Anne & Henry (20 page)

Our hands are everywhere. She is soft and hungry, breathless and frantic. Her fingers expertly navigate my body, kneading the tight muscles on my shoulders, my back. Then our kisses grow slower, filled with promise and passion. I am so lost in the moment that when she jerks away, my first instinct is pain.

“The fire,” she says, and points to the waning flame.

I add another log, poke at the smoldering ashes with a long stick. When it reignites, I turn back to find Anne on her knees, the bottle of vodka on her lips, her bra cast aside. I swallow hard, my eyes locked on her naked chest. She tilts her head back and drinks. Liquid drips from her mouth and down her neck, dribbles onto her flesh.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I grab the bottle and suck back a swig. My head spins. Anne drags me toward her and the bottle slips from my hand and spills onto the blanket. My mind is fuzzy, hazy with lust as I greedily lick the alcohol from her skin.

Her dark hair fans out on the sleeping bag like raven feathers. She is bare from the waist up, the tiny bumps on her flesh raised from the cold or maybe my touch. “You're perfect,” I say.

She flattens her palms against the top of my head and pushes my mouth lower. My tongue drags across her flesh. She tastes like cinnamon.

“Tell me you want me,” she whispers.

I growl in response. Tug at the waistband of her jeans. The button pops loose.

Anne squirms under me. “Say it,” she says.

The words catch in my throat as I paw at her skin, as some animalistic need pulses through me. I ease her jeans off her hips, down over her pale thighs. Slide them all the way off. She's naked but for a pair of sexy red lace panties.

“Henry,” she says as I'm removing her underwear, my jeans and my briefs. She inhales sharply, and for a second, neither of us moves. “Henry,” she whispers. “Tell me I'm all you'll ever need.”

I roll my body over hers in response, and her legs tangle with mine. We become lost in kisses, in warm skin and
touches. I tease her with my teeth, nipping and sucking, pushing my knee between her legs to separate them. And then we're moving together, breathing together, our bodies in perfect rhythm. Her thighs press against my hips, pulling me closer. We quicken the pace. My heart thumps so fast it almost implodes.

Right when I'm about to lose control, Anne calls out my name, and then it hits me like a shock of white heat, a trembling sensation that rips through my core.

I pull her close and tuck her trembling body against mine. Unable to speak, I kiss her forehead, the corner of her mouth. Her lips curl. I give in to the moment and close my eyes. The ground spins beneath me.

I am in love with Anne.

She is not seducing me. I am not seducing her. We are choosing to be together.

“I love you,” she says, a soft whisper in the night.

My response is a contented sigh. There's so much feeling wrapped up inside me right now—too much. Love feels inadequate. This is so much more.

“Henry,” she says, before I can find the right response, to tell her I love her too. A pause and then with more urgency, “Henry!” I'm ripped out of my trance. She scrambles out of my arms, eyes wide and frightened, finger pointing at the fire. I sit upright.

The edge of the sleeping bag is burning. I glance at the
open alcohol bottle and jump to my feet, kicking aside the vodka and folding the sleeping bag in half and in half again, smothering the blaze. I must look ridiculous.

The whole situation is ridiculous.

Anne begins to laugh.

Quiet at first, then until we're both in hysterics, struck by the absurdity of it all. Standing together naked, not quite drunk from the alcohol and fueled by reckless abandon.

“Talk about a buzz kill,” Anne says with a snort. She stoops to pick up her underwear, T-shirt, and the vodka, holds the bottle up to the moonlight. “There's barely any booze left.”

She takes a swig and hands it to me. As I swallow what's left, she puts on her clothes and reaches into her bag, pulls out a couple of spray-paint cans—one black, one red. When I've finished getting myself dressed, she hands one to me. With the black, she draws a giant letter
H
on an inner tunnel wall. I move in quick with a red plus sign and she follows with an
A
. I draw a heart and she moves on to another clean part of the tunnel.

“Anne, what are we doing?”

“Letting loose,” she says. And then with far less humor, “Life should be fun. We can never lose that, Henry. No matter what happens to us. No matter what anyone says.”

I swallow. Nod. Try to read between the lines. But before I can analyze, she shakes the can.

We alternate painting with kissing, plastering the tunnel with our initials and hearts, covering past artwork. I count more than twenty
Hs
and
As
before our spray cans are empty and we're exhausted.

For a minute, we stand together, admiring our work.

My cell buzzes, breaking the mood. I know without looking it's my mother. I don't take out my phone but Anne knows it too. My body tenses. There's no place I'd rather be.

“We should go,” Anne says, and rests her head against my shoulder. The scent of alcohol whispers from her lips. “It's late and soon your mother
will
send out the cavalry.”

She's right, but I'm nervous. I'm far from drunk. Is she? “Maybe we should sober up first.”

Anne looks at me and scoffs. Touches her finger to her nose. “I'm not even buzzed, Henry.” As though to further prove her point, she shrugs out of my embrace and bends down to gather our supplies. The sleeping bag is charred and reeks of smoke, but she unfolds it and rolls it back up anyway, her movements mechanical and practiced.

I snuff out the fire, disoriented by the abrupt change in her attitude. I know something's still not right.

She heaves the pack over her shoulders and holds out her hand.

“We should talk,” I say.

“I'm fine,” she says. I want to believe her, but her voice slurs just a little.

As we make our way back, I pay close attention to the way she walks and talks, lingering where possible for extended kisses. Halfway to the road, I carve our initials into a tree trunk, taking the time to make the cuts extra deep. By the time we reach her bike, I've run out of stall tactics.

