Page 16 of Never Enough

“It is.”

One bed. Of course, there’s only one bed. Why would he have more than one when it’s just him?

King-sized. White sheets—clean ones, I can tell; they have that crisp, just-changed look, which means he changed them for me, which means he thought about this. Knowing we would be sharing a bed. At least for tonight.

Two pillows on each side. A quilt at the foot of the bed—handmade, blue and gray, tumbling blocks pattern. His grandmother's. I know this the same way I know it matters, the same way I know everything about him that I've spent years collecting without intention. Henry just has a way of burrowing into parts of me.

I stare at the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he says.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“Oliver will see you on the couch. He'll know something's off.” I go to the window seat and unzip the bag I know holds my sleep clothes and toiletries.

I keep digging in the bag, not looking at Henry, but also not really looking at my belongings. “We're adults. We can share a bed.”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“It's not a big deal.”

“Not at all.”

Oh my God, stop talking. “People share beds all the time.”

“Constantly.”

I look at him. “You're being very agreeable.”

“I'm a very agreeable person.”

I snort. “You are the least agreeable person I have ever met in my life.” I pull out my sleep shirt—oversized, soft, old enough that the cotton's gone thin at the collar. I see his eyes drop to it and then snap away like he's been caught looking at something classified. My stomach flips. I ignore it. “Which side do you sleep on?”

“Left.”

“Fine. I'll take the right.” I gather my toiletry bag and the sleep shirt and head for the bathroom. Pause in the doorway. Turn back. “Henry.”

“Yeah.”

“If you make this weird, I will smother you with the quilt.”

He grins. “Noted.”

I close the bathroom door.

I turn on the water.

I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I shower and wash my hair. I go through every step of my nighttime routine with the kind of careful focus usually reserved for piping delicate lace work on a cake.

I just know that if I stop doing, I'm going to think about the fact that he changed the sheets. That he's out there right now, on the other side of this door, in this house that smells like him, probably sitting on the edge of the bed being calm and steady and so very Henry about this while I'm in here pressing a cold washcloth to my face and trying to get my heart rate below triple digits.

I pull on the sleep shirt. It hits mid-thigh. The collar slips off one shoulder. My face in the mirror is scrubbed clean—no makeup, not that I wear very much of it. Still my freckles seem to stand out more than usual. Probably that flush coloring my cheeks an unflattering blotchy red. It could be from the hot water, but it is almost certainly from existential panic.

I open the bathroom door.

He's on the bed. Sitting on the edge of the left side, changed into a pair of loose athletic shorts. And nothing else. It’s not like I haven’t seen him without a shirt before. I grew up in his backyard, swimming in his family’s pool.