SWNOVELS Henry & Me: Chapter 10
I walk to the top step and turn the keys in the keyhole. The door to Coop’s house yawns open, and I scurry in, away from the humid heat of late August.
I was out running an errand for Ji-ae again. This time, she wanted me to buy her cosmetics from Koreatown. I wonder why she can’t do that herself, but, well, at least I got to eat some Asian food on the way.
“I’m home!” I scream, wiping sweat off my arms.
Five pairs of eyes lock in on me. Three of them are a disturbing shade of blue.
Wait…what are Henry, Lucien, and Emilia doing in my house? I’m sure today’s a Sunday, which means I’m off work, and they never called me about visiting. Don’t tell me…Emilia wants me to babysit Lucien on a weekend?
“Hi.” I wave weakly.
Ji-ae and Coop smile at me, which makes me wonder what all this is really about. Can’t be bad news.
Henry clicks his fingers to beckon me forward. “Hey, Max is here.”
“Hi. It’s a surprise to see you all here.”
I drop my shopping near the door. Emilia gives me a hard stare.
She looks terribly out of place in her printed designer dress, although to be frank, from a distance, her five-hundred-dollar Bergdorf Goodman-bought dress and Ji-ae’s twenty-five-dollar Chinatown-sale impulse-buy look strikingly similar. Go, Ji-ae!
The animosity between Emilia and me still hasn’t faded; maybe I shouldn’t have called Lucien a sociopath. She gives me the cold shoulder as I perch between Coop and Henry.
“Emilia is the first client for my catering service,” Ji-ae announces proudly.
“You have a catering service?” I ask. This is the first I’ve heard of such an enterprise.
Letting out a squeal of excitement, my sister-in-law clasps her hands together. “Starting today, I do. I’ve been thinking about it for some time…I even got the required licenses. Now’s the chance. I can’t possibly refuse the chance to cater for Lucien’s birthday.”
“Thank you.” Lucien gives her a toothy grin, the kind he rarely gives me. “If only Max sang at my birthday, it would be perfect…” Tugging at the hem of Emilia’s dress, he melts her with a pleading look. “Mom, can Max sing? For entertainment.”
This suggestion clearly doesn’t sit well with her. A muscle jumps in her jaw and she dives for a cookie from the tin Ji-ae’s left on the coffee table—she who thinks sugar is concentrated poison.
With her voice somewhere between a strangled gasp and a choking whisper, she says, “But sweetie, what about the quartet from the New York Philharmonic? It was a coup to secure them for your birthday. Daddy had to use his Columbia connections.” She’s beset with worry at this point. “No offense, but I doubt Max has any understanding of what real music is.”
“I want Max. She’s funny.” Lucien fists his chubby fingers, a pout sketching over his mouth, crumbs of Ji-ae’s cookies on his pink lips.
I don’t understand this kid—when I sing to the radio on weekdays, he’s persnickety, and now he wants his mother to pay me money to sing at his birthday party? Makes zero sense.
Emilia’s chest puffs forward, and she looks on the verge of exploding.
“My friends will love Max,” he asserts; the look in his eye makes me uneasy.
I have a gut feeling all his friends are as precocious as him.
“But your grandma will have a fit.” Distress hugs Emilia’s slim, makeup-laden face. For a snob like her, having me perform at her son’s birthday party will really make her stock drop amongst her friends, I suppose.
Lucien gives zero fucks, though.
“It’s my birthday,” he asserts, every inch the spoilt brat. “You promised me that I can have whatever I wanted.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Anything you want,” she concedes, looking profoundly unhappy.
Well, this is new—Emilia listening to somebody for a change. Must be the family therapist’s doing, I reckon. I heard from Lucien that after the Coney Island incident, they visited a therapist together.
“We should ask Max first. She might have other commitments,” Henry interrupts.
Thank you very much, Henry, for giving me a voice in this madness.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. She has nothing to do on weekends. She just bums around at home all weekend, complaining how dull it is,” says my idiot brother.
Trust Coop to feed me to the sharks. Without a lifeboat.
“Sing the song you were singing the day you dropped bleach in the washer,” Lucien says, all innocence wiped clean from his countenance.
A wave of discomfort sweeps across my face. Emilia’s glaring at me, but since Henry already knows the truth, he doesn’t react. Every time I start feeling like I’ve misjudged Lucien, he throws another axe at my heart.
“This is the first I’m hearing of bleach in the washer,” Emilia says, clicking her nails together like a villain plotting the hero’s downfall.
“Um…it was a game,” I cover quickly, deciding not to elaborate any further, lest I get myself entangled in the details and blurt out the truth.
My professional image is dangling by a thread here. Emilia already distrusts me after the Coney Island incident.
Thankfully Henry cooperates, trapping Ji-ae with small-talk, so we can all return to discussing the menu for Lucien’s birthday party.
Gauging from the way Emilia describes this thing, it sounds more like a charity gala than a birthday party. The guest list includes the likes of the governor of New York and the CEO of a big software company. The scale of this thing is not normal. Plus, they’re going to host the party at Emilia’s parents’ house in Greenwich. Technically, they’re also Henry’s parents. And by logical extension (ain’t my vocabulary improving?), that means I’m going to meet his parents.
Not an appealing prospect.
Uncrossing her legs, Emilia taps her towering heels together in a manner that’s both elegant and curt. “That’s settled then. I’ll leave the menu to you, Ji-ae.”
“Of course. You won’t regret choosing me.” Ji-ae’s face is bursting with energy, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes gleaming.
