Anne & Henry (26 page)

Get it together.

I pull up to the curb and cut the engine. Lean my bike up against the cobbled sidewalk leading to the ominous front doors. I was scared of them once—now I'd give anything to walk through them, to be united with Henry.

Go home, Anne.

I stare up at the giant fortress of stone walls, the jagged edges of the brick twin towers, and imagine scaling them to the other side. If only I could curl up on one of the long benches in the courtyard, draw comfort from the fountain or the scent of autumn flowers. Take a walk down memory lane, holding hands with Henry, pausing before class for stolen kisses and—

Empty promises.

And now, I have no choice but to go—

Home.

I climb back on Clarice, hesitate before turning over the engine. My trembling fingers grip the handlebars, twist the bike so it faces the front door. Adrenaline pulses through my
veins. I hesitate—and then turn the key. Clarice roars to life. The engine sputters and coughs on idle. I need to punch the gas or she'll die.

The bike lunges forward and I brake hard.

The rear wheel lifts off the ground and bounces back onto the sidewalk. My whole body reverberates from the shock. And my nose is practically pressed up against the front door of the school. So close I could touch it.

I turn Clarice, my back, my heart away from Medina Academy. Rev the engine so hard, the rumble is a deafening roar. I twist the handlebar and step on the gas. Loose gravel sprays up from my back tire. I hit a rock, almost skidding out. Desperate to get away.

Tears blur my vision. I gun it out of the parking lot, my headlights carving a path to the exit.

Silhouetted in the distance, Seattle's floating bridge beckons, a lighthouse drawing me away from the school, from Medina, from Henry.

Go home, Anne.

A merciless chuckle escapes my lips.

With Henry, I thought I was home. Suddenly, I have no fucking clue where that is.

I
yank my coat up around my neck to fend off the cold, half-run from my car to the sidewalk, and duck under the café's green and white awning.

Through the rain-streaked window, I spot round wooden tables, surrounded by oversize leather chairs set on a brown and beige checkerboard floor. At the storefront window, half a dozen recycled glassless window frames dangle from the ceiling, creating some kind of weird mobile. About as abstract as Pollock.

The spicy scent of chai hits me before I even open the door and step inside. Dim lighting and a quietly burning fireplace in the corner give the place a homey feel, warmth, on an otherwise shitty day.

I scan the clusters of customers, look for familiar faces, for Rick and John. No shock I'm the first to arrive. I flop into an empty seat facing the counter and pull out my physics
book. Flip to chapter fourteen. I've read it a dozen times, but nothing sticks. The words blur into a faded string of indecipherable characters, jumble around in my head.

“Coffee?”

Her sweet voice pulls my attention, forms a picture of its owner in my mind before I even lift my gaze.

Small round eyes peer through a pair of copper-rimmed glasses. Her light brown hair is swept back into a ponytail, though a few wayward strands fall loose and stick to the side of her pale face. Her skin is so white she's almost a ghost. She holds up a half-full coffeepot and an empty mug, smiles through thin, compressed lips. “Looks like that textbook is getting the best of you. Caffeine works for me.”

Weary, I motion for her to pour. “I'm willing to try anything at this point.”

Her long, slender fingers tremble as she fills the ceramic mug and then as she reaches into her green apron to pull out a couple of creamers and a packet of sugar.

“I usually like a little coffee with my sugar,” I say.

She drops another packet on the table and blushes, says nothing, just waits as I rip them open and pour them into the cup, add two creams, and take a slow sip.

“Not bad,” I say with an appraising nod. “Bold, but not overbearing.”

“A coffee connoisseur?” she says, and scoops up the garbage. She's average height and build, but there's something
that pulls me, keeps me watching, like I can't look away. Maybe it's how different she seems from—

“I've had a lot of expensive brews in my life,” I say, prepared to launch into a conversation about exotic imported beans and the best espresso I ever tasted while on my European adventure two summers back. She doesn't take the bait. “I'm Henry.” I extend my hand. “Henry Tudor.”

She holds up the coffeepot and a fistful of scrap paper as though indicating why she can't shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Henry Tudor,” she says, and—

Leaves.

My jaw goes slack. There's an uncomfortable itch in my throat. I resist the urge to call after her, when the door opens and a chill breeze blows through the café, bringing John and Rick in from the cold. John spots me, waves, and the two wind their way around the tables. Pull out a couple of wooden chairs.

John throws a stack of pictures face down on the table.

My chest tightens.

I stare down at them, hands at my sides, afraid to flip them over, convinced that if I ignore them, they'll simply cease to exist.

Across from me, John waits for my reaction, hands jammed in his pockets, hoodie pulled tight up over his ears, to keep warm or hide, whatever works. “I know it's hard, bro,” he says.

At the sound of his voice, I lift my head and our gazes meet. Shadows outline his eyes, dark against the pale sheen of his complexion. Black stubble covers his chin and upper lip. He looks a little less arrogant than usual—though maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part.

“You don't have a fucking clue,” I say. My voice trembles a little, betraying false bravado.

Even without looking, I know this is the end of Anne and me.

Of Anne.

I've probably studied all of the pictures Catherine sent a dozen or more times, making up excuses, debating camera angles, rationalizing every single flirtatious action. But I know those images don't tell the whole story. There are giant gaping holes. And like a jigsaw puzzle, the missing pieces are on the table in front of me.

I flip over the top photograph.

Anne's mocking smile stares back.

“That was the start of it all,” Rick says, like his voice-over narration will somehow soften the blow.