Once we're seated, the bike jolts forward. Anne's body is rigid, straight, and tense. She twists the throttle and we hit the gravel. My heart thumps with something akin to fear.

Anne expertly maneuvers Clarice along the rustic trail and my stomach settles. She's pissed, not drunk. And even though I'm annoyed she won't tell me what's wrong, relief winds through me.

Anne picks up speed. The scenery blurs, blends into one continuous line of forest. We move so fast I don't even see the car coming toward us.

“Watch out,” I yell.

But it's like she can't hear me. She takes a sharp left corner and ducks into an alley. I spare a glance back and the car careens out of sight. My pulse throbs, my head screams. I know this is stupid, but with every near miss, it's like I'm mainlining adrenaline. I don't want it to stop.

I let out a yelp and turn back just as Anne swerves to miss a pothole. Clarice wobbles and jerks to the right. The front tire turns sharply. Anne tries to hold on, but it's too late. The tires slide out from underneath the bike.

My body shoots upward and when Clarice hits the
ground, I'm thrown loose. Everything blurs. The asphalt bites and burns my skin. I smell the coppery taint of blood.

There's the squeal of metal.

The crash of breaking glass.

My voice cracks, screaming for Anne.

And then—

M
y vision floods with blinding white light.

A blade of pain slices through my skull, so sharp it sends my head slamming back against the hard, unyielding mattress. I'm cold, disoriented. Terrified.

The scent of clean tingles my nostrils and singes my skin. A series of
beep, beep, beeps
echoes like a heartbeat. I close my eyes, willing myself to return to the dark dreamy unconscious where everything seemed clear and peaceful.

My mother's voice breaks the trance.

“Anne?”

My eyelashes flutter as I try to emerge from the fog. I open my eyes and her face blurs into view. Pale. Worried. The deep shadows under her eyes make her look older. I blink twice but she doesn't disappear. “Where am I?” I say, my throat hoarse.

She rests her head on my chest.

“You had us so scared,” she says, choking. “You've been in and out for hours, almost unconscious for two days. We thought you might slip into a coma.” A tear slides over her cheek. “The doctor says you're going to be okay, though. You were very lucky, ladybug.”

I shift and a sharp pain radiates up my left leg. “Everything hurts.”

My mother lifts her head, reaches for my hand, and squeezes so tight I flinch. I bite my lip to stop from calling out.

“There was an accident,” she says. “Your motorcycle . . .”

“Clarice?”

“I'm afraid it's in rough shape.” She's never liked Clarice, the fact that I ride, but this isn't an
I-told-you-so
moment. Her eyes cloud with sympathy and I'm overwhelmed with the unnerving sense that she's not telling me something, that there's so much more I don't know, have forgotten. “Thomas already has it in the shop.”

She rubs her cool hand along my forearm. “Do you remember anything about the accident?”

I close my eyes and think, think, think. No matter how hard I search the dark alcove of my mind, I come up blank. It's like my brain is filled with black air, a thick blob against whatever lurks behind it.

“You'd been drinking a little,” my mother says. The image of a vodka bottle flashes across my mind. I'm laughing, tipping my head back as liquid dribbles from the side of my
mouth, down my chin, onto my chest. The background is fuzzy and out of focus.

“I can only assume that's why you let Henry drive.”

Henry?

Holy shit, Henry. The memories begin to rewind in slow motion. His hands wrapped tight around my waist, our movements in perfect unison. The bike shifts, we begin to fall. I can't hold on, can't regain control.

My mother's words play back. Stop. Repeat.
I can only assume that's why you let Henry drive.

But he wasn't,
I want to say, the confession stuck like molasses in my throat.

“At least you were both smart about that. I know how protective you are of your motorcycle,” she says. “But he wasn't used to driving it and—”

My blood turns to ice, my skin cools. I can almost
feel
the color drain from my face as more pieces of the accident begin locking into place. The tunnel, the booze, the sleeping bag catching fire, Henry's kiss, his hands all over me, our bodies intertwined—

Henry.

I try to sit upright and a sharp pain shoots along my rib cage. “Is he . . . ?”

“He's fine.” My mother eases my shoulders back onto the pillow. Despite her efforts, I'm not buying it. Something's off. “He has a few cuts and scrapes, and they kept
him overnight. Nothing a little rest won't fix. You're both very lucky.” She drops her voice to a harsh whisper. “But what were you
thinking
?”

I barely hear her question amid the chaos swirling in my brain. The echo of a police siren hums in my subconscious. Ambulance lights flash and blink, blink and flash. My stomach rolls as I recall swerving Clarice through the narrow streets, driving too fast, way, way too fast. The screech of metal reverberates in my mind. And then—

Henry's terrified cry rips through my vision.

“No, no, no . . .”

Wet tears well at the corner of my eyes and I squeeze them shut. But streaks of grief roll down my face, pool under my chin. My mother is lying—it's the only thing that makes sense. Because if he's really all right, not broken, just bruised, then why doesn't she know Henry wasn't driving?

She reaches for my hand. “Ladybug, don't cry. Henry is going to be just fine. I promise. Everything is going to be okay. You could have gotten yourself in real trouble.”

Something sticky blooms in my stomach and then I get it. Why nothing makes sense. Henry has lied to my mother, to the police, to
everyone.
Sacrificed himself—his family's name—to keep me safe.

I force myself to remember, to slip back into a dreamlike state. I'm sprawled on the ground. The asphalt around me
glitters with broken glass. In the background, the rising drone of a siren pulses behind my temples.

Henry's face emerges from the haze, scratched and cut, features pinched.

“Jesus, Anne, what the hell was that?”

A trickle of blood runs down the side of his cheek. I reach up, but he bats away my hand.