Anne & Henry (19 page)

Before I can protest, she tackles me, her fingers expertly navigating their way under my T-shirt and into my armpits.

A strand of her perfectly placed hair swings loose, sticks to the side of her lip. She's fast becoming a hot mess, but it's like she doesn't care, because for this moment, we're back to who we once were. Not just mother and daughter, but best friends, the kind that whisper and share secrets, laugh together, cry together.

Survive together.

My mother is beautiful when she's real like this.

“Who is it?” she says through gritted teeth, and at last, I relent.

“Henry,” I say, kind of breathless.

She freezes as though I've slapped her. I can hear the gears working, the
click-clank-clunk
as she tries to process, to understand how this could have happened.

“The Tudor boy?” she finally says.

“He broke up with Catherine,” I say so fast, knowing that's the question she's thinking, wondering. “For real. I didn't ask him to.” My body tenses in defense. “I've really fallen for him, Mom.”

The realization shocks me, makes my whole body quiver.

Because I know it's true—and that as ridiculous as it seems, as unrealistic as it is, I think Henry's falling for me, too.

My mother's hands come together with a loud clap. “Anne, this is fantastic news.” She pats the edge of the bed,
beckons me to come closer, and turns her body in to mine so we're face-to-face, the way roommates or best friends sit to gossip. “Well done, ladybug! We must tell Thomas right away.”

My blood turns to ice.

Well done?

“Thomas?” My voice is so tiny, barely more than a squeak. I wait for her to reverse, to tell me first that she's happy for me, to ask for more details, pause for that
tell-me-more
moment. A cool chill seeps into my bones. “Why would Thomas . . . care?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “The Tudors are the most influential family in Medina, Anne. Maybe the whole state.” She leans closer. “Thomas has bid to do the architectural plans on a number of projects owned by the Tudors. If you're dating their son, he's practically a shoo-in—”

My body vibrates. “You want to use my relationship as leverage?” The bitter taste of bile crawls up my throat.

She stares at me with disbelief and presses her hand against her chest. “Really, Anne. Aren't you being dramatic?”

“After everything we've been through. You're actually serious right now?”

“Ladybug,” she says, tentative and nervous. “I'm surprised by this reaction. You know we are ecstatic for you. What's really going on here? Don't you like Thomas?”

“This isn't about Thomas,” I say so slow my voice slurs. “It's about me. Your daughter. How I
feel.
”

She stands and makes her way back to the dressing table, lifts a string of pearls and holds them up to her neck. “After what happened back home, I'm thrilled you've met someone,” she says, though her words are thick with dual meaning. “And all the more thrilled it's Henry Tudor; he's quite the catch. Now, would you help me with this clasp?”

I cross the floor to her, pull the necklace tight around her neck, and fasten the lock, fingers trembling.

She lifts her hand, entwines her fingers with mine. “The real test, ladybug, is keeping things interesting,” she says. “A boy like Henry Tudor is easily bored.”

I open my mouth to tell her she's wrong, that Henry isn't like Dad. Henry is handsome and popular, and all the girls want him—but he's not a player.

The words don't come out. I study my mother's reflection in the mirror, look really hard. The wrinkles around her eyes are gone, her skin radiant and smooth. Thomas's house is filled with sparkling, shiny things, material goods that light up my mother's eyes. And for the first time since we've moved to Medina, I realize, there is no going back.

“I know you won't believe this,” she says, “but I truly want you to be happy. I
am
happy for you. Young love
should
be like this. Not dangerous and deceitful. I trust you, Anne. I believe you've learned from the past.”

Her words slam into me with the force of a hurricane and I am suddenly at a loss for words. So shocked I can't scream,
can't cry, can hardly open my mouth. Because it's clear now she doesn't believe me, that despite everything she's told me, the assurances, the forgiveness, she actually thinks I slept with Jesse, that I'm capable of such a horrible betrayal.

My stomach churns.

How can I have a fresh start—move on and forget the past—when even my mother, my own flesh and blood—doesn't believe in me?

A
nne's different tonight.

Manic, not romantic. Her smile is wide, but it's a little off, maybe forced. She's more Hyde than Jekyll. I can't quite put my finger on it.

I shift on my feet, change position, tuck the helmet under my armpit and run a hand through my hair. “You're acting weird. Did the talk with your mom not go well?”

I've been so wrapped up in making amends with my own mother, trying hard to follow her rules and show her that nothing has changed, I never stopped to consider that Mrs. Harris might not approve of . . . me.

Anne raises one eyebrow. “Are you going to stand there and gawk or hop on?” she says, and revs Clarice's engine.

Maybe I'm imagining it, but a flash of something like hurt trips across her eyes and then fades. I hesitate before reaching for her shoulder. “I thought we agreed not to keep secrets.”

Anne throws back her head like she's exasperated. “I just need to let loose. Have some fun.”

She shifts forward, making room for me on the back of her bike. Giving in, I slip on the helmet, slide in behind her, and grip the back handrail. The cool metal bites at my skin. She guns the throttle and Clarice's roar reverberates across the lake.

I lean forward and wrap my hands around her waist. Her heartbeat presses against my palms. Erratic. Too fast. I can't tell whether she's frightened or confused.

I nuzzle up to her neck, whisper in her ear. “Hit it, babe.” Clarice lurches forward. Anne weaves around the stretch of speed bumps on my driveway and we sway back and forth, our movements in sync. Those speed bumps seem silly now, but as kids, Arthur and I would race our soapbox cars along the pavement. My mother always worried we'd crash, or worse, be hit by one of Dad's never-ending string of visitors.

