Anne & Henry (25 page)

I turn to witness Catherine's knowing smirk and it all begins to make sense.

Shit.

Her laughter sounds wicked over the music pounding in my head.

No. No. No. This is wrong.

Henry.

My world spins off kilter, lights blare behind my eyes. Bile rises, burning my throat, and I turn away just before my vomit splashes across the hardwood.

M
ayor Stephen Mandell raises his glass, grins at me from behind the bubbling champagne. “To your future,” he says to me, and takes a sip.

“To
our
future,” Susan Mandell says. “I have a feeling Henry is going to do great things for all of Washington when his career gets going.”

Over the past couple of days, the Tudor mansion has undergone another transformation in anticipation of this dinner—a welcome distraction from the chaos in the rest of my life. Roses replace orchids on the long dining room table. Elegant, but not overbearing, a setting fit for the mayor and his wife. My mother is in prime form this evening. Focused, strategic.

She reaches across the table and wraps her fingers around my wrist, giving the illusion of warmth. We've made amends, but it's only a first step. She doesn't know the real reason
Anne hasn't been around for the past few days—only thinks that she's won.

My mother beams. “The country,” she says. “Henry will do great things for this
country
. He is destined for the presidency.”

I have a hard time not choking on my champagne.

Mayor Mandell sets his glass on the table and picks up his knife and fork. Hovers his utensils over a plate full of prime rib, seared vegetables, and roasted potatoes. An intimate dinner to celebrate.

Motivate.

I've already messed up my chance at an internship with Catherine's father. I shouldn't be surprised he's shut me out, but the rejection stings. Now that I've convinced my mother I'm back on track, she'll strong-arm the mayor into finding me a position on his team.

This dinner is also my mother's way of keeping me from Anne.

My stomach churns at the thought of her. I've studied the pictures from the party more than a hundred times, thumb poised over the delete button. Anne keeps texting and calling. I don't even know what to say. The images confuse me, incriminate her, piss me the hell off.

I steal a glance at my phone. Another text from John. He's itching to show me the rest of the pictures from the party, the
proof
my friends have collected. No matter how much I want to avoid him—all of them—I promised to hear them out.

Susan Mandell unfolds her napkin and sets it on her lap. “I understand there's a new young lady in your life, Henry,” she says.

Across the table, my mother's face reddens and her eyes narrow to slits. While I've done what she's asked, followed every damn rule, the subject of Anne is still off-limits in this house.

“You know, I really liked Catherine,” the mayor says. He cuts his meat, inspects the color, and shoves it into his mouth. “You two were good together. What happened there?”

I glance to my mother for help, for some indication of how she wants this conversation to go. Somehow, I doubt honesty is the best policy. I take a bite of potato to buy me some time, relieved when the mayor's wife cuts in.

“Oh, Stephen, don't go badgering the boy. They're just kids. I'm sure Henry had good reason for breaking things off.” She tilts her head a little and one of her diamond earrings sparkles under the overhead chandelier. “You're dating the Boleyn girl, right?”

I nod, still a little nervous. “Anne and I are seeing each other,” I finally say. The words catch in my throat. Such a simple explanation for something so . . . complex.

“Her stepfather is quite the talent,” Stephen says, launching into a detailed description of the architectural projects on Thomas Harris's work list. Beyond the theater, he's in charge of redesigning half of downtown, including City Hall. “Our new council offices will overlook the lake.”

“Won't that be nice,” my mother says with forced enthusiasm. I recognize the gesture as a way to change the topic off Anne—and for once I'm not opposed. I've done everything I can not to think about Anne.

But the Mandells aren't picking up on the clues.

“Dating the architect's stepdaughter will certainly give you some clout,” the mayor says. “But an internship with Catherine's father would have given your career the real boost. It's a competitive world out there.”

“With that in mind, what do you have planned for Henry?” my mother says, a skilled interception. “I'm positive you'll find a position that fits.”

The sing-song echo of the doorbell interrupts his response. I stand, but my mother motions for me to remain seated. “The butler will get it,” she says. “There's no need to interrupt dinner.”

The bell chimes again, and then immediately a third time, like whoever's on the other side is desperate or frantic to get inside. I shift, once again trying to stand. My mother stops me with a pointed look and I settle into my chair. A wave of foreboding washes over me, and then—

The foyer erupts with voices that rise with increasing intensity—one female, the other our butler. The air around us balloons with tension. But it's impossible not to hear what's going on.

The female voice rises to a hysterical scream, bouncing
off the walls and echoing throughout the whole main floor.

There's a loud crash.

A bellowed, “Stop. You cannot go in there!”

And then, the distinct thump of heavy footsteps across the hardwood floor.

I know it's Anne before she even crosses the threshold of the dining area. Her nostrils flare. Wet streaks trail from her eyes to her chin. Her mascara is smeared, giving her giant raccoon eyes that seem more gothic than alluring. Matted chunks of hair stick to her forehead, the side of her face, along her neck.

My stomach flips. She's an emotional train wreck, but fuck she's a beautiful disaster.

