Henry & Me: A hilarious feel-good romantic comedy

You’d think that two mature adults like Henry and me would know how to handle a kiss. Yet after that explosive lip lock, neither of us said a word—we soldiered on in silence, letting uncomfortable tension settle around us like poisonous smog. At the subway station, I was spared from further misery because I was taking a different train.

Before I left, Lucien woke up and he was surprised to see Henry, but he kissed me and let go, happily leaping into Henry’s arms. My heart tugged as I watched them both be swallowed up by the train. It only reaffirmed what I felt for Henry.

Ji-ae was brimming with questions when I got back, but I was too tired to reply, so I brushed her off.

That’s why, when I snake my way to the kitchen this morning, there’s no breakfast waiting for me, only a tense Coop and Ji-ae cursing at the fish that’s frying in the pan. She impales me with an angry glance as soon as the sound of my footfalls grazes her ear.

My stomach grumbles anticlimactically. Shakespeare had the right of it when he said, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Summoning my inner actress, I shoot Ji-ae the most apologetic look I can muster.

“I’m sorry for last night. My brain was fried…I took Lucien to Coney Island and got into so much trouble for it.”

Stunned silence echoes at this pronouncement. I even hear Coop’s muscles twitch. The clock on the wall ticks loudly. Feet shuffle and Ji-ae kneels next to me. Her long-drawn-out sigh skims my ear and ricochets off my face. “It’s okay. You can find another job.”

Looking up at her, I shake my head. “I haven’t been fired. Yet.”

Honestly, I’m surprised, too. But there’s a teeny-tiny problem: I don’t know what to say when I see Henry again. Will we continue to pretend like nothing happened? I wish we would. I want things to go back to the way they were, when we could be comfortable with each other.

I may have managed one kiss with bravado, but the instant I got home, I was clawed by nerves. Torturous thoughts twisted around my mind all night, robbing away my sleep. When dawn broke, I was drenched in sweat and my heart was palpitating. My stomach roiled for hours.

The kiss has passed, but my fears haven’t subsided. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I got that things would progress further. That he would touch me again. That maybe we would kiss again. And this time, it’d be so wrong.

“That’s good news, then!” Coop says enthusiastically, cutting me off from my stream of thoughts. Most of his enthusiasm is tied to the prospect of finally being fed breakfast.

I can’t stand his exuberance when I feel so anxious inside, so I act like the wet blanket.

“But there’s no saying what might happen today.”

“It’ll be all right.” Ji-ae dumps spices into the pot of boiling broth. “So do your best.”

“Yeah, Maxie. Everybody makes mistakes.” Coop encloses me in a half-hug. “I’m sure if you apologize, they’ll understand.”

Tell that to Emilia, I think to myself. She started bombarding me with a fusillade of emails this morning, most of which I still have to reply to. I sent her one last night saying I’m sorry about everything that happened, but I don’t think she bought my apology.

“Lucien didn’t get hurt, did he?” Ji-ae interrupts, flipping a pancake without even looking at it.

I think she’ll blow if she has to clean up one more mess for me.

“Nothing happened to him,” I say, as convincingly as I can.

“Thank goodness.” Transferring the pancakes onto a plate, she thrusts it in my direction. “Now hurry up and go to work. My part-timer will be here soon.”

The train ride to Flatiron turns out to be the longest in my life—I miss my stop twice and almost end up going to Coney Island again. It’s eight by the time I finally make it to my destination. All throughout, thoughts whir in my head.

I managed a kiss, but what if he’s expecting more? I can’t give more, when the mere thought makes me break out in hives. Before now, I’ve never considered seeking medical help for my problem. Intimacy issues don’t seem to be the kind of thing to seek medical help for, especially when they’re not even affecting my life that much. Plus, I have no money for therapy.

Keeping my fingers crossed, I pass through the door, hoping Henry’s already left for work. Sadly, he’s waiting right by the entrance, looking so hot he knocks the air out of my lungs.

