Anne & Henry (11 page)

Instead, I quietly follow Henry and Catherine to the bedroom at the end of the hall and pause outside the door.

They begin to talk over each other, their combined raised tones causing my head to throb. I should turn around and walk away, give them privacy, space to fight—

To make up.

“Why are you always defending her?”

Henry's voice raises an octave. “Why can't you just leave her alone?”

Catherine scoffs. “Why can't
you
?”

Henry releases a strangled cry. Something slams against the wall—a fist?—and I jump. I chew on my fingernail, debating, weighing the pros and cons of going in, staying out, walking away from the party, from all of this—

From Henry.

I step closer to the door.

“We can't go on like this, Catherine. Maybe it's time we accept what
this
really is.”

Henry's gruff voice is muffled. I close my eyes and picture his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, the corners of his mouth tugged into a deep frown.

“Is it really so much to ask you to stay away from her? You're embarrassing our friends, and me.” Catherine sighs. “You're embarrassing yourself, Henry. You don't honestly think she fits in, do you?”

I strain to hear Henry's reply. Wait for his white knight armor to clank back into place, for him to defend me, come after me, beg me to stay—

But their voices are now whispers, and the only response I hear is the
thump, thump
pounding of my heart.

A
cross the lake, the sun crests the mountain, reflecting yellow-gold stripes onto the rippling water. Medina boasts some of the most impressive sunrises in the state, but it's tough to enjoy the view this morning. While Catherine was passed out under the roulette table, I spent those hours lying awake contemplating and debating, digging for answers.

Catherine and I don't have fights, at least not the knockdown, drag-out screaming matches that land couples on reality shows. They just peter out. Like our argument about Anne at the party, which ended in quiet denial. . . .

Round two isn't going as well.

I kick at a rock wedged in the sand, waiting for Catherine's response. The color has drained from her face. She's like a teenage ghost—haunting and pissed. “I'm not sure I understand,” she says, her tone clipped and controlled despite the
visible tremble of her lower lip. “You're . . .” She pauses as though trying to comprehend. “You're actually breaking up with me? I can't even . . .”

“This is for the best,” I say, casting her a sideways glance.

Doubt bubbles up like acid reflux. I intended to help clean the cabin and drive Catherine home, get some shut-eye before the Senator's gala I'm supposed to attend tonight—but I've made a necessary detour. One I can't put off any longer.

Sand squishes between my toes. Water splashes up and over my feet, all the way to where my dress pants are rolled at the ankles.

I stare at the waves. Maybe it was a mistake to stop here, the place Catherine and I shared our first awkward kiss. The memories rush back—her windblown hair coiling around her face, eyes bright with anticipation and remorse, the straight-up bizarre sensation of kissing my dead brother's girlfriend. Pushed together not even two months after Arthur died.

Something's always been missing between us. An intensity, maybe.

Catherine angles her body away, but not before I glimpse the wet streaks trailing her cheeks. I've seen her cry before. This is different, though—not manipulative and self-serving. It's frightened and desperate, like she knows this time her tears won't help, won't give her what she needs, won't give her . . . me.

I'm not Arthur; a shabby second at best. But I understand
the importance of reputation, the pressure of not being bad or failing our parents. It's one of the few things Catherine and I have in common.

“It's not you, it's—” I begin, and then stop. Because it kind of
is
her. She can't help who she is—who she isn't. I blink away the image of Anne in that corset, try to calm the unfamiliar flutter in my gut. I keep telling myself this isn't about her, that my growing attraction isn't clouding my perspective, but the lie doesn't sit right with me, as though pretending is somehow betraying Anne, betraying myself.

And I owe Catherine so much more.

I fumble for words, lean on clichés.
This is for the best. You'll be okay. This too will pass.

Catherine inhales. “You're making a mistake,” she says and reaches for my hand. I draw back before we can touch, before her familiar warmth changes my mind. But passion was never our thing. Shouldn't it be? I mean, isn't first love supposed to be more . . . I don't know, frantic? I think about what it might be like to kiss Anne, and a surge of electricity bolts straight up my back.

Catherine stares, her eyes bleak, and I brace for the inevitable. Confusion, disgust, and disbelief transform her skin into an emotional palette, a neon sign expressing just how deep these cuts go. No one is getting out of this unscathed.

“Henry.”

She reaches for me again. I jam my hands in my pockets.
This stupid costume is chafing my skin, making me itch. All I want is to get out of this tux, but the look on Catherine's face tells me we're far from done here.

Another wave curls along the shoreline and splashes against the jagged rock bank to our left.

Catherine shoves her hands into the pockets of the gray hoodie she's wrapped around her dress. “I love you.”

Maybe I'm a coward, but I can't bring myself to say it back, not in the way she needs.

Emotion gathers in the corners of her eyes. “We're good together. Can't you see that?”

My throat swells and I choke out denial. “No, you were meant to be with—”

She sears me with a warning look. My brother's name hangs on the tip of my tongue and leaves a funny taste on the roof of my mouth. She's wrong. We're not good together. We weren't even supposed to be together—that's the whole point. We were brought together in grief, an impossible, unsustainable connection, fused by an ancient, idiotic promise between our families.

