Anne & Henry (12 page)

M
y pulse hammers over Clarice's throaty rumble.

Henry's arms wrap tight around my waist, hanging on like I'm his last hope, his only chance for survival. He's half laughing, half screaming as we hit the straightaway and I gun the bike. A little reckless in the dark, but it makes Henry hold tighter.

We cross the bridge and I ease off the gas. Storm clouds roll in and hover over us like guilt. Henry's supposed to be somewhere else, at some gala with his mother—but I didn't make him choose, didn't ask him to blow off the event to be with me.

“The bridge deck might be slick,” I shout, with a quick glance back at him. Tufts of windswept hair curl out from under his helmet. His eyes are wide and shimmery, giant orbs of awe under the Plexiglas face mask. I love that he's not scared.

Clarice's headlights glint against the asphalt and skip along the white-capped waves like twinkling fireflies. Henry's body presses against mine, stirring to life those mutant pterodactyl wings in my stomach. We could go anywhere right now, ditch this place and go far, far away. But as we round the hairpin curve, I know that Henry would never really leave his friends, his mother . . . Catherine.

I try to ignore an unexpected cloud of sadness and focus on leaning into the curve, on navigating the potholes that could knock Clarice on her ass if I'm not careful.

“This is awesome,” Henry yells. His excitement thrums through my skin and bleeds into my veins, firing up my adrenaline.

As we come up to the Medina Cemetery, I gear down and ease off the throttle, steering the bike along the narrow path toward tombstones flanked by a dark forest of hemlock trees. Under the shadow of moonlight, the branches extend like ominous arms, reaching out and drawing us in.

I pull the bike over and cut the engine. Henry doesn't move. He just sits there with his arms wrapped around my waist. His woodsy scent is so strong it catches in my throat, making it hard to swallow.

“Okay, not what I was expecting,” he says, his voice a low drawl of confusion and amusement.

“You figured we'd go somewhere less haunted?”

I admit, it's an odd choice, but I want Henry out of
his comfort zone, the chance to give him an adventure, a reminder that life doesn't have to be boring.

“Afraid of ghosts?” I say.

His biceps twitch and push against my rib cage. “This place isn't haunted,” he says, though the hesitation in his voice suggests he doesn't quite believe it. The cemetery is deserted, except for a mist that weaves through the maze of tombstones like souls waking from deep slumber.

Henry untangles his arms and slides off the bike. A chill hangs in the air, penetrating deep into my bones. Without the warmth of his body, I'm vulnerable to the elements, the oncoming storm.

“You can't believe everything you hear in this town,” Henry says, and slips off his helmet. His hair stands up everywhere, giving him a Medusa-like appearance that makes me laugh. Under the dim moonlight, I see him blush and pat down his hair. It's cute that he's embarrassed.

I climb off the bike, remove my helmet, and bite my lower lip. “If you're scared—”

He shakes his head. “You calling me a wuss?” He pumps his eyebrows twice. “Or maybe you're challenging me to a game of chicken? That's cool. I'm in if you are.”

“I like graveyards,” I say, and for the most part it's true. I've read the brochures and heard the stories. This particular cemetery
is
rumored to be haunted, and I'm a sucker for things that go bump in the night.

“Me too,” Henry says, and then adds, “from a distance.”

Over the past couple of weeks, I've caught a glimpse of Henry's soul, and I can't help but wonder if beneath the entitlement and royal facade, the boyish charm and the sexy smile, there isn't something—

More.

I turn to face him, start walking away, beckoning for him to follow me deeper into the maze of tombstones and grave markers. My heavy footsteps crunch on wet orange-gold leaves that shimmer under the full moon. I tiptoe through the headstones and the crypts to the unconsecrated section, where early parishioners once buried those they considered “unclean.”

“You're nuts if you think I'm coming after you,” Henry says.

My veins pulse and I can't tell if it's because I'm afraid he won't—or terrified he will. “Plum crazy,” I say in agreement.

I stumble on a rock, rebalance, and look up. He's taken his first step, inched across the soil threshold, and I know somehow that there's no turning back from this.

A cool breeze howls through the trees. The branches sway, giving life to shadowed limbs.

“Maybe we shouldn't,” Henry whispers. “It's dark.”

My breath becomes shallow. “You'll protect me though, right?”

His response is cut off by a sharp crack of lightning and a roll of thunder overhead. I barely feel the rain as it
trickles down my temples and the back of my neck.

“Come on, Anne, we should head home. You don't want to be caught in a downpour. Medina weather is—”

I don't stop walking. The rain picks up and slaps me across the face, freezing in the drizzly October air. My bangs stick to my forehead and strands of hair cling to my cheeks. It doesn't matter. I don't want to go back, don't want to lose this time alone with
this
Henry, the Henry who isn't weighted down with expectations and responsibilities. I stand under a tree and motion for him to come closer. “We can hole up here,” I say, and glance at the sky.

Henry ducks under the low-hanging branch and stands next to me. The current between us hums louder, drowns out the wind, the water, my thundering heartbeat.

Henry's lips are wet, his eyelashes glisten like dewdrops. Beneath his open brown leather jacket, a white T-shirt clings to his broad chest. My gaze drops to his jeans, the denim darker, almost black, from rain.

“We have to dry off a bit before we get back on the bike,” I say, and try not to think about peeling off Henry's clothes, pressing our cool skin together for warmth. “We'd freeze.”

“The old theater is across the cemetery,” he says, nudging his chin forward and to the right. “It's boarded up, though. We'd have to—”

I open my mouth in mock horror. “You're not suggesting we do something illegal, are you?” Goose bumps rise on my
arms in a way that has nothing to do with the wind.

Henry stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, kicks at a rock. “Not exactly.” He looks up and grins, an adorable sheepish expression that slices through the chill and creates an inferno in my blood. “My family kind of owns it.”

Figures.

“The road is blocked. We'll have to cut across the graveyard,” he says.

I think about making sound effects, mocking a horror movie soundtrack, some kind of
chee-chee-ha-ha
noise, but Henry's face pales. “You're really scared, aren't you?” I say.

“Nah.” He pauses and chuckles. “Terrified, actually.”

“I'll hold your hand,” I say, grinning.

“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.