“I’m glad you came,” he utters carefully, like he’s treading over eggshells. “Are you okay?”

Pushing back a strand of air, I turn on my brave face and gravitate towards the nearest object that needs cleaning, snatching a cloth and Lysol on the way. “Perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right.” Henry clears his throat awkwardly, but his eyes stay pinned on me, unconvinced.

Looks like there’s no way to avoid addressing the elephant in the room.

“I’m sorry about last night’s…um…incident,” I say, phlegm suddenly rising in my throat and making my voice hoarse. I shouldn’t have eaten all that ice-cream. “I was being stupid. It will never happen again.”

I must’ve imagined it, but his face falls. “Max, I know you’re struggling with whatever happened in Hollywood…” His voice tails off into nothing.

He drags his hand through his hair. Paces. Paces some more. Then he steals the space behind me.

His hand captures mine roughly, sending a shock through my senses. “To be honest…I really find you attractive. I always have. But I would hate to make you uncomfortable while you work here. And if kissing me makes you uncomfortable…well, you’re right, it’ll never happen again.”

Wondering why I’m so flattered by that admission, I turn my face away. I’ve always known that Henry was smitten with me. He said so when we were in college. But why does hearing it now make my heart flutter?

“I do, too,” I admit, blood hot where his skin’s met mine. When he squints, I clarify, “Find you attractive, I mean.”

A surprised gasp forces itself out of his throat. I wish I could kiss him again, bury my hands in his beautiful hair, rest my head on his strong shoulder, breathe in time with him. But I can’t. It’d take too much out of me afterwards.

Removing my hand from his, I start polishing the kitchen sink vigorously, as I wait for everything I said to sink (see the clever pun here?) in. Cleaning can be really therapeutic at such moments.

When his lips remain pressed in a thin line, I add, “But I have too many issues right now, and I don’t want to destroy our professional relationship.”

Stupid excuse, I know. As long as nannies and male employers have existed, there’ve always been entanglements between them. If we were to become romantically involved, it wouldn’t be so unexpected. I swear, Emilia thinks I’m already involved with Henry. She implied as much in her emails.

“That’s a wise decision,” he agrees. “So we’ll try to stay out of each other’s way from today.”

“Yeah.”

I’m sure he’s laughing internally, too. Judging from the undetonated tension between us, something like that kiss is definitely going to happen again. I just hope it won’t be more than a kiss.

Hurriedly, I serve him breakfast, hoping that will ease the tension.

“Anything else you want to say?” he asks, unaware that his fingers are pressing harder against his temples.

Right then, my eyes fixate on the curtains. I gulp. Time to come clean.

“Since we’re being honest today…about those curtains…” I stab a finger in the direction of the drapes fluttering at the window. “I bleached them by mistake, so I bought new ones. Don’t worry, it wasn’t my money. Lucien paid for it.”

His eyebrows arch with suspicion. “And how did Lucien get the money to pay for curtains?”

This is the part where my smile fades faster than my grandma’s hair color. “Emilia’s credit card. I also bought him chocolate using that card because he threatened to tell on me otherwise. I didn’t want to be fired for ruining your precious silk curtains that were gifted to you by the king of Ceylon…but I know it wasn’t the right thing to do, so I’ll pay you back.” Quickly, I bat my eyelashes and add, “Just not this month, okay?”

I’m already feeling the pinch this month after I impulse-purchased a truckload of skincare products and makeup yesterday.

Henry’s hands go still. “What’re you talking about? I bought those curtains from IKEA.”

“But Lucien said they were a gift from the king of Ceylon…hundred-year-old pure silk…” Realization dawns on me. “Argh! Lucien Stone-Carter—that scamp. He lied to me.”

Dropping the knife and fork on his plate, Henry chortles. And he doesn’t stop. The high, pleasant sound of it reverberates throughout the posh living room—and arrows straight into my chest. Awareness blooms in my chest—awareness of the fact that I’m laughing, too.