A sigh settles at the back of my throat. That's the kind of stuff I miss, what's been absent for the past year. It's like my mother's nurturing feeling just got up and left, a sad side effect of losing the two people she loved most in this world.

I shake away the memories and focus on the present. My future. Not all of the pieces have clicked into place, but there's no question Anne will be part of it—part of me. She's the first person I think about in the morning, her eyes the last image I see before I fall asleep. In the end, it doesn't matter
who approves. Not my mother, not even my friends. But I want to believe they'll come around.

As we hit the main road, Anne gives the throttle some gas and we pick up speed. The wind flicks my visor like a whip. I press my head against her back and shut my eyes, sucked in by how effortlessly Anne commands the bike.

I guess it's normal that things feel a little awkward and foreign tonight. This is still new.
We
are still new.

Complicated.

I open my eyes just as Anne turns on to a side street and guides Clarice down a lonely back alley. The strip mall is closed for the night, lights off, doors buttoned up tight. The dumpsters overflow with recycling and garbage that will be emptied by morning.

Anne weaves right. Then left. Turns on to another abandoned street. It ends just up ahead, but we don't stop and the bike easily slides from the asphalt to a narrow gravel path that leads to the train tracks.

“How the hell do you know about this place?” I say, sitting upright. Rocks, twigs, and leaves crunch, crackle, and snap under Clarice's tires.

“I know everything,” she says.

Her voice is almost a yell over the noise of Clarice's growl, but it's laced with carefree amusement, and I smile despite the peculiar sensation building in my gut. Maybe I'm imagining things.

Anne parks the bike at the edge of the trail and cuts the engine. We slide off in unison, remove our helmets. Leafless trees give way to a golden path peppered with orange and red. Small animal tracks imprint the surrounding dirt. An abandoned tunnel marks the end of this trail. My friends and I used to hang there to party—until Rick's brother got drunk and almost died playing chicken with the trains. Been a while since any of us has been back.

Anne slips behind a cluster of bushes and emerges with a backpack. There's a sleeping bag rolled up and tied to the bottom.

“You've been planning this for a while,” I say. It's meant to sound teasing, but my voice chokes with surprise. I'm supposed to be the romantic.

Anne slings the pack over her shoulders and extends a hand. “A little premeditated romance of my own.”

Her bag clinks while we walk along the path in silence, our fingers interlaced. The air is thick with the scent of rotting leaves and damp earth. “It's a perfect night,” I say.

Anne smiles. “And we're just getting started.”

Her voice is a soft purr of seduction and something darker, some kind of cryptic warning. But as we round the corner and the rusted tunnel looms into view, I ignore the feeling and my focus shifts. Even under the faded light of the stars, the graffiti-covered walls take me back to another—less complicated—time.

Anne drops the bag on the ground and fishes inside for a camping lantern. She flicks the switch and the inside of the tunnel lights up. Random weeds snake through the soil. Faded candy wrappers and rusted beer cans sprinkle the ground. Someone has kicked away the bricks that once lined a fire pit at its base, but it's evident no one has been here since the trains stopped running.

“Gather wood,” Anne says. “I brought paper and matches. I'll fix the fire pit.”

I'm about to protest and suggest the smoke will attract attention, but Anne is already clearing a space and laying out the sleeping bag, focused on her mission.

I load my arms with loose branches and pieces of old wood, while she sits cross-legged on the sleeping bag, crumpling paper into fist-size balls. Together we stack the smaller sticks, and then the branches until we've made a wooden teepee. She lights a match.

The paper curls and smolders, ignites the first flame, begins devouring the wood. The fire crackles and hisses. A silver thread of smoke spirals into the sky. The match burns down to her fingertips and she shakes it until the flame extinguishes.

I stretch out and motion for Anne to come closer. She rummages through her pack instead, withdrawing a bottle of vodka. When our eyes meet, there's a light in hers I don't quite understand. “I hope this is all right,” she says. “Thomas's
stash is a bit low. It was either this or tequila. And I hate tequila.”

I hesitate for a split second, worried—confused—about why she's acting so strange. But then she nibbles on her lower lip, and all rational thoughts disappear.

I snatch the bottle from her and twist off the cap. The alcohol burns my throat as I drink. Another long pull and intoxicating warmth spreads throughout my body. “Impressive prep skills,” I say, and wipe my mouth. Hand back the bottle. “You must have been a Girl Scout.”

Anne snuggles into me, the booze tucked between her legs. Her fingers trail along my inner thigh. “Nah. They kicked me out of that club,” she says.

“So how long do you think before the cavalry shows up?” I say, only half in jest. I'm fast becoming intoxicated by Anne's touch.

Her finger circles my knee cap. “I'm afraid it's just the two of us.”

Goose bumps ripple along my skin. There's an underlying sexiness to her words that leave me ragged and shallow. She's so hot I forget about going slow.

I shift so that we're facing each other and burrow my hand in her hair, hold the base of her neck. She slides her hands under my shirt and eases it up over my head. Rakes her fingernails down the front of my chest. I grip her hips, cup her ass, and flip her so she's on top. Her breath fans over me.
I lean forward and reclaim her lips, desperate to kiss every inch of her mouth. Need presses against my chest, crushing and hard.

Anne's shirt rides up and my fingers explore the satin skin of her belly. When I skim the waistband of her jeans, she gasps.

I look up and her eyes shine.

“Anne, I—”

Her lips cram against mine. Desperate. Hungry. Desire surges through my body like wildfire. I scrape my teeth along her lower lip, drawing out a whimper.

Anne tugs off her shirt and throws it aside. A red lace bra stares back at me. Nothing else. And the swell of her breasts against that lace is driving me mad. “You're so beautiful,” I say.