“I look forward to it,” I mutter to myself.
*
“Holy hell, is this a house?” My jaw drops as I take in the splendor that is the Stones’ home while digesting the fact that I walked through a front gate framed by stone pillars and fountains.
Does life get more unreal than this?
An imposing Georgian mansion looms ahead of me, intimidating me with its glamor and sheer size. Overgrown ivy pads the walls in places, adding a natural rustic feel. The lawns are the kind of manicured that can only be bought and maintained with thousands of dollars. Fairy lights weave around the hedges and creep up the trees, releasing colorful light.
Henry’s apartment is neat, too, but it’s still accessible; it looks like humans could live there. But this? It’s made for royalty. It dazzles like a too-fine set of diamonds, reminding everybody who passes through its doors of the wealth and rank of its owner. I never turned my thoughts to how rich Henry’s parents were, but now I recall that they put him through Harvard without a scholarship, so I have been seriously oblivious to his family background.
“Stop gaping at the walls and come help me,” Ji-ae yells, struggling to move a carton. I rush to help her move some more to the kitchen.
We’re at the site of Lucien’s birthday party—that day finally came. As has been convention in the past, Emilia and her husband are holding the party at Lucien’s grandfather’s mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut.
I’m terrified of singing here. Will these people really be able to appreciate my type of music? I mean, most of my repertoire consists of Top 40 hits.
Peeling my entranced gaze from the house, I focus it on the door and go through. The scene inside is one of gaiety—also, there are hardly any kids. Instead, there are parades of men and women clothed in the most fashionable attire, their wealth and status displayed for all to see. Most of the ‘kids’ who are present look much older than Lucien, and are busy making eyes at each other and trying to find excuses to sneak a kiss.
Out of pure concern, I start searching for Lucien among the crowd. It’s hard to cover much distance with the tight, figure-hugging gown I’m wearing. Somewhere along the way, I bump into Emilia, who ushers me away from her friends to a corner.
“By the way, you’ll only be performing one song tonight.” Spotting an elegantly dressed old woman (who I assume is her mother-in-law), she chugs down champagne from her flute. “Or I’ll be hearing from her for the rest of my life.”
“But I prepared an hour-and-a-half set—”
“One song to make Lucien happy, that’s all. I can’t let you embarrass me any more than five minutes.”
I harrumph, but honestly, I am not keen to be judged by all these elitist people, either. They wouldn’t know true art if it clubbed them on the head.
After Emilia frees me, I rush over to Lucien’s side. He’s planted on a chair surrounded by a mountain of wrapped gifts, wearing really nice clothes. I expected to find him tickled pink on his birthday, but he’s decidedly blue. I dangle the canapés I amassed on my way in front of his nose.
“Happy birthday, Lucien.”
His face flickers back to life at the sight of me, and I almost change my opinion of him again. He rushes to embrace me, knocking the plate from my hand. The ground rushes up to my butt, and I meet it, with Lucien landing on top of me.
“Max!” He buries his face in the crook of my shoulder.
“This is so unlike you,” I mutter. “You’re usually distant.”
“I’m bored.” His gaze drops to my legs, which are covered by the yellow satin of my fishtail dress.
It’s one of the dresses I impulse-purchased during last month’s online shopping spree, but it’s turned out to be surprisingly useful.
“Uncle Henry’s not here yet, and Mom and Dad are schmoozing with important people as usual. I hate birthday parties.”
“It’s too early to judge. You haven’t heard me sing yet.”
“When will you sing?” he asks, gripping my hand, unwilling to let go.
I’ve never seen Lucien so clingy.
“Soon.” Rotating my head, I find more sophisticated people entering. Some of them are old enough to be Lucien’s grandparents. “Is it always like this?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are your friends?”
“I don’t have friends.”
“But at Coop’s house…you said your friends would like to hear me sing.”
“That was to convince Mom.”
Figures. But it makes me sad that Lucien doesn’t have any friends. He doesn’t seem like a loner, and he talks a lot, so why?
Something tickles my neck. Something satiny.
“Uncle Henry!” Lucien leaps over me, stomping over my thigh.
“Ouch!” I cry, and then catch Henry behind me.
He’s wearing a suit. So much for a kid’s birthday, huh? Worst part is, he doesn’t look out of place at all, because most people here are dressed formally. He’s carrying a huge present wrapped in shiny gold gift paper. Red ribbons folded into the shape of roses are stuck on it. Fancy wrapping.
“For you.” He hands it to Lucien, who shakes it near his ears.
“What is it?”
“You’ll find out when you unwrap it.”
“Later.” Adding it to his mountain of presents, Lucien surveys the huge pile, guessing what’s inside each of them under his breath.
I use this time to climb back to my feet.
“Max, what are you…” Henry starts.
I wave my hand. “Nothing. He knocked me down.”
I glare at Lucien, whose back is to me, so he doesn’t see my expression. Henry, in the meantime, takes stock of my appearance.
“You…look amazing.” He blushes as says this. I want to tell him the same, but for some reason, the air’s vanished from my lungs.
It’s like he controls the air here; the air does his bidding. It moves in and out of my nose depending on his expression.
“Thank you,” I say, tailing off into a whisper.
Beats of quietness roll by between us as we rake each other’s bodies appreciatively.
His eyes glow with raw hunger. Or maybe it’s mine that glow with hunger and I’m merely seeing the reflection in his. The multi-straps at the back of the dress bare a large swathe of my skin, which was, in hindsight, a stupid idea, considering how much access it grants Henry to my body.
