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We were desperate for anything new to watch, and found a VHS of Grease in the basement. We still had a VCR in the playroom, so Henry and I popped it in. We immediately became obsessed, many, many plot points going over our young heads. At dinner, we started singing “You’re the One That I Want,” the song Henry is currently pouring his whole heart into, and my mom’s eyes narrowed.

“How do you know that song?” she asked, immediately growing furious that we’d seen a highly inappropriate movie under her watch. It was only made worse when we informed our parents that we wanted to be Sandy and Danny for Halloween the following month.

I think my mom was picturing the sweater and the long yellow skirt, but I screamed, “No! Tell me about it, stud, Sandy!” I wanted the black leather pants, the tight off-the-shoulder top, the leather jacket. Pretty sure I broke my mother’s brain that month.

“It’s electrifying!” he shouts, and the bachelorette party goes wild as he shakes his hips like John Travolta. I have never seen this side of Henry Cole before, so willing to let loose. I know he can move his hips in intoxicating ways, but I wasn’t prepared to share that information with the class.

I join in for Sandy’s verse, Henry’s attention fully locked on me despite the fact that the bachelorette party is excitedly throwing penis paraphernalia in his general direction. I can’t blame them. It’s hard to believe that a week ago he was telling me he wasn’t much for karaoke. I no longer trust anything he says. Tone deaf or not, my man is in his element.

He shimmies toward me, and I shimmy back, alternating with him as we sing together. It takes everything within me to not pull another Sandy move from the film, placing my hands on his shoulders and jumping up, wrapping my legs around his waist while he carries me around. Keep it together, my brain warns, but my heart is too smitten.

When we finish the song, Henry exacts more PDA than is probably socially acceptable, and the bachelorette party boos as we leave the stage. I push him off me playfully, barely even embarrassed, as the bride-to-be begins Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”

Without even discussing it, we both silently agree it’s time to go. We grab our coats, shoving dollar bills into the tip jar of the guy running the karaoke machine, and burst back out into the cold air.

“So, on a scale of—” Henry starts, but I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his face down to mine. “Ten, I take it?” he says when we finally come up for air, and I nod, but I don’t let go of him. Henry presses his forehead into mine as strangers brush past us, but neither of us cares.

“I latke you,” I say, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on, but please take me home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me north. We walk back mostly the way we came, but this time Henry parks me briefly inside the baffling Starbucks while he dips down to Ignoto to grab our leftovers. I want to turn to everyone in there and scream, Do you even know what’s under your feet??

But I don’t, obviously, because it’s a secret.

Henry’s secret.

And now, mine.

When he emerges minutes later with a huge white paper bag, Henry extends his arm to me and says, “Home?”

And I reply, “Please.”

* * *

We make our way back to Henry’s building. When he greets his doorman, Henry reaches into the bag and fishes out a small round container and a spoon. “Stay warm,” Henry says as the doorman pops open the container.

“Zuppa toscana, my favorite!” the doorman exclaims, and I give Henry a funny look. That wasn’t something we ordered. I love that he’s the type of person to grab something warm for the man standing out in the freezing December night. I’m not surprised by this, but I’m even more charmed. With other guys, this could be a move, something to impress the girl, but with Henry, I know it isn’t that. It’s just who he is, the man he’s grown into. We ride up the glass elevator to the twenty-eighth floor, and I wonder what other surprises may be in that unmarked paper bag.

Sure enough, we get inside, and Henry unpacks many more containers than should have been included with just our leftovers.

“Henry!” I exclaim as I notice the slice of chocolate cake through the clear plastic cover.

“I can’t take credit for the cake. That was all Leo. He said it’s Madagascar chocolate.”

I gasp and he laughs.

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

He nods as he continues to unpack the bag.

I slip into Henry’s bedroom for the first time, the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows betraying an even more unreal view of the city than the living room did. The other two walls are still a stark white, with the king bed (and headboard, of course) taking up most of the room. There’s a dresser with clean lines, and a small tufted armchair in the corner that looks like it’s never been sat in before, where I spot my bag.

I tug the bag over to the bed and sit down, rummaging through for my sexier lingerie, when I realize exactly how comfortable this bed is. I’m sitting on a cloud, floating through the sky. I personally love a plush pillow-top bed, but I would have pegged Henry as having a firmer mattress. I lie back, just for a minute, and sigh into the pillow. It smells like him, fresh linen and sandalwood. The mattress at my apartment has nothing on this one. It must have cost thousands of dollars, but I get it ’cause it’s a direct line to heaven. My whole body relaxes. I let my eyes briefly flutter closed.

Chapter 23

I wake with a start, shooting up in bed. The lights are out, but sunlight pours through the edge of the blackout curtain. Under the blanket I’m still fully clothed in my outfit from the evening, down to the tights, minus my shoes, which are lined up in an orderly fashion next to the nightstand on my side. The other side of the bed looks slept in but is currently empty.

Oh God.