The picture is date-stamped, and I recognize Liz's kitchen in the background. Most of the details are blurry, intentionally out of focus, putting Anne at the center of attention.

Maybe I stare at the picture too long, but a part of me realizes this is the last time I'll see her this way—the sexy, wild, brazen girl I fell for. I haven't even set the photograph aside, moved on to the next, and the pinprick hole in my
chest has begun filling with venom. It's been like that for days as I filter through the events of the past few weeks.

I look up, but say nothing. Catherine warned me some of the pictures might implicate John. I shouldn't blame him, though, that it isn't his fault. Maybe that's why I'm stalling, scared to see the betrayal I somehow know is there.

“You should leave,” I say, my voice cold and hard.

Rick shakes his head. “He stays. We're not letting you do this alone.”

I slide the top image onto the table, flip through the next few. A series of photographs show Anne smiling and mingling with my friends. In one picture, she stands close to John, too close for someone she hates. In another, she is licking her wrist, shot glasses all around. Her eyes are turned downward, lashes almost closed. It's like she's looking right at the camera, staring at—

Me.

Desire sweeps across my skin. No matter how angry, how disgusted and embarrassed, I still want her. Those mesmerizing eyes are tattooed onto my soul. I've lost friends for her, lied for her, disappointed my mother for her—all to believe she looks at me, only me, the way she is in this picture.

I flick it aside.

“She drank a lot of tequila,” John says, a little quiet, almost nervous.

I'm only a third of the way through the stack and the
knot in my stomach has already grown to the size of a walnut.

“She doesn't like tequila,” I say.

Rick scoots back in his chair, scraping the metal legs across the floor. The noise grates on my nerves. When I look up, my gaze settles on the bar where the waitress pours coffee, adds flavoring, whispers with customers and coworkers. Her lips are so thin they almost disappear, but there's something compelling about them, something that makes me stare a little longer than I should.

She looks up and for a quick second our eyes connect. It happens so fast, blink and you'd miss it.

How much did I miss about Anne?

My mother's advice echoes in my subconscious. I rewind my actions, everything I've done, or not done, in the months since I met Anne. The missed speaking engagements, the deception, standing up for her in front of Catherine, John, and all of my friends.

This isn't me.

No matter how hard it is to live in Arthur's shadow, to live up to my family's expectations, I've never resorted to—

I'm a damn walking cliché.

The king of fools.

I flip to the next image. Anne with some guy I don't know, can't place at school, in Medina. Her head tilts back like it does when I say something funny, when she's joking with me.
The picture's grainy, but I'm positive that guy's hand is on my girlfriend's ass.

A jealous charge surges through my muscles, making me twitch. “Who's this goof?”

John leans across the table for a closer look. “Geoffrey? Joffrey? Fuck. Can't remember.”

I add that picture to the one of Anne licking her wrist. Create a small pile on the table. The other photographs are easy to rationalize, to excuse—I know Anne is just trying to be one of us, to really fit in.

She doesn't.

Maybe I've always known, but the hard realization burrows under my skin and hollows out my bones. Her outburst at my dinner only strengthened the nagging doubt that's lingered since the party. I've got to break it off.

Another set of images shows Anne in various poses, most of them without a drink in her hand. It's hard to believe she's drunk. But her arm is draped around Catherine in one, eyes a little too red. I've known Catherine long enough to read the body language—stiff, uncomfortable, looking for an escape. There are two pictures of Anne doing tequila shots. The background is fuzzy. Geoffrey—
Gregory?
—makes an appearance in one of them. Anne is pressed up against him, looking up in adoration as though she's tripped and he's saved her.

“So, she drank too much,” I say, trying to ignore the growing lump in my gut. It's twice the size now, two times as
heavy. If I stood in the middle of the floor, I'd drop straight through. “People do stupid things when they're drunk.”

I shove the stack of remaining pictures aside and lean back, take a sip of cold coffee. The excuse doesn't sit with my friends. Hell, it doesn't even sit with me.

Rick nods, slow, as if he's taking time to form the right words. “For sure,” he finally says, and rests his hands on the table to lean forward. “But she's out of control. Look what happened last time she got drunk.”

Neither of them knows the real story of the accident, but the rumors are hard to ignore—especially when I know they're true. The waitress walks by again, glances at our table. The surface is peppered with inappropriate photographs—I'm almost embarrassed to know what she's thinking.

I gather them up quickly, but in my rush the bottom picture floats onto the table, image side up.

A sharp pain radiates through my chest.

Two bodies press together, heads angled, lips interlocked. Even without asking, without absolute confirmation, I know that's John's mouth on Anne's, his hand on her ass.

A growl rips through me.

I reach across the table and grab John's collar, yanking him close. Rage explodes through my muscles. My face is so hot I'm sure it will burst into flame. “You bastard.”

“Back off, Henry,” Rick says, always the mediator, the voice of reason. “He didn't do anything wrong.”

“Bullshit,” I say. A fleck of spit lands on John's cheek. He doesn't flinch. The back of my neck heats up, and I release John's hoodie, aware we've attracted attention.

“We had a deal,” John says, his tone gruff. “She's a tramp. This is proof.”

“You set her up.”

“No one poured the booze down her throat,” Rick says.

I rub my hand across the photograph and close my eyes, remembering a time when Anne danced for me. How my heart raced and my blood boiled. How I would have done anything then, anything she wanted, to make her mine.

A low groan of denial explodes from my lips.