“Have you met my parents yet, Max?” he asks, eyes never straying from me.
“No.”
“I’ll introduce you to them. They’re curious about you.”
“Really? Why?”
Has he told them about me? Does he want to tell them about me? But why? I’m only his housekeeper, and one kiss (and all the lascivious looks we’re exchanging now) doesn’t mean anything.
Snagging one of the canapés from a waiter who’s bringing food around, he munches down on it. “Lucien’s been extolling your virtues to them all afternoon. They are under the impression that you’re an angel.” He caresses Lucien’s hair affectionately. “Lucien hardly praises anyone.”
I noticed. The kid’s persnickety as hell.
Henry extends me a hand. It’s an offer that can’t be refused, so I take it.
“I’ll be back soon, kiddo,” I tell Lucien.
“I will wait for your song.” He snickers.
Young as he may be, I can’t allow him to look down on me. I’ll have to blow his socks off with the song.
“I’m gonna impress you today; you’ll see,” I say confidently, before being swept away by Henry into the thick of the party.
My head never stays straight; I look left and right, downright dazzled by the people here. Some of them are faces I’ve seen in newspapers and magazines. The governor of New York State is here.
I pull at Henry’s jacket. “How come you never told me you come from such a rich family?”
“I went to Harvard. Types like me abound there. You should have guessed.”
Yeah, I should have. Most of my classmates were really rich, at least upper-middle-class. But I didn’t dwell on their status then, and I’m not going to dwell on it now.
“What do your parents do?” I change the subject, curious about the source of this wealth.
“These days? Attend charity galas, volunteer, and vacation on the Seine, mostly. They’ve retired. Before, they were doctors. Had their own hospital. It’s now been passed down to Emilia and her husband.”
“What about you? Don’t you get a share?”
“And what exactly would I do with a hospital? I don’t know the first thing about healthcare.” In a quick maneuver, he steals a glass of wine from the open bar. “Mom and Dad invested in my consulting business, which was more than enough for me.”
I see. So that’s how it is. Sounds fair.
As we approach his parents (I know they’re his parents because they look like him), I’m struck by the complete absence of nerves. How’s that possible? I should be anxious about meeting these people…but I’m not. For one, they don’t even look scary.
Mr. Stone is the image of a harmless old man—short, overweight, ruddy-complexioned, with silver hair cropped close to his head. He’s dressed the most informally out of all the guests, in a plain blue shirt and slacks. His gaze reaches Henry from under his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Son, good to see you,” says Mr. Stone. “And who is this pretty lady?”
Next to him, Mrs. Stone clears her throat. She’s less friendly-looking. Her short bob of frosty blonde hair has been hairsprayed into submission. I think I’ve figured out where Emilia gets her coldness from.
Henry places a hand on the small of my back—right over my skin. The nerves under my skin sing at his touch. “Mom, Dad, this is Max.”
No further explanation is required. Immediately, Mrs. Stone abandons her sternness for warmth. “Not the legendary Max who has drawn praise from our Lucien.”
“The very same,” Henry confirms.
Surveying me from various angles, she shakes my hand. “You look young, dear. I imagined you’d be much older.”
“Would you believe Max is the same age as me? We were in the theatre society together at college. She was the star performer in every single production. She was—is—a really good actress.”
I fan myself at the effusive praise. “He’s exaggerating.”
“You two were at Harvard together?” Mr. Stone double-checks, surprise etched into his blue eyes.
“Yeah,” Henry replies. “Class of ’10.”
Both the Stones look a little puzzled. I’m sure they have questions, but they’re polite enough to not voice any. Instead, they ask me about the work I do at Henry’s, and about my family.
There’s not much to tell here—my mother was a career housewife, and my dad worked at the bank in our town. Sometimes, I’m surprised how far Coop and I come from where we started. In elementary school, I envisioned Coop as the chef at the pizzeria in town. Let’s just say he wasn’t ambitious at that age; he barely scraped through each year in school, and his only hobby was eating. Ji-ae and he are surely a match made in heaven.
“I’ll be singing today,” I mention to the Stones offhandedly in the course of the conversation. “I hope you’ll enjoy my performance.”
I resist mentioning that I’ve never sung professionally before—drawing sympathy from them at this stage might backfire later if I bomb the performance.
“I look forward to hearing your song, Max.” Mrs. Stone maternally adjusts Henry’s tie—yes, he’s wearing a tie, for his nephew’s birthday party, no less.
“I’ll do my best.”
Now I’m doubly nervous. I have to impress these people. To make matters worse, Emilia joins us. “I see you’ve met Max.”
Earlier I didn’t pay too much attention to her appearance, but now I do. She has a lot of makeup on, and her hair’s been straightened and conditioned. It’s glossy enough to blind the eye. Her dress, however, is the real show-stealer. Printed with a weird pattern, the shift dress lends her a strange-but-fashionable look. It doesn’t strike me as Emilia’s style, since she usually opts for plain, classy clothes which are classic in their design, but it suits her.
“Did you know Henry and Max both graduated from Harvard?” Mr. Stone says.
“Yeah, Henry mentioned.” Her eyes narrow with concern at her brother. “By the way, what happened to the back pain you were complaining about a few weeks ago?”
Remembering what led to that back pain, I tense up. I haven’t thought about that again, but what if that episode led to lingering effects?
Dragging a hand through his hair, Henry studies his shoes, clearly avoiding Emilia. That, in and of itself, is highly suspicious.
