Anne & Henry Page 9

  “If only I’d known it would be that easy.”

  “Come on then, chicken shit, let’s do this,” I say, and tug on his sleeve.

  The downpour hammers us as we race through the cemetery, dodging tombstones, struggling for balance on the slippery, muddy slopes. Tall, wet grass wraps around my ankles and just as I’m about to fall, Henry catches me. We face each other in the smoky darkness. He studies me like I’m a science experiment, some form of rare species, and it turns my saliva to paste.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes, savor the deep, pulsing ache in the middle of my chest. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt—

  anything

  like this.

  I lift my head and our gazes connect. A magnetic current sizzles between us, drawing us together, pulling us close. My eyes flit to his lips, the soft curve of his mouth as it moves toward mine. Oh God, he’s going to kiss me and I want it so bad, so much I can already taste the raindrops.

  Lightning crackles overhead and Catherine’s face flashes in my consciousness. I pull back. Clear my throat. “We should—”

  “Get to the theater,” Henry says, his low voice stuffed with emotion, confusion.

  The rain has turned to sleet, and thin slivers of ice stab at my nose, forehead, the back of my neck. The rocks shimmer under my feet, and I focus on not slipping, on not leaning on Henry for support.

  “There,” he says, points to a clearing of trees. “Just ahead.”

  A tattered fence lines the horizon, peppered with an array of signs that read KEEP OUT. Beyond the obstruction is an old building—two, maybe three stories of brick trimmed with rusty wrought iron that bleeds onto windows boarded up with distressed wood.

  “Around back,” Henry says. “There’s a window I can break into the easiest.”

  I shake off unease and nod, follow him around the building. A flash of lightning spotlights crude graffiti, chipped brickwork, and a low window crisscrossed with cut pieces of two-by-four. Henry bends and grips the wood, gives it a yank.

  The first slat pops off the window. Henry struggles with the second, and then snorts with pride when it comes loose. He uses the end to smash through the glass and break away any straggling pieces.

  “This would be backstage,” Henry says. “The electricity was cut a year ago, but there’s some candles and stuff in the storage closet.” At my questioning stare, he shrugs. “We used to party here. I’ll go in first, see if I can find them.”

  The thought of hanging around outside alone raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Screw that. I’m coming with you.”

  Henry chuckles. “Who’s the chicken shit now?”

  He slides through the window backward. It’s a bit of a drop, but nothing that will break my bones. I turn around and stick my legs through the opening, call down for him to get out of the way.

  Henry’s hands wrap around my upper thighs and I freeze. “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Helping,” he says. His hands shift and rest right below my ass. My forehead breaks out in a sweat. I want to tell him to let go, that his touch is unnerving, distracting.

  Delicious.

  Instead, I ease down from the window and into his arms. I’m pressed up against him, his chest on my back, body heat melting through our cool, wet clothes. His mouth nuzzles up against my ear. “Stay close. I don’t want you to hurt yourself on anything while we look for a light.”

  Stay close.

  We stumble through the maze of abandoned props, furniture, the leftover remnants of someone’s creativity.

  A door creaks.

  Henry shuffles around.

  “Got it,” he says, and a switch clicks. “I’m shocked the battery still works on this flashlight.”

  The room lights up.

  It’s a wonder we’ve made it this far without breaking a leg on a chair, or tripping over boxes and trunks. On the back wall, a line of mannequins pose in various stages of undress, their translucent, expressionless faces glowing under the bright light.

  I turn away. “What are the chances we’ll come across fresh clothes?”

  Henry shoves aside a couple of boxes and drags an old trunk toward us. The brass lock is rusted, but open. He lifts the lid. “I’d say pretty good.”

  The chest is a treasure trove of costume pieces. Flared pants, intricate corsets and blouses, feathery boas, cowboy hats, gloves, boots. I pull out a top hat, and a long pearl necklace slithers onto the floor.

  “How do I look?” I say, setting the hat on my wet, stringy hair.

  Henry lifts the corset out of the trunk. “Smoking in this, I’d wager.”

