God, he has terrible timing.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Thanks. I’m okay. I could send that. I could send Another time. I could send nothing and be consistent.
So I do that. I can blame it on bad mountain reception.
I head back to the bedroom, toss my phone onto the nightstand, and turn off the lantern. Darkness folds in. The storm presses at the windows. The room feels too big and too small at once. I lie down. Sit up. Lie down again. I stare at the ceiling and count the seconds between lightning and thunder like I did when I was a kid.
It doesn’t help.
I get up, take the phone, and open the door.
Flickering light from the fire washes the hall. I walk softly but then give up on being quiet because the storm is louder than anything else. I round the corner into the great room.
He’s right where I left him, except he’s not. He’s sitting on the floor at the hearth, back against stone, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, arm resting over his knee and petting Zach with his other hand. The scar at his hairline is a clean line. I have the strange desire to kiss it.
He looks at me. “You okay?”
No. “I’m fine.” I stay standing.
He tips his head back against the stone and watches the ceiling. “I asked for you.”
“What?”
“At the hospital.” He doesn’t look at me. “I asked my mom to call you.”
The words ricochet through my head. Same thing we were talking about earlier. “I know. Why, Henry? Why me? I mean, you said we were done, that we had no future, so why would you ask for me?”
“Because you were the only thing that cut through the noise in my mind.” He finally looks at me. He doesn’t smile. “The only thing that made sense to me.” Another pause. “Because I wanted you there.”
The stupidest heat rushes my face. I step closer to the fire. “I couldn’t come.”
“I know.” He says it without accusation, which somehow makes it worse.
I lower to a crouch and sit on the hearth just out of his reach. The stone is warm through the fabric of my sweats.
“Ask me again,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
“Ask me again why I didn’t come.”
He studies me. “Why didn’t you come?”
“Because you told me we had no future,” I say, repeating my earlier answer, but then adding, “And because I believed you.”
He absorbs it. Resignation crosses his face.
“I said it because I thought it was true,” he says. “Because I was a mess, and I didn’t want to drag you through it. Because I thought if I let myself want you out loud, it would eat everything.”
“And?” I keep my voice steady. “Did it eat everything?”
His mouth quirks. It’s not a smile. “It’s working on it.”
A laugh tries to climb out of me, but I suppress it. I fidget with my hands, making suturing moves.
The storm drops an octave. The roof thrums. Firelight skates over Henry’s profile, and for a split second, I see the boy he was, the one I’ve seen in Angie’s old photos, with sun-bleached blond hair, eyes blue and sparkling and mischievous.
“Why are we doing this?” I ask.