“It’s gone,” he replies. “It must have been because of bad posture.”
“You should take better care of your health. I’ve told you a million times to start exercising. And what was that photo of a burger I saw on your company’s Instagram feed yesterday?”
“I exercise.” Henry gets defensive, like a child getting scolded by his mother. “And I won’t die because I ate one burger.”
“You don’t know how many of my patients have said that to me. But it’s never one burger. It becomes a habit.” Emilia taps her iWatch. I didn’t notice that she had an iWatch before. “Max, why don’t you start packing him lunch from tomorrow? Include a lot of heart-healthy foods and antioxidants.”
“She will do nothing of the sort.” Moving in front of me, Henry hides Emilia from my view.
“I don’t mind making you lunch,” I butt in, not happy at being sidelined. “I make lunch for Lucien, anyway. I’ll just make twice the amount.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Emilia says. “And get a check-up at the hospital. I’m worried about your health.”
“I told you it’s nothing…” Henry evades my gaze.
“Never trust men. That’s my philosophy. Yes, that includes you, Dad. You had better come in for a check-up, too.”
Mr. Stone laughs, but Emilia’s not having it. “Mom, make sure I see him tomorrow.”
Mrs. Stone gives a small nod.
I hear the crunch of Emilia’s fingers as they bend over my shoulder. “Now, come on, Max, it’s time for us to go. Your performance starts soon.”
“All right. Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Stone. It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise.” Mr. Stone waves me goodbye.
On the way to the small stage Emilia’s arranged to be set up in one corner of the hall (looks like she really did not want me to attract any attention), she chatters about the sound system specifications for my performance. Also, she mentions that she’s already deposited my fee into my bank account—my good news of the day.
When I get to the stage, the sound guys have set up a mic, and I’m thrust towards it by Emilia’s strong hands.
“Remember, only one song. And try to be soft,” she whispers into my ear.
“Uh-huh.”
As I look out at the sea of people in front of me, a knot forms in my throat. Expectant faces, so many of them—all focused on me. Lucien’s still sulking, but Henry, Mr. and Mrs. Stone have excited looks fixed upon their faces. My knees almost give out.
What if I mess this up, like everything else?
Stage fright is a real thing, people. No matter how many times one has been on stage, there’s always that shred of doubt at the back of the mind that this time will be a disaster. As a performer, impressing the audience is my job, but people’s responses cannot be predicted. Shivering like a leaf in a storm, I open my mouth.
The guy manning the music track gives a thumbs up, and the sound of piano bursts into the hall, resonating amidst the extravagant chandeliers and wall sconces.
Instantly my eyes shut. It’s the oldest trick in the book—blocking out the audience. My mouth moves and I hear notes amplified through the microphone. Well, that’s an accomplishment. I keep my eyes closed throughout the song, and tense up at the part where I have to belt. Considering I haven’t practiced properly in ages, I’m surprised at the rich and powerful sound that discharges from my vocal cords. Smooth. Loud. Beautiful.
And that’s when I begin to feel a little better about all of it.
It’s not long until the end of the song. It passes by quickly, and I bow and bolt from the stage as fast as I can, searching for Lucien. On the way, I pick up a few appetizers because they smell too delicious to ignore.
Lucien’s still sitting in the same chair he was sitting in when I saw him earlier. And he seems to have made no friends in the meantime.
Coincidentally, Henry happens to be with Lucien.
“You have a beautiful voice,” he compliments, spotting me.
But I’m more interested in hearing what the little devil thinks of me. This whole show was for his benefit, anyway.
“So how was the song? Worth the money your mom paid for it?” I ask Lucien, taking dainty little bites of Ji-ae’s hand-crafted appetizers.
These are amazing; they have her unique stamp all over them. I can already see myself mass-consuming them tonight.
“That wasn’t funny at all.” Lucien wrinkles his nose. “Such a disappointment.”
“I’m not a circus clown, you know.”
“But when you sing at home, it’s hilarious.”
“That’s because I’m not trying to impress anybody or getting paid for it.”
“You did well.” I feel the weight of Henry’s hand on my back again, and this time, I move away, surprising him.
Being near him stirs up too many feelings inside me. Urgent need. Disastrous desire. Lingering fear. Spiraling dread.
He’s not dangerous, I know that…but how can I know?
“I want to play hide-and-seek,” Lucien announces, breaking me away from my wandering thoughts.
“Huh?” Henry straightens himself.
“I’m bored. I want to play something. So we’ll play hide-and-seek. Max and you hide; I’ll find you.”
“But isn’t this house too big for hide-and-seek?” I protest.
Henry and I could get lost within its dark rooms and hallways…and end up acting out our feelings. Not a good idea.
Lucien closes his eyes and turns away. “I know every corner. I will definitely find you both. I’ll count till fifty, okay?”
“Yeah…” We’re both eyeing each other with worry.
But it’s not like we’re swimming in options. Besides, some part of me is eager to spend this time alone with Henry. Even if all I do is stare at his face. Simple actions like that bring me much joy.
Today, I was introduced to his world. Knowing where he comes from has upped my admiration for him. Despite his clearly comfortable upbringing, he has tried to make his mark on the world in his own way. Not even cancer could hold him back from doing what he wanted. Henry is much stronger than he looks, and I’m glad I was able to meet him again after so many years and find out this side of him. He always surprises me with his depth. And the more I find out, the more I want to find out.
“Know any good places to hide?” I enquire, as we sail up the stairs to the upper floor of the house, which is devoid of guests.