Between the spurts of laughter, he somehow manages the words: “Let me get this straight. You were conned by my nine-year-old nephew into buying me silk curtains?”

“Using his mother’s credit card,” I add, scrunching my eyes shut and averting my face. Humiliation is washing over me right now, even as hiccups of laughter break free from my lips.

The next time I see Lucien, he’s so dead.

“I’m sorry.” I feel really stupid now.

“The fun never ends in this household,” he remarks, chewing on toast. Instead of looking mad at me, he looks highly amused. “I’ll take the curtains out of next month’s pay. And I’ll tell my sister what happened so she doesn’t get a shock when she looks at her credit card bill.”

“Um…when you tell her…could you leave my part out?” I ask, spooning him some extra baked beans. “I don’t want her to think badly about me.”

Emilia’s gonna think I’m a con artist or something. If it means Lucien won’t be coming around anymore, though, I’m all for it. That devil…I can’t believe he deceived me for the sake of chocolate. Kids these days have no integrity. Whatever happened to innocence and honesty?

Henry’s Adam’s apple bobs as he slugs down my homemade berry smoothie. “That would be hard. You played the main role, after all.”

My lips part involuntarily. He has such a sexy throat. In fact, at this angle, his face looks sexy, too. There’s a shadow of a stubble on his jaw that I’m itching to tease. These days, I think about touching him a lot. I know, I know, it’s highly inappropriate, but you can’t reason with urges. Hate it as I may, I find Henry Stone really hard to resist looking at.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” I say tersely.

Biting my nails, I withdraw to the background, continuing to admire him from a distance. I’m so pathetic. This is not how I imagined my love life world be at twenty-eight. Stealing secret glances at my employer.

Busying myself with stacking dishes in the cabinets, I fail to notice the passing of time. He said he was expecting some deliveries this afternoon from his bank. I’ll have to get the shopping done before then. I read online that there’s a special demo at Whole Foods this morning—

“Max, one more thing,” Henry says, rising from the table, done with breakfast.

“Yes?” I squeak.

“Sri Lanka’s a democracy, so there’s no king of Ceylon.”

*

Lucien stumbles out the bathroom later that morning, teeth clean and face freshly scrubbed, mumbling, “Good morning,” to me.

He’s still in his PJs, a purple set with suns and moons printed on it. Sleep lines streak his cheeks. I woke him up an hour ago. Turns out Henry brought him here last night to sleep off the day. Before leaving for work, he asked me whether I could look after Lucien all day, since Emilia doesn’t want him going to school today, and I agreed.

The pitter-patter of Lucien’s small feet echoes throughout the large living room.

“I want to eat,” he demands.

Emptying the dishwasher, I shout, “Breakfast is on the table.”

He stops suddenly, turns his face to me. His lips turn up in a sly smile. “I saw you kiss Uncle Henry last night.”

The fork I’m putting back drops out of my hand as heat claims my face.

“W-what?” I stammer, not sure what to say.

Fuck. Lucien saw us? I thought he was sleeping. A sudden barrage of questions hammer at me. What if he tells Emilia? What if she decides this is unacceptable behavior? What if I get sacked? What if I’ve ruined his innocence for life…wait, he’s not innocent anyway. But what if he doesn’t trust me anymore? What if…what if…

Advancing towards the table, Lucien picks up the knife and strikes the edge of the plate. A sharp sound arrows through the sterile air. “Well done, Max. You’ve reached level two of being an adult.”

“Huh?” I say, dazed. “Level two?”

“You’ve officially managed to exercise your womanly wiles.”

“Womanly wiles.” Parking my hands over my hips, I shoot him down with a stern look. “You’re not supposed to know words like that.”

He shrugs into the chair, spearing my lovingly made eggs. “Take a compliment, won’t you?”

“I don’t need compliments from you, kiddo.” I huff. “You’ve landed me in a helluva lotta trouble because of your selfishness.”