We both know I can't be who she wants—needs—me to be now. I can't be Arthur.

“I was there for you,” she says.

There's no denying it. Arthur's death blew a gaping hole in my chest, a giant cavern of loneliness Catherine struggled to fill for the past six months.

“We were there for each other,” I say, gathering my wits. “It's what we both needed . . . then. But time marches on, Cath.
We
move on.” Jesus. I never anticipated this being so damn hard. “What we have isn't love, not the forever kind. Don't you want to find that? Find someone who—”

Twists your insides into knots? Rocks your body with desire? Leaves you restless and hungry and desperate? I don't say the words, but it's too late. I've already tipped my hand.

“Oh. I see.” Catherine snarls. “Your mother will never accept her.” She twirls her hair around her finger to reveal the soft flesh of her neck.

Another day, another time, the distraction might have worked, might have lured me back into my comfort zone. But today, my resolve is stronger than Catherine. I have to do this.

“Anne is—”

I fill in the blanks, my temperature ratcheting up. Beneath me? Unworthy? No, Anne is none of those things.

“Manipulative,” Catherine says, her eyes wide. “God, Henry, can't you see it? She's only after your money. You're a fool to think otherwise.”

I remember Anne standing under the ballroom chandelier, surrounded by strangers, holding in her disgust and discomfort at having to put on a show, pretending to be enamored by insurmountable prestige and wealth.

No, Anne is definitely not interested in my family's
money. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm drawn to her, knowing that she doesn't give two shits about my last name.

“She drives a motorcycle,” Catherine says, as though this fact alone isn't fearless and sexy, but further reason to send her out with the trash.

Vulnerability oozes from Catherine's skin, tainting the air with bitter jealousy. I've seen this from her before, the kind of grief that transforms disbelief into remorse, anger into desperation, acceptance into revenge. She's a good person—she just isn't good for me.

A storm brews in the distance, a warning of what's to come. “I'm sorry,” I say.

Catherine straightens her back, holds her neck high. “I thought you were better than this.” She shakes her head and turns toward me with pleading eyes, one final act of desperation. “What happens when you get her? You don't want to do this, Henry. She will ruin you.”

My jaw twitches. “You think I'm that weak?”

“Please.” Catherine looks away. “Don't. Just give this a chance.” Her small voice trembles, betraying her fear. A spasm rips through my chest. “Can't you see what you'll lose?
Everything
,” Catherine says. “And for what? A fling?”

I know enough not to feed the fire. A cool breeze blows off the lake and ripples over my skin.

“It's cold,” I say, and hold out my hand, hoping for her friendship at least. One last chance to end this without a
war. “Let me take you home. You'll feel better after you rest.”

Catherine breathes out a tired sigh. Her fingers intertwine with mine as we walk across the sand and get into my car. I can't shake the unease burrowing in my chest, the ominous feeling of emptiness that often comes with change. Being with Catherine is
expected.
What if she's right? What if I can't do this—can't be who my family wants—without her?

Catherine sits rigid against the car seat, her pale face clear of tears, wiped of all emotion. She leans her head against the cushioned headrest and stares vacantly out at the shifting landscape. I don't bother filling the awkward silence with assurances and promises. I can't take back the words, can't go back to a time before our first date, before Arthur died.

Before Anne.

As I pull up to Catherine's real house, she pushes open the passenger door and pauses. A long beat of emptiness hovers between us. She turns and rests her cool hand on my wrist. I grip the gearshift, trying not to flinch. She deserves the last word, even if I know it will be tainted with the raw pain of rejection.

“I'm not going to tell my parents yet.” Determination flickers across her eyes. “In case you change your mind.”

I open my mouth to tell her I won't, that it's really over. But she silences me with a hand to my cheek.

“You'll want to think really hard about that, Henry.” She pauses, and I realize she's digging deep. “Because I know how
much my father's internship means to you and your mother.”

Catherine leaves without a backward glance. And only after I make sure she gets into the house safely do I jam the Audi into first gear. As I careen around the first corner, I shift again, increase my speed. The road blurs, merges into the landscape, and I want to scream. I step on the gas and hit third, letting go of the anger and the doubt. Slam it into fourth.

A wide grin creeps across my face.

I'm free.

And despite Catherine's parting warning, I am, in this moment, invincible.

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. I glance at the screen, prepared for the flood of questions and accusations, for one last desperate plea. There's no way Catherine will keep this to herself—even this early in the morning. But my pulse skips when I see Anne's name appear on my dash. A robotic voice reads aloud a text through my Bluetooth.

Hey. You ok?

A lengthy pause and the voice continues:
I feel like a jerk. It's my fault Catherine's mad at you.

My heart hiccups. I resist the impulse to correct her, tell her this isn't her fault, that she isn't to blame. But we both know she kind of is.

Another beat of silence and then:
Anyway. If you need to talk later . . .

I think of my mother, of football practice, of the Senator's gala I'm supposed to attend. I consider Catherine's threat and the lies she'll soon spread. I think about the responsibility that has been drilled into my mind, my whole being since my brother's death. . . .

And then, I stop thinking at all.

I pull over and text:
There's supposed to be a full moon tonight. Up for an adventure?