“More than a few; this is my parents’ house, remember?”
The top floor of the house is deserted, but all the lights are on. I marvel at how many doors there are; I swear there must be at least five rooms on this floor. What do the Stones do with so many rooms?
Taking a sharp turn, Henry and I pass by a dark room that’s semi-open.
Acting on some indescribable instinct, I step in. “Let’s hide here, so Lucien can find us easily.”
Flipping on the lights, I draw a sharp breath when I realize that we’re in a bedroom. But it’s too late to take back my words. Besides, we’re adults. We can manage being together in a room without tearing each other’s clothes off.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Henry’s teasing tone makes heat prick at my cheeks, makes my imagination wander. The pink-wallpapered walls and muted lights are already starting to feel too romantic to endure. Add to that the blue satin bedspread and the golden-framed photo of Henry’s parents in their youth, and you have a recipe for disaster.
“I have no interest in dragging out this game. Once he finds us and he’s satisfied, he’ll let us be,” I snap, covertly laying the photo frame face-down. I’d rather not look at Mr. and Mrs. Stone while I’m thinking ludicrous thoughts about Henry.
“Fine.” Dropping his coat on an armchair in front of the window, Henry locks the door shut. “You have no problem with closing the door, right? We should at least pretend like we’re trying.”
“Yeah…” My throat’s so dry.
I need something to drink. I shouldn’t have passed up that wine downstairs. Lucien better find us quickly.
The bed makes a sighing sound when Henry’s butt sinks into the mattress. “Don’t mind me. I want to rest my back a little.”
I nod.
Boy, I should’ve thought this through. Because me alone with Henry in a room with a king-sized bed has no way of ending well.
He’s sitting on the bed, folding back the sleeves of his shirt casually, and my willpower’s dying little by little. Stop, I want to scream. Stop it.
Groping for a distraction, I try to dig into his personal life. “What did Emilia mean earlier about the back pain? Are you still having issues after the fall?”
He hesitates. “Um…just a little bit, sometimes. It’s no biggie.”
“But it could be dangerous.”
“Don’t overthink it, Max.”
He’s being evasive. That’s is not a good sign. “What is Emilia’s opinion? Does she think it could be dangerous?”
“She doesn’t know. That’s why she wants me to get an MRI.”
This is where I utilize my ‘scary nanny’ tone. “And you’re refusing to get one because?”
“I don’t want to.” He rolls his shoulder back in a lengthy shrug. “I’m scared.”
His expression hits me right in the chest, turning that area into a mushy pool of feeling. Fear is something I relate to only too well. But it’s out of place on Henry. He’s such a calm person. I hate seeing him like this. What I hate even more is that I can’t do anything about it.
“You’re claustrophobic?” I ask in a soothing voice.
“No, I’m afraid she’ll find something.” Disquiet grows on his features.
“Like what?”
“Like another tumor.”
Blank. My mind goes totally blank. A deeply disturbing feeling coils under my ribs, spreading its coldness throughout my body.
Tumor? Did he say tumor? The stuff you get when you’ve got cancer?
No. No, no, no. I can’t lose him. I cannot. In these terribly depressing times, when my career has failed and my luck’s pulled a Houdini on me, Lucien and Henry are the only people making my life worthwhile. I really, really anticipate seeing him every morning, making him breakfast, talking to him. I don’t want him to go.
“Tumor, did you say?” My lip wobbles.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He puts both his hands under the arch of his back for support. Does it still hurt there? “Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I was diagnosed with cancer four years ago, I felt a similar pain in my back, and I was confident it was nothing…but I was wrong,” Henry says, in a voice that milks every ounce of my emotions.
I don’t want to cry for him. But I do. On the inside.
And then poof goes my promise to not get near him, not touch him, not put my arms around him, draw him close and comfort him. I do it all.
My cheek sweeps an arc over his shoulder blade, and in those moments, the world is pure and beautiful and there is no such thing as fear. I don’t even recoil.
Maybe, I think, it’s because I know he’s a good person. The reason doesn’t even matter. What matters is to comfort him.
“Don’t feel bad for me.” Henry winds one arm around me.
The urge to protect him that arises within me at that moment tells me more than I need to know.
“I’m not feeling bad for you. I’m praying that you’re wrong.”
I don’t even recognize the person who says that.
When did I become someone who cares for other people? When did Henry Stone become someone who could tear my soul to pieces with a simple glance? When did he go from being a nobody I wouldn’t look at twice in a million years to making my heart race like a F1 racecar? Have I been blind all along or has he always been so fuckin’ beautiful?
“Max.” He fastens his hands around my face, fingers climbing into my hair, reaching my scalp. “I’m sorry.”
“But why—”
The sentence dies midway, air having disappeared from my lungs. He pulls me until I land flat on his body, my breasts squished against his hard chest. His breath fans my throat before his hands bracket the sides of my face.
Our lips crash together in a passionate war. A mild dread circles my chest, but before I can examine it, it’s decimated by the heat of Henry’s response. His tongue presses against my teeth, my gums, flicking at the side of my mouth, sketching tickly curves inside me. Devouring the play of sensations, I simultaneously fight the assault of discomfort closing around my throat.
I don’t wanna stop, but my negatively conditioned instinct is rebelling against my desires. There’s too much fear inside me that I can’t throw away. I try to tell my body that this is okay, that Henry wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’ve told these lies too many times about Rob.
