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Henn looks visibly blown away. “You literally tried talking like a normal person, or you’re saying you can relate?”
“No, literally. For, like, three months in middle school. It hurt my brain, same as you.”
Henn still looks stunned. “I’ve never met anyone who literally, consciously tried to talk differently as a kid, besides me.”
I sip my wine. “It made me realize I’ve got no choice but to be me. My true, dorky self. After that, I actually categorized my species of dork. Scientifically, I mean. Dorkus Millikeningus.”
Henn guffaws. “Is Dorkus the genus and Millikeningus the species?”
“Correct.”
“Oh my God, you’re amazing. Am I the same genus as you?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course, you are. Can’t you tell? We’re different species, though. You’re Dorkus Hennessingus.”
Henn throws his head back and laughs from the bottom of his soul. When he gathers himself, he says, “What about Josh and Kat?”
“They’re not our same genus, obviously. They’re both of the genus Cool-kid-opholus.”
Again, Henn belly laughs. “Species?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Henn pauses. “Faradingus and Morganingus?”
“Now you get it. It’s all highly scientific.”
Henn grins at me for a long moment, his dark eyes blazing, before saying, “Reason number seven billion why I like you so much: you’re fucking hilarious.”
“You like that about me? Weirdo.”
“Right? Who actually wants to laugh? I’m a freak.”
“Seriously, though, you’d be shocked how many guys say they’re looking for a woman with a great sense of humor, but when you ask them what that means, it turns out they want a woman who laughs at their jokes. It never even occurs to them to want a woman who makes them laugh in return.”
“Well, that’s dumb. There’s nothing sexier than a funny woman.”
“That’s not the majority view, I’m afraid.”
“The majority is full of idiots, then.”
“The dating pool is, anyway.” I lean back and study Henn for a long moment, marveling at his emotional intelligence. I ask, “Can I ask you a serious question? You once mentioned you’re in therapy. What prompted you to go?”
Henn ponders the question for a moment. “I started struggling with depression and anxiety in middle school, and my mom got me into therapy. From that age on, I’ve always worked pretty consciously on my mental health. In high school, I was mostly doing great. But in college, being away from home for the first time was hard on me. I felt like a friendless weirdo, until I met Josh. Luckily, he convinced me to join a fraternity with him, and then we became friends with Reed, early on. And suddenly, I was doing great again. Better than ever. So, I stopped going to therapy because I thought, ‘Why pay someone to listen to me being happy?’ But then, a couple years ago, my dad died, and I went back to help me process all those hard feelings.”
“I’m so sorry, Henn.”
“Thank you. One minute he was gardening with my mom, and the next he was gone.” He snaps his fingers. “Heart attack.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s horrible.”
He tells me a few lovely things about his father. And then, he talks about his mother’s grief and how worried he’s been about her. “Even though I’m doing well now,” Henn says, “I’ve kept going to regular therapy to make sure I stay strong for my mom. Also, because I’ve realized my job is super stressful, and it’s nice to have an outlet to talk about that.”
“I’m so glad you do that for yourself.”
“What about you? What’s your story with therapy?”
I tell him about my parents’ divorce. My mother’s ultra-chaotic love life since then. The fact that I became Maddy’s de facto mother, in a lot of ways, at around age ten. “Like you, I had some anxiety to deal with,” I admit. “I had it under control, pretty well, until a few years ago, when, in a short period of time, my grandma died, Maddy had her accident, and my dating life became toxic. I went to therapy to deal with all that, and I’ve been going regularly ever since.” When Henn looks concerned, I touch his hand and smile. “I’m doing great now. Don’t worry about me.”
Henn looks into my eyes for a long beat, and I can’t help thinking he’s trying to decide whether or not to say something.
“Whatever it is, you can say it.”
Henn twists his mouth. “I’m really glad you’re doing well. You deserve to be happy. To be treated well. To feel safe and protected.”
“Thank you. You deserve all that, too.”
Henn opens his mouth to speak, but before he says a word, our waiter appears to clear plates and ask if we want dessert.
“Actually, I’ve arranged a surprise dessert at another location,” Henn says to me. “It’s within walking distance.” As I express excitement, Henn turns to the waiter. “Just the check, please.”
“Surprises and desserts are two of my favorite things,” I say, bopping happily in my chair. “Put them together, and you’ve concocted an atomic bomb of pure joy for me.”
