Henry's End
Authors: Julie Richman
Julie A. Richman
Julie A. Richman
Text copyright © 2015 Julie A. Richman
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Henry’s End
Photograph: Scott Hoover/Scott Hoover Photography
Model: David Filipiak
Cover Design: Robin Harper/Wicked by Design
Needing Moore Series Boxed Set
For Oliver John,
Because Love is Love
And I have loved you forever
1976 –>
JAR
Now…Running through the crowded terminal
, weaving between the clusters of people, Henry Clark quickly glanced down at his watch, “Shit.” This was the closest he’d ever cut it to boarding a flight.
Silently, he cursed himself for not leaving Montauk earlier. He knew the ride back to JFK was a long one, and that like southern California, New York City traffic could be unpredictable. He’d just found it so hard to leave everyone, after one of the most amazing weekends of his life, that he’d delayed it to the last possible second, and now he was paying the price.
Clipping the arm of burly a tattooed guy in cargo shorts that were falling off his ass, he looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “Sorry, man,” without breaking his stride.
Why did slow people always get in your path when you were rushing?
He could see his gate. Finally. And the door to the jetway was still open with two people waiting in line.
Yes!
As he reached the gate, the attendant was scanning the boarding pass of the last passenger. Out of breath, he dug into his pocket and handed the pretty brunette his cellphone so that she could scan his barcode.
“You just made it, Mr. Clark.” She handed him back his phone, smiling.
Jogging down the jetway, he got to the door of the plane. There were two seats still empty in first class. His and the one next to him.
Thank you, Travel Gods.
Henry Clark did an internal high five with himself and breathed a sigh of relief as the flight attendant secured that useless looking little strap across the now closed cabin door and announced that all cellphones needed to be turned off.
No seatmate on his cross-country journey back to southern California was the best thing that had happened to him all day, well, besides not missing the flight. The worst thing that had happened was leaving everyone out in Montauk, and feeling so alone, and lonely, on the nearly three hour drive back to the airport.
The long weekend in New York had been one of the most memorable weekends of his life. It was fast and furious – every second packed with a memory that had his emotions in overdrive. Henry had not felt this connected in a very long time.
Reuniting with old friends, meeting new ones, and the wedding of two people who should have been celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary and not their wedding day, made for an incredible weekend. And now that it was over, he was exhausted and could feel the blues starting to creep in.
Looking out the window, yet seeing nothing, Henry tried to process the events of the past few days, but his fatigue was preventing his logical left brain from functioning properly. His emotional right brain, which usually stayed put in its snug fitting box, was running rampant like an over-stimulated toddler, stirring feelings far out of his comfort range.
What is it with all these feelings?
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Once airborne, the flight attendant placed a Gin & Tonic on the armrest between Henry and the empty seat and provided a steaming wet towel. Unfolding the white square, Henry pressed his face into the scratchy terrycloth and closed his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to be pressing his cheek into the hands of a lover, wanting to feel his face cradled by strong, adoring hands.
What do his hands feel like?
he wondered.
Depositing the now cooled towel onto the armrest, Henry picked up his drink, almost immediately feeling the alcohol hit his bloodstream as it burned down the back of his throat.
As he reclined his seat, a snippet of a conversation from the weekend began to gnaw at him, poking him incessantly in the gut and not letting up. Henry finally realized that this was it. This was what was at the core of why he was feeling so out of sorts. It was this.
“I want to sit in a café on Sunday mornings in the West Village, reading the New York Times for hours, with my lover sitting across from me, spend hours planning vacations to places like Bali or the Seychelles, have Schooner and Mia over for a gourmet dinner that we’ve cooked for them.”
Mia’s friend and business partner, Seth Shapiro, had been passionate in his delivery, speaking from deep in his heart to him, Henry Clark, a virtual stranger,
“That’s what I want.”
He had so wanted to confess to Seth, this snarky New York fashion-queen, that he had just eloquently verbalized a dream that was buried deep within his own soul. That he, Henry Ethan Clark, in fact, wanted the exact same thing – although his fantasy probably resided in San Diego and not the West Village. But before he had a chance to articulate his feelings and make a full confession, Seth flitted away, leaving Henry with an ache he never expected to feel. Nah, it wasn’t even an ache. He was gutted. Surprisingly eviscerated.
Damn you, Seth Shapiro. I didn’t even know I wanted those things anymore.
But seeing his old friends, Schooner and Mia, who’d been apart for twenty-four years, joined together, finally; watching them attain a dream that was born in their hearts when they were just teens made Henry realize that he wanted it, too. He wanted the dream. Where was his fairytale ending? He snickered at his pun.
And damn you, Seth. Just damn you for perfectly verbalizing my dream. That was my dream. How did you know it? You just freaking met me. How did you know my dream? How did you know a dream that even I didn’t know was there anymore? At least not until you said it. I thought it was gone long ago. And how did you know it down to the minutest of details? Bali? The Seychelles? How could you possibly know that?
And now I don’t know how I’m going to live without it.
Henry slowly let out a lungful of air and shook his head. At least he had the new job in which he could bury himself. There was still so much to learn. So much to come up to speed on – and fast. A month ago, his friend Schooner had handed him a lot of responsibility. Carte blanche. And he was going to sink his teeth in and make it work like a well-oiled machine. He’d make sure that his old buddy always felt confident that he was the right choice to head up the west coast operations of his fitness empire.
And the rest, well, he was just going to try to bury that. That should be easy enough. It wasn’t like he had never done it before.
But now that it was out there in the universe, he wondered if he really could bury it. How was he going to live without the dream?
And he had this odd, sneaking suspicion that he didn’t know how he was going to live without him.