  My throat burns as I think back to the murder mystery party and another image of Catherine flashes through my mind. I try to push back thoughts of her, but she won’t disappear.

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” I say.

  “Anne, there’s something—”

  I don’t want to hear it. I can’t stomach the thought of another reminder about Catherine, how they’re destined to be together, how we can only be friends. He’s not my type—too perfect, too rich, too popular. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Because despite my better judgement, I’m falling for Henry, and that’s a really bad idea. I dig out a pair of pants and thrust them at him. “You should get out of those wet jeans.”

  He hesitates, clearly unsure whether to push it. Resignation settles over his face and I wait for him to snap out of it, to get back to having fun and being carefree. He unbuttons his pants and I gasp.

  Much as I want to see, I turn around and face the other direction.

  “Suit yourself,” he says.

  I will myself not to look back and instead root through the trunk to find something I can change into, savoring each warm, dry item with the kind of reverence reserved for hot chocolate on a snowy day. I pull out a long, flowing dress. It’s not my style, not anything I’d ever wear, but my options are limited.

  With my back to Henry, I shimmy out of my shirt. My skin itches as though he’s searing through it with his stare. “I can feel you watching me,” I say, and slip the dress over my head.

  His response is a strangled moan.

  I shrug out of my damp jeans and kick them aside. As I spin around, I freeze. He’s naked to his waist. A series of abdominal muscles form a path toward the sharp V where black pants hang low on Henry’s hips.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I say, and then blink as fresh heat rushes to my cheeks, my neck. Holy shit, I’m dumb. I want to tell him that he’s sexy and amazing, and that even though I know it’s complicated—not logical at all—we should be together. I want to say it doesn’t matter about Catherine, or his parents, or anyone right now. That it’s just us—and that’s okay. Better than okay.

  Perfect.

  But the words don’t come out.

  Henry’s face grows serious. He steps forward and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. Bends his face toward mine. I open my mouth to object, but my vocal cords betray me and we both go quiet.

  I rise onto my tiptoes and curl my fingers into the hair at the nape of Henry’s neck. I pull his head down until his mouth almost touches mine. I don’t think, don’t breathe, but I can feel the deep rise and fall of his chest.

  “Anne,” he says, and his whisper tickles the edge of my mouth.

  I clench my eyes shut and Catherine’s face floods my vision.

  Henry’s tongue teases my lips apart.

  Something inside me snaps. I can’t help myself.

  I burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Henry

  A bucket of ice over my head couldn’t have cooled me down faster.

  “What the hell,” I growl as Anne rips herself out of my embrace.

  She pretends like nothing happened, tosses me a shirt, and starts rummaging through the trunk of clothes. She gathers items into her arms, focused on her mission, on not looking at me, even though I damn well know she wants to. Her mouth is pressed into a thin lin
e. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . nothing. Let’s drop it?”

  Is she fucking serious?

  I blink and she’s gone, her silhouette disappearing through the door that leads into the main auditorium. What the hell just happened? There’s no way I misread the signs, the tremble of her lips.

  She totally wanted me to kiss her.

  Frustrated, I slip the shirt over my head and tug on the sleeves, pull them over my wrists and try to shake loose the image of Anne’s face so close to mine, our bodies pressed tight. It’s enough to send me out into the cold rain.

  Anne’s voice echoes back at me. “Hurry, Henry. It’s dark.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek to stop from blurting out what I want to say. That it’s her fault. That maybe she shouldn’t have left me confused, embarrassed, and yeah, hot and bothered.

  Screw it. I decide to have a little fun at her expense.

  “Watch out for the rats,” I call, weaving my way through the discarded props. My hip sweeps the edge of a table and a mannequin arm swings down in front of me. Shit. My heart beats like a loose shutter in a windstorm. “And the spiders,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer, which makes me nervous. Like maybe she’s fallen and hit her head.

  Or worse.

