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I like to think so. There’s a bit in a beautiful essay on The Charioteer (I’ll link, along with a few others) that has always stuck with me:
“[Love is love] simply was, like a fixed and ancient piece of built-in furniture in the room of [Mary Renault’s] mind, largely unnoticed day to day. Perhaps it was even the floor.”1
I’ll leave you with this tonight.
Hope you sleep well (and I hope you dream in my empty spaces).
Yours,
Henry
To: Cameron17Morland @gmail.com
From: Henrybatilney @gmail.com
Dear Cameron,
I’m sure I barely slept at camp last night. I’m sure I was wondering how you were taking my first letter, what you think of me.
I hope you slept well.
One part of last night’s email was left on a cliffhanger . . . The armchair you tossed your gloves on when we danced.
The moment your gloves hit the upholstery, thoughts of Ralph and his padded glove hit me. How desperate he was for love behind his stoic façade. Then I looked at you struggling to voice what you wanted but saw in your eyes how much you wanted us to kiss, and I felt like Ralph looking at Laurie. I realized we are them. All of us. Anyone who faces choice in their life, and the battle it takes to follow the call of our souls.
That’s what makes the book so powerful.
It becomes a part of you, and in random moments, the emotion of reading it rises like full tide threatening to spill over a bank.
I’ve had a few of these moments since meeting you, and the gloves were not the first.
Our first night in your office, analyzing your desk and your personality, I flashed to Laurie at school observing Ralph’s desk, and at the end, when he observes it again, how much it revealed.
Then your mention of Lanyon in our first chats.
The broken gramophone, reminding me of Laurie and Andrew.
Every other day, another flash. Like an airplane runway lighting system.
Seeing you read the book makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, touched. Like you’re reading a part of me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sleep well. I’ll be dreaming of you.
Yours always,
Henry
Fairy lights twinkled in the great hall, the same space where Mr. Tilney had hosted his Halloween party. The lights picked out the fine gold stenciling against the moody black-and-navy walls, but left the space otherwise dim. The perfect atmosphere for people to make fools of themselves.
Cameron stood beside a large, ornate wooden china cabinet surveying the crowd—who made quick work of intoxicating themselves—and trying to determine if and when he should save Georgie from unwanted conversation. So far, she was fine.
He nursed his bourbon. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the drink, but when he’d read it was Lakewood bourbon, he’d taken a picture of himself with the bottle and sent it to Lake. He’d immediately replied asking if he could have a picture of him and Henry together.
A nice thought, but currently impossible since Henry hadn’t arrived back from camp yet. An accident on the highway had stalled the bus, and he was driving back and forth returning kids to their families. Such a Henry thing to do.
He smiled softly.
His phone buzzed and he whipped it out of his pocket.
Oh. Not Henry.
Isabella: Is the party in full swing?
* * *
Cameron: For the last hour. Drunken Twister, a makeshift dance floor, and Fred’s just turned up.
* * *
Isabella: What’s he like?
* * *
Cameron: Busy with his friends, doesn’t seem to smile much.
* * *
Isabella: What does he look like?
* * *
Isabella: Almost there.
Cameron typed back that he hoped she hadn’t been texting and driving, and a shadow landed over his phone.
His head shot up and he faced Fred: a wall of overly ripped muscle, a hard face worn from years of physical work, and an unyielding smile that only touched his mouth. He pinched a cigarette in one hand and dragged in a deep breath. “Who are you?”
Fred breathed the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
The ashy scent made Cameron’s nose scrunch. “Cameron, Henry’s friend. Are you sure smoking in here is a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He inhaled and the cigarette tip glowed.
“The smell will sink into the wallpaper and tapestries—”
“It’s one cigarette.”
“—a lot of which are very flammable.”
“Jesus. Always befriending boring people. Are you my little bother’s moral compass or what?”
“No. He doesn’t need one.”
Fred exhaled into his face, and Cameron coughed. This wasn’t going well. What would Henry think? He tried again. “Are you in Port Ratapu long?”
“I don’t know you, and you want me gone already.” He laughed hollowly, and Cameron didn’t like the quiet intensity in his eyes.
“I just meant—”
“Enjoy my party.”
Fred dunked his cigarette in Cameron’s drink, and left with a parting cloud of smoke.
Cameron was still waving the air, choking on it, when Isabella sauntered into the room in a show-stopping short crimson dress that clashed wildly with her flowing red hair. She flattened her fingers over a black belt that matched her choker, and her black ballet flats sparkled.