But then my thoughts stop. Because Henry slips his hands under the fabric of my dress, under the flimsy bra, until he’s caught a nipple between his fingers. The rough slide of his thumb pad against the hard nub shoots a thread of pleasure into my veins. Pleasurable sensations ripple through me, my exhales tearing helplessly in response.
“Henry…” I moan, turning to jelly against his body.
“I know, Max. I know I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t take advantage of your pity for me. But I can’t seem to stop myself.” His hand circles my collarbone languorously, milking deep emotions from me. At my sharply indrawn breath, he grows worried. “Are you scared?”
“No.” Those words emerge from the depths of my soul. “And I don’t pity you. I respect you.”
My reply ignites a smile on his lips. I like it when he smiles. It makes the whole room glow, as if stars have sprung up in the corners of the pink-wallpapered walls. A pink sky, huh?
Resting his lips on the valley between my breasts, Henry murmurs low over my heated skin. “I’ve imagined doing this with you every morning you served me breakfast.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t, not after what you told me in Coney Island. And when you played it cool after that kiss, it was like being rejected by you all over again.”
A giggle wrenches out of my tight throat. “Me? Cool? Oh, please, I almost orgasm every time I see you doing dishes in the morning.”
“Really? Now that’s news to me.”
No words are required beyond this point.
We’re both mad for each other, that much is apparent. And yet…it doesn’t change much. The impulse to flee, to just get away from the touch of another human being, is building inside me. Closing my eyes, trying to fight it away, I lift up the dress, pull down my panties, and guide his hands to my clit. If he doesn’t hurry this up, he’s going to lose to my fears. They’re gaining ground fast. I can’t hold them forever. It’s a miracle I’ve come this far.
Thankfully Henry’s not stupid; he peels my clothes away and tosses them to the floor, then strokes my clit in delicious, ecstatic circles with his fingers. Dipping his head, he adds tongue, every slide causing wet pleasure to drip down my inner thighs. Parting my legs further, I roll back my head on the pillow. And close my eyes.
That turns out to be the death knell of this thing.
Because I snap back upright almost instantly, closing my legs together. I forgot how detrimental darkness was to my sense of safety. How quickly it could make everything vanish. How quickly it could transport me back to that scary, dangerous place.
“S-stop.” I’m having trouble swallowing; my throat’s clenched like a fist.
“You okay?” Henry moves away, giving me space.
“Uh-huh.”
So not okay.
Cradling my head between my palms, I inhale, all the sexual tension bleeding out my body.
Concentrate, Max, I tell myself. I can’t disappoint him after we’ve come this far, but I have no desire to be touched anymore. I suddenly want to be clothed again. To have something between him and my vulnerability. This body is my greatest vulnerability.
Damn, this is why I stay away from sex. It always gets awkward for me. And I hate letting people down. Nobody understands what it’s like to have your sense of security breached every time someone touches you. To constantly feel like this is all going to spin out of control and become something twisted and ugly.
But if I pull back now, Henry’s gonna be hurt by the rejection, and that’s not what I want. Oh, God, what should I do? It’s so hard to explain to him what’s happening inside me in a way that doesn’t make it seem like his fault.
So I continue. Because that’s what I must do. But I won’t let him touch me anymore.
With a faint burst of courage, I tease his coat away from his shoulder. He lets me. Then I pick at his buttons until his shirt gapes open.
“You sure you wanna go there?” he asks, eyes brimming with concern. “Baby, you look like you saw a ghost.”
“I’m trying to get a look at your back.” My voice shivers.
Perplexed, he shrugs out of his shirt. “My back? So all this was to have a look at my back?”
He doesn’t have to look at me like I’m a freak. I’m getting to the truth…soon.
“I need to confirm you didn’t lie about being okay earlier.”
“And here I thought we were having sex.”
“We were.” Bearing down on his back with my hand, I am relieved that there are no lumps or redness there. Only smooth skin that feels like heaven when I touch it. “Until I got scared.”
“Why’re you scared?” He cups my chin tenderly, which doesn’t help with the queasy feeling in my stomach.
I need his hands off me. Guess I’ll have to accomplish that on my own. A small flicker of bravery lifts my hand to his pants. The problem with my courage is that it comes in unreliable spurts that vanish almost as quickly as they came.
“Never mind. I’ll finish what I started.” Pulling him towards the edge of the bed, I unzip his pants and kneel on the floor.
My problem is this: I’m way too image-conscious to give up. I don’t want Henry accusing me of flaking out midway, so I’ll put myself through the wringer just to make sure I leave a good impression on him. It’s insane, but that’s who I am. And living with all these contradictory feelings inside me is a part of being who I am.
The rest of his clothes almost slip through my fingers, piece by piece. Dragging my wet tongue against his hard arousal, I don’t spend any time relishing the sensations or even taking in his nakedness. I can’t, or I’ll lose the will to move forward. I must keep fanning the flames, and do so while trying to avoid him touching me.
I take his erect shaft in my hands, the clock ticking away silently at the back of my mind, the push and pull of wanting to go all the way and wanting to just run away from everything warring violently. I must finish this quickly.
He tries to reach for me, but I slap his hand away. “Not now.”
This has to go my way if it’s going to get anywhere.
My tongue traces a languorous path over the underside of his penis. Circling the tip, I suck at it before plunging it into my mouth. It’s an awkward fit, to say the least. I have a small mouth and he’s…well…a bit too big.
Did I mention this is my first time giving a blowjob to someone who doesn’t entirely fit in my mouth?