“Henry, why haven't you answered my texts?” she says, oblivious to the room, to the shock on my mother's face. “I can explain. . . .”

Pushing back my chair, I stand, open my mouth to say something—but no words come out. My whole body fills with humiliation. For me. For Anne. For all of this.

The mayor's wife covers her mouth. There's barely a sound, like she's gasping for breath, or hiccupping.

“Anne,” I say, and almost trip over my chair in an effort to get to her, to escort her out before she makes things worse. “This isn't the time.”

Her wild eyes darken, turn almost matte. Anne backs away, holding her hands upright, like she's fending off some
beast. “Shit, fuck, shit. I'm sorry.” She shakes her head. Bursts into tears. “I'll leave,” she says, already starting for the door.

She glances back at my mother, the mayor and his wife. Mrs. Mandell's jaw is slack, her eyes wide and sympathetic. “I'm sorry,” Anne says. “I'm so, so sorry.”

I chase after her, deflecting the low whispers at my back. My mother making excuses, Mrs. Mandell assuring her everything will be okay, the mayor tsking, questioning my decisions, my choices. When I catch up to Anne, she stands at the open door looking helpless and lost.

Her motorcycle lies on my front lawn, her helmet on the sidewalk, leather coat strewn across the front step. It's like she half-stripped when she got to the house.

“We can't do this now,” I say, wincing as her face falls with understanding. “This dinner is important.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Aren't we . . . important?”

Pain wraps around my heart, squeezes so hard I gasp. I don't have the words to make this okay. The more entrenched I become in the life that is expected of me, the more I wonder if my friends and family aren't right—maybe Anne really doesn't belong.

“Look, I know those pictures look bad,” she says. “It's not what you think.” She takes a step toward me, but I back away. “I was drinking. They forced . . .”

“Go home, Anne,” I say. My voice is so soft I barely recognize myself. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

She nods, begins to leave. But at the base of the steps, she turns back, her bottom lip trembling, eyes welling with tears. “I love you, Henry.”

“I know,” I say—holding back the rest. I love her too. But as I close the massive door on her retreating form, I realize that I want—need—more.

I pause at the dining room, take a second to gather my thoughts, and walk with my head high, shoulders straight, trying my best minimize the impact of what's happened. I prepare for the questions and accusations, my mother's wrath. But if I'm to have a career in politics, I'll have to get used to scandal.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Mandell says.

My voice cracks a little. “It will be.”

“So . . . the Boleyn girl,” the mayor says, stuffing another forkful of prime rib into his mouth. The room falls silent as he chews, swallows, washes it down with another swig of champagne. “You know, I really liked Catherine,” he says, thoughtful, with almost eerie nonchalance. “Now there's a girl destined for greatness. The kind of woman you want on your arm as your First Lady.”

He doesn't need to finish the thought for me to know what he thinks of Anne.

H
enry's words whisper in the wind:
Go home, Anne.

Through blinding tears I search for it. Not my stepfather's mansion on the lake, not the wretched trailer park of my past, but a place I feel welcome. Safe.

All I feel now is the hollow ache of loss.

A blur of trees bleeds into a long stretch of ivory sand and ebony water, shit I've taken for granted, haven't begun to enjoy. The moon makes the water shimmer, and the beach looks smooth and untouched. Like polished glass.

I'm drawn back to the memory of my introduction to Medina, tucked safely into Henry's Audi, experiencing school, life—
love
—for the first time.

I'm kidnapping you,
he'd said, and I'd smiled.
Taking you to my serial killer cabin in the woods.

I steer Clarice toward Medina Academy, hit the straightaway and twist the throttle. Cold air whips across my forehead,
stings my eyes, slaps my cheeks. I can't handle the suffocating claustrophobia of my helmet, the constraints of my leather jacket.

Trapped by the insurmountable sense of dread, about me and Henry, about . . . us.

There
is
no more us.

By morning, Henry's mother will have told everyone about how I showed up at her home, intrusive and feral. Desperate. How I've proven yet again that I don't fit in here.

As I close in on Medina Academy, more memories rush through my mind like a montage of the good, the bad, and the best. My sister's ex-boyfriend, ex-landlord, ex-life transforming me into some kind of disillusioned princess waiting for a dragon slayer to save me, to set me free.

I almost had it. That fairy tale ending. My own Prince Charming.

Henry.

Now, no one is coming to rescue me. Even Sam is ignoring my phone calls and texts—I've lost my two best friends.

I hit the gas and speed into the parking lot.

The empty spaces give me room to weave between the concrete curbs, leaning my body as far as it will go, right, then left, taunting, teasing. I navigate the makeshift obstacle course with precision, speeding up on the curve, braking before I fall, memorizing every nuance of the road until I could drive it with my eyes shut.

Clarice's engine sputters, threatening to cut out. I've pieced her back together as best I can, but she's not whole. Parts of her are missing, lost in the accident, or maybe before—

My chest numbs, as though my heart has swollen and enlarged, pushing against the nerves, trying to snuff out my stubborn, stupid, hopeless feelings. I know it doesn't work like that, but it hurts, hurts so bad I'm blinded by the pain.