I know,” I say—holding back the rest. I love her too. But as I close the massive door on her retreating form, I realize that I want—need—more.

  I pause at the dining room, take a second to gather my thoughts, and walk with my head high, shoulders straight, trying my best minimize the impact of what’s happened. I prepare for the questions and accusations, my mother’s wrath. But if I’m to have a career in politics, I’ll have to get used to scandal.

  “Is everything all right?” Mrs. Mandell says.

  My voice cracks a little. “It will be.”

  “So . . . the Boleyn girl,” the mayor says, stuffing another forkful of prime rib into his mouth. The room falls silent as he chews, swallows, washes it down with another swig of champagne. “You know, I really liked Catherine,” he says, thoughtful, with almost eerie nonchalance. “Now there’s a girl destined for greatness. The kind of woman you want on your arm as your First Lady.”

  He doesn’t need to finish the thought for me to know what he thinks of Anne.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Anne

  Henry’s words whisper in the wind: Go home, Anne.

  Through blinding tears I search for it. Not my stepfather’s mansion on the lake, not the wretched trailer park of my past, but a place I feel welcome. Safe.

  All I feel now is the hollow ache of loss.

  A blur of trees bleeds into a long stretch of ivory sand and ebony water, shit I’ve taken for granted, haven’t begun to enjoy. The moon makes the water shimmer, and the beach looks smooth and untouched. Like polished glass.

  I’m drawn back to the memory of my introduction to Medina, tucked safely into Henry’s Audi, experiencing school, life—love�
�for the first time.

  I’m kidnapping you, he’d said, and I’d smiled. Taking you to my serial killer cabin in the woods.

  I steer Clarice toward Medina Academy, hit the straightaway and twist the throttle. Cold air whips across my forehead, stings my eyes, slaps my cheeks. I can’t handle the suffocating claustrophobia of my helmet, the constraints of my leather jacket.

  Trapped by the insurmountable sense of dread, about me and Henry, about . . . us.

  There is no more us.

  By morning, Henry’s mother will have told everyone about how I showed up at her home, intrusive and feral. Desperate. How I’ve proven yet again that I don’t fit in here.

  As I close in on Medina Academy, more memories rush through my mind like a montage of the good, the bad, and the best. My sister’s ex-boyfriend, ex-landlord, ex-life transforming me into some kind of disillusioned princess waiting for a dragon slayer to save me, to set me free.

  I almost had it. That fairy tale ending. My own Prince Charming.

  Henry.

  Now, no one is coming to rescue me. Even Sam is ignoring my phone calls and texts—I’ve lost my two best friends.

  I hit the gas and speed into the parking lot.

  The empty spaces give me room to weave between the concrete curbs, leaning my body as far as it will go, right, then left, taunting, teasing. I navigate the makeshift obstacle course with precision, speeding up on the curve, braking before I fall, memorizing every nuance of the road until I could drive it with my eyes shut.

  Clarice’s engine sputters, threatening to cut out. I’ve pieced her back together as best I can, but she’s not whole. Parts of her are missing, lost in the accident, or maybe before—

  My chest numbs, as though my heart has swollen and enlarged, pushing against the nerves, trying to snuff out my stubborn, stupid, hopeless feelings. I know it doesn’t work like that, but it hurts, hurts so bad I’m blinded by the pain.

  Get it together.

  I pull up to the curb and cut the engine. Lean my bike up against the cobbled sidewalk leading to the ominous front doors. I was scared of them once—now I’d give anything to walk through them, to be united with Henry.

  Go home, Anne.

  I stare up at the giant fortress of stone walls, the jagged edges of the brick twin towers, and imagine scaling them to the other side. If only I could curl up on one of the long benches in the courtyard, draw comfort from the fountain or the scent of autumn flowers. Take a walk down memory lane, holding hands with Henry, pausing before class for stolen kisses and—

  Empty promises.

  And now, I have no choice but to go—

  Home.

  I climb back on Clarice, hesitate before turning over the engine. My trembling fingers grip the handlebars, twist the bike so it faces the front door. Adrenaline pulses through my veins. I hesitate—and then turn the key. Clarice roars to life. The engine sputters and coughs on idle. I need to punch the gas or she’ll die.

  The bike lunges forward and I brake hard.

  The rear wheel lifts off the ground and bounces back onto the sidewalk. My whole body reverberates from the shock. And my nose is practically pressed up against the front door of the school. So close I could touch it.

  I turn Clarice, my back, my heart away from Medina Academy. Rev the engine so hard, the rumble is a deafening roar. I twist the handlebar and step on the gas. Loose gravel sprays up from my back tire. I hit a rock, almost skidding out. Desperate to get away.

  Tears blur my vision. I gun it out of the parking lot, my headlights carving a path to the exit.

  Silhouetted in the distance, Seattle’s floating bridge beckons, a lighthouse drawing me away from the school, from Medina, from Henry.

  Go home, Anne.

  A merciless chuckle escapes my lips.

  With Henry, I thought I was home. Suddenly, I have no fucking clue where that is.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Henry

  I yank my coat up around my neck to fend off the cold, half-run from my car to the sidewalk, and duck under the café’s green and white awning.