Nobody tells you how complicated this shit is when you’re in a special situation like this. The eHow.coms of the world make this sound like child’s play. It’s like sucking a banana…yeah? I think not.
Damn. My jaw’s already aching. Still, I stretch my cheeks, trying to suck him without gagging. Talk about ambitious. He thrusts in and out of my mouth, every impact nearly knocking me on my back. The tip of his dick spearing the back of my throat only releases a fresh flood of panic. Eventually my throat spasms with coughs, ejecting him right out.
Fine. Blowjob’s out of the question.
Changing course smoothly, I close his hard shaft between my palms. If I think of him as a lump of flesh without a personality and gender, I’ll at least be able to manage a hand job. I didn’t have any problem massaging his back because I couldn’t see his face then, and he was nothing more than a body to me. Bodies can’t hurt.
Wrapping my fingers around his penis, I move them up and down steadily, aiming for a rhythm that can satisfy him. When he breathes hard, I know I’ve got him. He closes his eyes and surrenders to my touch. No demands, no instructions, nothing.
I envy how he can loosen himself up enough to enjoy sex, even with a virtual stranger like me. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do that.
Varying my pace, using my hands in tandem, I fist harder until I make him come.
He blows his load, and the liquid drizzles down my arms, dripping to the super-expensive carpet. Lemme just say here I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to clean this up.
The room is pervaded by a post-orgasm quietude (I made up that phrase) immediately after. Henry gets back to lying on his back, eyes shut.
I come to sit next to him on the bed, my anxiety gradually ebbing out, my heart rate dropping back to the normal range. I haven’t been on birth control in over a year, after I took my vow of celibacy, so I’m glad we didn’t go too far. But this is surely the worst sex I’ve had in a long time. And most definitely the worst sex he’s had in his life.
But as I look at Henry’s sleeping profile, I have no regrets. I’m glad I was able to make him come. The poor guy at least deserves that much, after I startled him when he was going down on me.
“I can’t believe I did this at your parents’ house with a hundred people downstairs,” is the first thing I say when he opens his eyes.
“And nobody caught us.” He winks. “We’re good.”
The easy camaraderie between us returns instantly. It’s a miracle I don’t feel weird talking to him after that super-horrible sex we just had. He seems satisfied. For now, that’ll have to do.
“Lucien’s still looking for us,” I remind him. “Hide-and-seek, remember?”
“Meanwhile, we’ve been playing a different game altogether.”
When a delicious smile licks his mouth, I cannot prevent my heart from melting, or myself from reaching out again to kiss him. But I am stopped by the sharp stab in my chest before I can complete the act. A sudden clammy feeling paralyzes me—a feeling I know only too well.
The sheen of sweat starts to show on my face, and I squirm away from Henry, frantically hunting for my clothes. Desperately needing their refuge. I feel exposed and unsafe all of a sudden. Is it my imagination or is the temperature in the room plummeting for real? How could I be wearing nothing?
Dashing for my crumpled gown, I slither into its satiny folds like my life depends on it. Tears prick at my eyes. They’re not tears of regret or guilt—they’re tears of anger, tears of frustration.
I’m so angry that I still can’t get over my weakness. I hate this constant urge to withdraw whenever someone touches me. I hate that I know how quickly I would withdraw if Henry were to touch me now. But most of all, I detest the knowledge that I failed again tonight.
It sucks to be me.
“Henry…” My voice cracks.
Please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t cry, I repeat over and over again in my head, to no avail. The tears have decided to fall, and fall they will.
“What’s the matter? Max, look at me. Why’re you crying?” Henry’s alarmed.
But still beautiful. Oh, he’s so beautiful. I wish I could have him. But even the thought of it is enough to scare me out of my wits at this moment. I’m drowning in panic.
“Max, say something. Did you get hurt?”
“I shouldn’t have done that; it was too much—”
Before I can complete, a brusque hammering sounds at the door.
“Uncle Henry. Max. I know you’re in there.” The door knob rattles. “But why is the door locked?”
Oh, my God, Lucien’s outside the door. He’s found us. He’s going to come in and see Henry naked and that’ll be the end of his innocence and my employment. Lunging to prevent the door from opening, I am glad when it holds. I forgot Henry locked it earlier.
Behind me, Henry’s gone still.
“What’re you doing? Hurry up and put on your clothes!” I whisper to him.
He dresses speedily, without any more discussion of my feelings.
Gingerly I unlock the door, simultaneously wiping away tears with the back of my hand.
“Good job. You found us.” I applaud Lucien, unenthusiastically.
“Hey, Max, you should be quieter when you’re trying to hide. I could hear both of you clearly.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the suggestion of what he could possibly be referring to. I don’t even want to start imagining what Lucien heard us doing.
“We were talking.” Henry avoids looking in my direction.
Lucien rakes him with his eyes. “Why are your clothes creased?”
“It must be because I was trying to cramp into a small space.” Henry gently directs Lucien back downstairs, lips thin with tension.
If Lucien doesn’t believe that excuse, he doesn’t let on. He tries to glance back at me, but I refuse to meet his eye. I feel guilty about deceiving him, even if it’s for his own good.
The second my feet hit the bottom stair, I mutter, “Bye. I’ll be going now,” and make a hasty retreat.
Flying past Lucien and Henry, I run to the exit, not bothering to let Ji-ae or Emilia know that I’m leaving.
I can’t think. I don’t want to think. I just want to get away, be alone, and eat, eat, eat away this pain in my heart.
*
After my third slice of pizza, I finally begin to see some truths.