  I scoff, amused by my vivid imagination. My friends and I have been coming here for years to party, hang out, cop a feel. Still, I quicken my pace and round the corner. Freeze. An enormous shadow fills the doorframe, too large to be human. My throat constricts. “Anne?” Everything moves in slow motion. Blurry at first.

  Unidentified limbs grow large and more menacing, hovering, threatening.

  “Boo!”

  My curse echoes through the theater like a damn lighthouse foghorn, and it’s a full second as I gather my wits and realize it’s Anne, not some ominous theater spirit rising from the empty auditorium. “Jesus Christ.”

  She punches my arm. “I couldn’t resist.”

  The light makes her eyes go all shimmery and wet. Obviously I forgive her, suddenly lost, sucked in by an intensity that seems to live and breathe deep inside of me. “Anne, I need to tell—”

  She’s off and running. “Keep up!”

  I’m wound up tighter than a mummy, itching to peel off a layer of guilt. It’s like I can’t fully let loose until I come clean about Catherine, my feelings.

  I grunt and take chase. My head brushes against a fake hanging plant and dust spirals all around me. I sidestep boxes and mannequins and chairs, push aside the old creepy dollhouse used in one of the theater’s last productions. Why does she have to make this so hard? I catch up just as Anne hits the stage and gasps.

  “Oh my God. It’s stunning,” she says.

  I’m trapped by the awe in her voice, understanding the sentiment. Even in its current state, there’s a magic to this place.

  The old curtain still hangs in huge velvet swags, the manual pulley system rusted but functional. I tug on the rope and the material parts to reveal two black plaster columns, chipped and faded with neglect. Anne’s gaze follows the length of the pillars up to the ceiling where the gargoyles carved into the crown molding sneer back at us, their faces twisted into various expressions of warning.

  “Interesting decor,” Anne says.

  I shrug. “The artistic director had a flare for the horrific.”

  Anne grabs the light from me and shines it on the graffiti-covered walls. “You performed here?”

  I cringe when she hovers over a heart, Arthur’s and Catherine’s names spray-painted through the center in purple. The faint lines of a black X are scratched over my brother’s name, still visible no matter how many times I’ve rubbed at it, tried to scrape it clean. I pause, waiting for Anne to ask about it, afraid I’ll have to admit it was me.

  “Once or twice.”

  Which isn’t the whole story. Before my mother put the brakes on anything in my life that didn’t serve her greater purpose, I spent hours on this stage. I’ve memorized every inch, the number of steps from front to back, side to side. The blistering lights, late nights, hours, days, weeks spent on props, costumes, and memorizing lines. The scent of dry ice and perfume, body sweat and adrenaline.

  Now the place just smells like moldy wood and stale beer, and my entire life has become one continuous bullshit fairy tale.

  Anne’s eyes twinkle with familiar mischief. “I bet you played Romeo.” She throws her head back, flattens her hand against her forehead and sighs. “Oh, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?”

  She bites her lip and her eyes go cloudy. “Murder, tragedy? Star-crossed . . . lovers?” The last word trails out on an extended breath. “Romeo and Juliet isn’t your typical romance, Henry.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Everyone dies.”

  She’s right, but I’m rendered speechless under her electrifying stare. A soft smile lifts one side of her mouth.

  I pull my gaze away and position the lamp so it lights up the whole stage. Plastic trees with black limbs extend and curl, casting eerie shadows on the floor and the walls, and point to the rusted metallic horse in the far corner.

  “Sleepy Hollow,” I offer in explanation.

  Anne grins. “A forest, a horse. All that’s missing is Ichabod Crane.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless that was . . . you?”

  I shake my head and scoff. “I was never much of a leading man.”

  “That’s shocking,” she says, and begins to twirl across the stage. Her movements are jerky, like an uncoordinated ballerina, and I want to laugh, but with each spin, her dress curls up and around her thighs, exposing more skin. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  Anne spins toward me now, dizzy from the rapid movement, and we crash into each other. She pushes back, her palms splayed against my chest.