He chews his breakfast, sparing me a fleeting glance from the corner of his eye. “To be fair, though, you’re always in trouble.”

I serve him an extra slice of bread, with the intention of shutting him up. “Not so much trouble that I’m receiving fifty emails from your mom at five am.”

“I bet ninety percent of them are about the health risks of consuming cholesterol.” He titters, reaching for juice, then gulping it down in a single go.

I shake my head. This kid has so many big words in his vocabulary, it’s unbelievable. Private school kids are wired differently, I guess.

“Anyway.” I slam the dishwasher closed, having finished emptying it. “You didn’t finish your homework and cello practice yesterday, so you have to compensate for it today.”

“On it.”

Pouncing on the sofa, Lucien retrieves his small, custom-made cello from its case and tentatively rubs the bow over the strings. The cello lets out a low whimper.

“Hey, Max, let’s go out somewhere later,” he calls out to me, setting up the stand for his sheet music and clipping a score to it.

I snort. “Like I’m going to fall for that twice.”

“Oh, by the way…are you and Uncle Henry dating now that you’ve kissed?”

I tsk. “We’re not.”

“Why?”

“Because Henry’s…” I rub my chin. “Well, Henry’s kinda clueless about people’s feelings, he’s not very emotional and…he’s hard to read. I don’t think we’d suit.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re insightful about other people’s feelings, either. And you’re hard to predict, too. I think you two will make a good pair.”

“We won’t!” I proclaim vehemently. “We’re as different as chalk and cheese.”

“And that’s bad how?”

“A kid like you won’t understand.” I wave my hand, dismissing this conversation. “Now get to your music practice.”

As strains of cello issue into the air, notes stringing together into a beautiful melody, I turn my attention to making the floors sparkle. Classical music never interested me, but whatever Lucien’s playing sounds refined and mellow, beautiful in a haunting way. Twice I come close to interrupting him to ask what he’s playing, then change my mind and decide to let him practice in peace. The notation on the sheet music looks terribly complex, with a string of demisemiquavers and a host of other symbols I never mastered in sight singing. (Music was my minor in college. My instrument was the voice.)

Once he’s started, Lucien practices without any breaks or pauses, flipping pages smoothly with one hand while the other continues to coax melodies out of the cello. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a virtuoso.

Grateful for the music in the background, I work energetically.

Bit by bit, I’m getting used to the domestic routines around the house. Most days, I don’t even complain about it much. There are advantages to having your mind occupied, even if it’s occupied by mundane work.

Dusting a picture of Henry in his room, I inhale my fill of his deep woody scent, the memories of his tongue inside my mouth and our shared intimacy flooding me as surely as the smell. My heart speeds up.

Although we resolved the kiss issue, my feelings for him won’t be resolved so easily. My heart accelerates at the sight of him, my legs move on their own, and my mind travels down dark, sensual alleys. It’s puzzling, because he’s so not my type.

Henry doesn’t stand out in a flashy way. There’s nothing special about him—he isn’t witty or charming. There isn’t a punchline waiting to happen in every sentence he says. But in his own way, with his even temper, maturity and niceness, he warms my heart. Maybe love is something different from what I imagined. Maybe it’s not a passionate allegro, but a slow andante, like the tune Lucien is now playing.

The music practice continues, as I get into the bathroom attached to Henry’s bedroom and start attacking the limescale in the bathtub. It’s an ordeal, to say the least, and it takes far longer than I expected.

Returning back to the living room, I’m surprised to find it soundless. The cello sleeps inside its open case. Lucien’s staring out the window, an aimless expression fastened on his face. “Uncle Henry hasn’t noticed the switch yet.”

I recall the conversation from earlier this morning—recall the way I was fooled by him.

“Good for you.” He bites his lip, as if holding back a laugh. “Otherwise you’d have had to go to Ceylon and beg the king to give you another set of those curtains.”

I can’t believe he thinks I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I am so stupid.

