Page 75

“So, Henry . . .” I started, turning to face him. He shifted to mirror me, much like Ethan and I had a week ago. But unlike last week, tension laced the air, and I hated it. I hated why it was there, too.

I took another breath, deeper this time, steeling myself for the possibility that Henry really was going to choose whoever this Carl was over me. It was almost certainly irrational, but I couldn’t get my body to stop anticipating it.

When I didn’t continue, mostly because I didn’t know what to say, Henry’s furrowed brow smoothed out, just a little, and he hesitantly started talking. “Tris, can I first say I’m sorry? I’m so sorry, baby. I fucked up so badly, and I wanted to apologize first thing.”

I blinked at him, wondering how I should respond. Henry was smart—I should’ve known he’d figured out why I left—but until this moment, I hadn’t realized I’d expected him to be clueless.

We still had a lot to get to know about each other. But before we did, before I’d allow us to go down that path, I needed to hear him say it. “Thanks, Henry. But how do you know you fucked up?”

I watched his face fall, and he took a breath before he spoke. “Last Sunday, almost as soon as I realized you were gone, I put together that you’d probably overheard me on the phone with Carl.”

Relief I didn’t know I needed to feel had my shoulders relaxing as I nodded. I stayed quiet so he could continue.

“Carl is an old friend—and I use that term loosely—from college who has relied on my generosity for far too long. He calls me up every few weeks or months asking for my time and financial help, and because of some fucked-up logic, I’ve always given him everything I reasonably could. I didn’t even realize why until recently.” He took a deep breath, licking his lips as he leaned forward, his side pressed against the back of the couch. “Tristan, in that moment last Sunday, I made the wrong decision. I agreed to help him instead of staying here with you when I told you I would, when I told you that’s what I wanted. It was true—I wanted to stay here with you more than anything. But I . . . shit, I made the wrong choice, and you heard me do it. Fuck, I’m so sorry. That must’ve felt devastating.”

Tears burned again in my eyes, much like they had from time to time over the past thirteen days. I simply nodded again, confirming his assertion.

He tentatively reached out for me, and I extended my hand, giving him permission. He squeezed as soon as it was in his, and I felt an instant warmth, like home.

Henry was my home.

The thought hit me like a lightning bolt, and I jolted, tearing my hand from his and leaping off the couch. Henry frowned up at me, his brow scrunched again. “Tris?”

I swallowed hard against the terror I could feel crawling up my throat. Fuck. Not now. I needed to talk to Henry, not collapse under the crush of all these fucking feelings.

Goddammit.

Henry was on his feet beside me now, but I started backing away, not wanting him to see me like this. Not like this.

He wouldn’t want me if he saw me like this.

So I ran out of the room, back into the main hallway and toward the staircase. I circled to the basement stairs, sprinting down them and into the theater room. I didn’t stop until I reached the moderately sized half bath in the back corner and slammed the door behind me.

I leaned up against the blue-and-white-striped wallpaper in the far corner and slid down it, breathing faster now. As soon as my ass hit the shiny tiled floor, I started whimpering, worried I might choke on air alone. Shoving my hands into my curly hair, I clutched handfuls of the messy strands and pulled just hard enough to try to ground myself, but it wasn’t working.

A light knock sounded on the unlocked, still-closed door, and I knew Henry was telling me he was here if I wanted him to be. He wasn’t forcing his way in, wasn’t playing the power card as a Daddy. He somehow knew exactly what I needed: both space and comfort in an oddly perfect juxtaposition. I needed to know he was here without judgment.

That thought helped. Despite the terror flooding my veins at the mere thought of having—and confessing—real feelings for Henry, my brain cleared enough to know I wanted him in this moment. I wanted him to hold me, to tell me it was going to be alright.

“Daddy,” I called weakly, my voice breaking. “Please . . .”

I wasn’t sure I was making sense, but Henry seemed to read between the lines, because he cracked the door, pushing it forward carefully until he was sure he wouldn’t shove it into me. Then he dropped to the floor beside me, opening his arms. I collapsed into him instantly, and he wrapped himself around me, pulling me so close there wasn’t an inch of space between us.

In that moment, I was safe. I was cared for. I was important, special. I was loved, though neither of us could say it yet.

As he held me, his hand caressing the back of my head soothingly, I started crying. Sobbing, really. Gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs that tore through my every inhibition and insecurity, breaking me apart before putting me back together again. Fear gave way to something else, and I realized this overwhelm was a mask hiding something infinitely worse: real, deep, life-altering pain.

The pain of never being good enough for my parents. The pain of never being wanted for a relationship, just a quick blow job or one-night stand or a hot solo jerk-off session on the internet. The pain of never being chosen, just lusted after.

The pain of never being good enough for anyone to stay.

But Henry . . . Henry was choosing me. I knew it in my soul, though he hadn’t said it yet. He was choosing to stick by my side through the messy, the uncomfortable, the hurt, the pain. He was here, and he wasn’t leaving because it was hard. He was here, and I knew in my soul I was safe with him.

My haven. My home.

I pulled back sometime later, my tears subsiding but my face wet. I glanced up at him, and he shifted back enough to stare into my watery eyes and smile.

God, I’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Henry’s smile was piecing me back together.