  And then she twirls away like we’re dancing. I reach for her hand before she can go too far, pull her back in and wrap one arm tight around her waist, silently begging her to stay still. With my free hand I touch her hair. It’s softer than it looks, even matted and frizzy from the wind and rain. I smooth her bangs away from her forehead and she closes her eyes.

  My thumb brushes against her lower lip. “You’re beautiful.”

  She rests her head against my chest, and for this brief moment, it’s all I’ve ever wanted in life.

  “I like you, Anne” I say, my voice foreign and hoarse. “A lot.”

  Her face softens. “Don’t say that, Henry.”

  I tilt her chin so our eyes meet, so there’s no question, no denying the words. “I like you.”

  “But—”

  I pull her tight against me, understanding the root of her hesitation. “I broke up with Catherine. I can’t keep pretending to love her, when I know I have feelings for . . . you.”

  Her face pales to an almost stark white and her lips part to form a soft O. Disappointment winds its way into my chest. I expect her to smile, to laugh, to give me some sign she’s happy.

  Instead, she pulls away, her expression unreadable.

  I reach for her again but she spins out of reach. “Look, Henry, there’re more costumes here,” she says, and her voice is light, forced with nonchalance, maybe struggling for composure.

  An awful tension squeezes tight in my chest. I hate that I can’t read her, can’t decipher her thoughts, her feelings about me.

  She pulls an item of clothing out of a rusted costume trunk. “Oh, this is perfect.”

  “Anne?”

  She looks up. Her eyes are manic, wide and dark, her pupils dilated into twin black pools. “I like you too, Henry. A lot. I just need a few seconds to . . . think.”

  Helpless, I nod.

  “Go, sit,” she says, pointing a finger toward the empty auditorium. Beer stains and stale popcorn kernels spot broken red-velvet seats. Armrests busted loose, seat backings ripped and torn—most of them barely chairs at all.

  Anne ducks behind one of the pillars and peers around the corner, her face flushed. “It’s my turn to perform on this stage.” />
  I’m relieved at the return of her carefree self. “There’s no music, no—”

  The protest dies on my lips as Anne emerges wearing a sheer black skirt, the material so thin I can see the outline of her dark panties, the pink tinge of her bare thighs. A tight shirt stretches across her chest, stops midstomach to reveal a wide band of skin. A silver cross dangles from her belly button.

  “Aren’t you going to sit?” Anne says.

  My mouth is bone dry. “I’d rather stare.”

  Still, I choose one of the side seats in the front row and settle in, rest my palms on my thighs. Bounce my knees. Holy shit, I can’t sit still. I consider moving to a more comfortable chair but Anne glides to center stage, starts moving her hips.

  She sways in slow motion, chewing on her fingernails like she’s unsure. A little scared. It’s such a stark contrast to her normal confidence, I don’t recognize my cue. “Play something,” she says, nervous and shy.

  I fumble for my phone, flip to my playlist, pick the first song. It’s loud and obnoxious and blasts into the theater with the force of a heavy metal band. Shit. I hit stop, scramble for something else, something smoother, slower, sexier, terrified she’ll change her mind if I hesitate.

  I hit play.

  Anne begins to dance, hesitant at first, the steps awkward and cute. And then, it’s as if she’s swept up in the moment and the music, under some kind of spell. She closes her eyes and bends at the knees, slithers up to standing position. Dances forward and back, close and then far away.

  A shudder vibrates up my spine, and along with the excitement comes the reckless thrill of adrenaline.

  Raindrops smear the upper theater windows, grounding me in this moment, this fantasy. And as I watch, the swollen tightness in my chest begins to unravel, unwinding the fragile knot around my heart.

  Anne descends the stairs, inching toward me until she stands at my feet, our knees touching. The theater shrinks, closes in around us. She bends toward me and I pull her so close that our foreheads touch. Terrified she’ll run again, I barely breathe.

  “You’re sure?” she says, her voice catching a little.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I say, and it’s true. Logic tells me to wait, give Catherine, our friends, my mother, time to adjust. But how do you slow down the inevitable?