“Silk curtains, kiddo? A special gift from the king of Ceylon? Ceylon has no king!” Yelling, I knit my eyebrows at him.

He starts edging away from me, gleaning my killer intent.

“I always knew that. It was you who didn’t.” Sticking out his tongue at me, he snatches the cleaning cloth in my hand and bolts for the door. “Stupid Max. Now I understand why Mom nags me to study. If I end up stupid like you, anybody could fool me.”

“Give my cleaning rag back!” I scream, extending my hand to catch him.

But the little devil moves like lightning. He dives under the couch and rolls out the other side, heading straight for Henry’s bedroom and messing up the bed that I made this morning. I chase after him with the bottle of Lysol still in my hand, huffing, knocking things in my way like a bull on a rampage.

“Come here, you brat. I’m not letting you off today.”

Just as his cheek hits the door, the door to the apartment fans open. Lucien leaps back in the nick of time to avoid getting hit.

Emilia Stone sweeps in like a queen and arches an eyebrow at the scene in front of her. I’m holding the Lysol bottle over my head, as if I plan to throw it, and Lucien’s bracing himself for an attack. From her point of view, this does not look good.

“Mom, she was going to hit me!” Lucien wags a finger at me accusingly.

“I wasn’t!” I scream, quickly hiding the Lysol behind my back. “It was a game.”

Emilia Stone passes me a cold stare, then passes Lucien a colder stare. I’ve never met her before, only seen her in the family photo on Henry’s desk when I was dusting. She seemed warm in that photo, but right now she could give an ice queen a run for her money.

Clothed in a pale green shift dress with matching pumps, she struts past the living room. A designer necklace gleams at her throat. She’s pretty fashion-forward for a doctor. Really dressed up, too. Doesn’t wearing so much jewelry interfere with surgeries?

“We’re going home. Pack up,” she commands Lucien in a prim voice.

The excitement in his eyes peters out.

“But you said I was spending the whole day at Uncle Henry’s house,” he protests, looking at me longingly. My gut tells me this kid would make a great actor.

“Change of plans. You’re going to sit in the hospital reception and do your homework. The receptionist will watch you. Hurry up now.”

Lucien is clearly disappointed by this news, but he doesn’t protest.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, getting close to her, when Lucien’s out of earshot. “I shouldn’t have given in to Lucien’s demands.”

Her nose turns down. “Yes, you shouldn’t have. But at least it got him out of the house. God knows he needs to exercise more and get vitamin D. A sedentary lifestyle increases the risk of heart diseases later in life.”

I don’t know whether to be glad or mad that she’s such a health freak.

“I guess,” I mutter.

She doesn’t say anything more, so I conclude that Henry hasn’t told her about the credit card thing yet. My hide’s safe for today.

“We don’t have all day!” she tsks at Lucien, who is still figuring out where to put what in his bag.

When I rush to help him, he refuses to accept my assistance, so I go back to Emilia. She doesn’t talk to me, only regards me like I’m a worm. I must say, she’s not making a great first impression on me. I already don’t want to see her again.

“How’s Lucien doing?” she asks finally. “Have you noticed anything strange about his behavior?”

I look to the curtains, think of Lucien’s split-personality, and say, “Please keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he’s on the path to becoming a sociopath.”

Emilia’s eyes shoot daggers at me, but before she can open her mouth, Lucien pops up at her side, his backpack slung across his shoulder.

“Mom, what’s a sociopath?” he asks brightly.

“Something every mother hopes her son won’t become.” Emilia zips his open backpack and nudges him out the door.

“Bye, Max.” Lucien gives me a dazzling smile. “Next time, I’ll tell you about Uncle Henry’s antique vase from the Ming Dynasty.”

“You little—”

The door clicks shut before I can finish.

All the energy in the room withers and dies. Quiet looms over the spacious house once more, with only the washer’s drone interrupting it. I keep gazing at the door, hoping Lucien will burst back through it and say something.

It’s true what they say: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.