  Through the rain-streaked window, I spot round wooden tables, surrounded by oversize leather chairs set on a brown and beige checkerboard floor. At the storefront window, half a dozen recycled glassless window frames dangle from the ceiling, creating some kind of weird mobile. About as abstract as Pollock.

  The spicy scent of chai hits me before I even open the door and step inside. Dim lighting and a quietly burning fireplace in the corner give the place a homey feel, warmth, on an otherwise shitty day.

  I scan the clusters of customers, look for familiar faces, for Rick and John. No shock I’m the first to arrive. I flop into an empty seat facing the counter and pull out my physics book. Flip to chapter fourteen. I’ve read it a dozen times, but nothing sticks. The words blur into a faded string of indecipherable characters, jumble around in my head.

  “Coffee?”

  Her sweet voice pulls my attention, forms a picture of its owner in my mind before I even lift my gaze.

  Small round eyes peer through a pair of copper-rimmed glasses. Her light brown hair is swept back into a ponytail, though a few wayward strands fall loose and stick to the side of her pale face. Her skin is so white she’s almost a ghost. She holds up a half-full coffeepot and an empty mug, smiles through thin, compressed lips. “Looks like that textbook is getting the best of you. Caffeine works for me.”

  Weary, I motion for her to pour. “I’m willing to try anything at this point.”

  Her long, slender fingers tremble as she fills the ceramic mug and then as she reaches into her green apron to pull out a couple of creamers and a packet of sugar.

  “I usually like a little coffee with my sugar,” I say.

  She drops another packet on the table and blushes, says nothing, just waits as I rip them open and pour them into the cup, add two creams, and take a slow sip.

  “Not bad,” I say with an appraising nod. “Bold, but not overbearing.”

  “A coffee connoisseur?” she says, and scoops up the garbage. She’s average height and build, but there’s something that pulls me, keeps me watching, like I can’t look away. Maybe it’s how different she seems from—

  “I’ve had a lot of expensive brews in my life,” I say, prepared to launch into a conversation about exotic imported beans and the best espresso I ever tasted while on my European adventure two summers back. She doesn’t take the bait. “I’m Henry.” I extend my hand. “Henry Tudor.”

  She holds up the coffeepot and a fistful of scrap paper as though indicating why she can’t shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Henry Tudor,” she says, and—

  Leaves.

  My jaw goes slack. There’s an uncomfortable itch in my throat. I resist the urge to call after her, when the door opens and a chill breeze blows through the café, bringing John and Rick in from the cold. John spots me, waves, and the two wind their way around the tables. Pull out a couple of wooden chairs.

  John throws a stack of pictures face down on the table.

  My chest tightens.

  I stare down at them, hands at my sides, afraid to flip them over, convinced that if I ignore them, they’ll simply cease to exist.

  Across from me, John waits for my reaction, hands jammed in his pockets, hoodie pulled tight up over his ears, to keep warm or hide, whatever works. “I know it’s hard, bro,” he says.

  At the sound of his voice, I lift my head and our gazes meet. Shadows outline his eyes, dark against the pale sheen of his complexion. Black stubble covers his chin and upper lip. He looks a little less arrogant than usual—though maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

  “You don’t have a fucking clue,” I say. My voice trembles a little, betraying false bravado.

  Even without looking, I know this is the end of Anne and me.

  Of Anne.

  I’ve probably studied all of the pictures Catherine sent a dozen or more times, making up excuses, debating camera angles, ra
tionalizing every single flirtatious action. But I know those images don’t tell the whole story. There are giant gaping holes. And like a jigsaw puzzle, the missing pieces are on the table in front of me.

  I flip over the top photograph.

  Anne’s mocking smile stares back.

  “That was the start of it all,” Rick says, like his voice-over narration will somehow soften the blow.

  The picture is date-stamped, and I recognize Liz’s kitchen in the background. Most of the details are blurry, intentionally out of focus, putting Anne at the center of attention.

  Maybe I stare at the picture too long, but a part of me realizes this is the last time I’ll see her this way—the sexy, wild, brazen girl I fell for. I haven’t even set the photograph aside, moved on to the next, and the pinprick hole in my chest has begun filling with venom. It’s been like that for days as I filter through the events of the past few weeks.

  I look up, but say nothing. Catherine warned me some of the pictures might implicate John. I shouldn’t blame him, though, that it isn’t his fault. Maybe that’s why I’m stalling, scared to see the betrayal I somehow know is there.

  “You should leave,” I say, my voice cold and hard.

  Rick shakes his head. “He stays. We’re not letting you do this alone.”

  I slide the top image onto the table, flip through the next few. A series of photographs show Anne smiling and mingling with my friends. In one picture, she stands close to John, too close for someone she hates. In another, she is licking her wrist, shot glasses all around. Her eyes are turned downward, lashes almost closed. It’s like she’s looking right at the camera, staring at—

  Me.

  Desire sweeps across my skin. No matter how angry, how disgusted and embarrassed, I still want her. Those mesmerizing eyes are tattooed onto my soul. I’ve lost friends for her, lied for her, disappointed my mother for her—all to believe she looks at me, only me, the way she is in this picture.