Chief among them is that I’m falling in love with Henry. And there’s no way for it to end well. Henry is a man—a man with sexual needs. I can’t feed those sexual needs, not the way I am now. Even if he agrees to a platonic relationship (which I’m sure he won’t), it’ll only be a matter of time before he gets frustrated by the lack of intimacy.
Tonight I may have managed a small step forward, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable walking into that apartment every morning if I didn’t have the assurance that Henry wasn’t going to touch me.
I cherished the platonic relationship Henry and I shared before. This sex shit’s stirring up too many fears, to the point that it makes the thought of seeing Henry again uncomfortable. And I never want thinking about him to become something I detest—because I like thinking about him way too much.
The second problem, of course, is how hard sex is for me. Although I’ve had these issues for a long time, they never interfered with my life before, because I didn’t exacerbate them by jumping into relationships. But today, I couldn’t stop myself. I was excited. I was so pumped up to have sex with Henry, to finally be held close by him, to taste more than his lips, to feel that same wonderful joy…but sex is not a kiss. It’s more.
Being single was peaceful; I could harmoniously co-exist with my problem. After the horrible incident in Hollywood, I welcomed and cherished the calm. I wanted to enjoy that kind of mental peace forever.
With Henry, I’ll never be able to. I’ll constantly be reminded of my flaws, constantly tormented by my inability to give him things a normal girlfriend would be able to give him.
He’s a wonderful person. He even changed my perception of love from something shallow and flashy to something that burns with warmth and sincerity. But he can’t change himself. And I can’t change me.
Wiping away the fresh wave of tears that have hit me, I chew on my pizza. I haven’t cried like this in so long.
On days like these, I miss acting. I miss having a way to release my emotions and completely drain everything. Living in a make-believe world, slipping into the skin of someone who’s not as imperfect as me, forgetting reality for hours and hours…I miss all of that.
No point in lamenting now. I should eat this pizza and be glad that I got out of that bedroom alive, with my heart and everything else intact.
Actually…that slice of pepperoni pizza on display looks really appetizing. I should go get it.
*
“Won’t you ask why I was late?”
I creep into Coop’s house at one am to find Ji-ae awake.
“Already know. You were with Henry.” I appreciate the lack of explicit detail on what I was doing with him, because from the expression on her face, it’s obvious she knows. “He’s a good person, Max.”
“Yeah. Pity I work for him.”
Although technically, I work for his sister. But I’m still not going to start something up with him. (Part of my brain tells me it’s too late for such thoughts.)
“Did you both go out?” Ji-ae remarks. “I didn’t see Henry again after he went up the stairs with you.”
“Henry didn’t return to the party?”
“Nope.”
Perhaps he went home, too, to reflect on what happened.
Ji-ae’s eyelashes lift with worry, the dark circles under her eyes deepening when light hits them. “Will everything be okay tomorrow? You’ll still be working for him?”
Shit. I didn’t think that far ahead. What am I going to do tomorrow? It’ll be super weird. (Understatement of the year.)
Plan. I need a plan. A speech that clearly explains my position. I’ll have to be firm about never letting what happened between us happen again.
I lick my lips. Words flow into my brain automatically.
I’m sorry, Henry, but I think we should revert to the relationship we had. Last night was kinda traumatic for me…not that it’s your fault…but you remember what I told you? The stuff that happened in Hollywood. I guess I’m still not over it. So let’s put what happened behind us. It’s the right thing to do.
There, that sounded mature, didn’t it?
My chest puffs up in pride.
“Why’re you smiling?” Ji-ae flips the month page of the calendar to September.
I wipe away my smirk. “Nothing. By the way, good job with the food tonight. It was superb. You outdid yourself. My gut tells me you’ll be getting a flurry of catering requests soon.”
Predictably this makes her glow. “You think?”
“I know. Everybody was impressed with your work. Lucien couldn’t find a single fault in your food. And he’s the toughest critic.”
There’s more cooing from Ji-ae. “Oh, I hope it’s as you say. I could use some big orders.”
“My crystal ball says they shall soon be coming your way.” I knead my tired eyes. “How were the part-timers you hired today?”
“Better than I expected. I could never have gotten through today without their help. How was your singing performance?”
“It went well.”
The blinds haven’t been pulled over the window, so I can see the stars outside. You can’t usually see stars in New York, but Coop’s house provides a good view of the sky.
“Sorry I couldn’t listen to you sing. I was too busy,” Ji-ae says.
I swing my arm around her. “No worries. Eavesdrop on me when I’m in the shower for an encore anytime.”
“Wait! Here’s an idea: how about you become a party singer? This could be your new passion. I’ll make a website and Facebook page for you.”
I love her enthusiasm, but I don’t enjoy singing as much as she thinks I do. It’s one thing to sing in the shower or while cleaning, and quite another to get up on stage and have to deliver a set of songs professionally.
“Actually…I was thinking I should give acting another shot,” I tell her.
That was the revelation I had on my fifth slice of pizza. Regaining an avenue to release my chaotic emotions would help improve my emotional state. And if my emotional state improves…who knows? I might become calm enough to have sex someday.
“That’s what Coop and I have been telling you for ages.” Ji-ae stifles a yawn.
“I’ll start looking for local plays that are auditioning. There should be plenty in New York.”
“Good idea.” We edge towards our respective rooms, sleep beginning to haze our minds and slur our words. She waves at me. “Good night, Max. Don’t fret too much about the future. It’ll work itself out.”
“Yeah. Good night to you, too.”