Anne & Henry (13 page)

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.

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 line. “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?

She climbs onto the seat, her knees pushed against the cushion on either side of my legs. Heat burns through my pants and scorches my skin. Her mouth hovers over mine, an invitation.

I lean forward, my voice caught in my throat, and press my lips against hers. Hers are warm and soft, her breath sweet. I weave my fingers through her hair, grab the back of her neck, and pull her close. Her tongue sweeps across my lower lip, and the metallic ball of her piercing scrapes my flesh.

I'm shocked by how good it feels not to think. To get totally lost. In her.

It's strange when you're not happy for so long, and then suddenly you're—

Alive.

Anne puts her hands on my chest, moving her fingers so that my flesh tingles and sweats. I pull her close, tuck her
head under my chin, forgetting in this moment the obstacles and complications ahead. “This won't be easy,” I say.

“I know.” Her hand works its way under my shirt, slides over my chest and stomach, down under the waistband of my pants. My skin is on fire. “Is this easy?”

I close my eyes and nod, surrender to her touch. “You're worth the trouble.”

“Then, for now, let this be enough.”