by Dawn Ius
But their voices are now whispers, and the only response I hear is the thump, thump pounding of my heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Henry
Across the lake, the sun crests the mountain, reflecting yellow-gold stripes onto the rippling water. Medina boasts some of the most impressive sunrises in the state, but it’s tough to enjoy the view this morning. While Catherine was passed out under the roulette table, I spent those hours lying awake contemplating and debating, digging for answers.
Catherine and I don’t have fights, at least not the knockdown, drag-out screaming matches that land couples on reality shows. They just peter out. Like our argument about Anne at the party, which ended in quiet denial. . . .
Round two isn’t going as well.
I kick at a rock wedged in the sand, waiting for Catherine’s response. The color has drained from her face. She’s like a teenage ghost—haunting and pissed. “I’m not sure I understand,” she says, her tone clipped and controlled despite the visible tremble of her lower lip. “You’re . . .” She pauses as though trying to comprehend. “You’re actually breaking up with me? I can’t even . . .”
“This is for the best,” I say, casting her a sideways glance.
Doubt bubbles up like acid reflux. I intended to help clean the cabin and drive Catherine home, get some shut-eye before the Senator’s gala I’m supposed to attend tonight—but I’ve made a necessary detour. One I can’t put off any longer.
Sand squishes between my toes. Water splashes up and over my feet, all the way to where my dress pants are rolled at the ankles.
I stare at the waves. Maybe it was a mistake to stop here, the place Catherine and I shared our first awkward kiss. The memories rush back—her windblown hair coiling around her face, eyes bright with anticipation and remorse, the straight-up bizarre sensation of kissing my dead brother’s girlfriend. Pushed together not even two months after Arthur died.
Something’s always been missing between us. An intensity, maybe.
Catherine angles her body away, but not before I glimpse the wet streaks trailing her cheeks. I’ve seen her cry before. This is different, though—not manipulative and self-serving. It’s frightened and desperate, like she knows this time her tears won’t help, won’t give her what she needs, won’t give her . . . me.
I’m not Arthur; a shabby second at best. But I understand the importance of reputation, the pressure of not being bad or failing our parents. It’s one of the few things Catherine and I have in common.
“It’s not you, it’s—” I begin, and then stop. Because it kind of is her. She can’t help who she is—who she isn’t. I blink away the image of Anne in that corset, try to calm the unfamiliar flutter in my gut. I keep telling myself this isn’t about her, that my growing attraction isn’t clouding my perspective, but the lie doesn’t sit right with me, as though pretending is somehow betraying Anne, betraying myself.
And I owe Catherine so much more.
I fumble for words, lean on clichés. This is for the best. You’ll be okay. This too will pass.
Catherine inhales. “You’re making a mistake,” she says and reaches for my hand. I draw back before we can touch, before her familiar warmth changes my mind. But passion was never our thing. Shouldn’t it be? I mean, isn’t first love supposed to be more . . . I don’t know, frantic? I think about what it might be like to kiss Anne, and a surge of electricity bolts straight up my back.
Catherine stares, her eyes bleak, and I brace for the inevitable. Confusion, disgust, and disbelief transform her skin into an emotional palette, a neon sign expressing just how deep these cuts go. No one is getting out of this unscathed.
“Henry.”
She reaches for me again. I jam my hands in my pockets. This stupid costume is chafing my skin, making me itch. All I want is to get out of this tux, but the look on Catherine’s face tells me we’re far from done here.
Another wave curls along the shoreline and splashes against the jagged rock bank to our left.
Catherine shoves her hands into the pockets of the gray hoodie she’s wrapped around her dress. “I love you.”
Maybe I’m a coward, but I can’t bring myself to say it back, not in the way she needs.
Emotion gathers in the corners of her eyes. “We’re good together. Can’t you see that?”
My throat swells and I choke out denial. “No, you were meant to be with—”
She sears me with a warning look. My brother’s name hangs on the tip of my tongue and leaves a funny taste on the roof of my mouth. She’s wrong. We’re not good together. We weren’t even supposed to be together—that’s the whole point. We were brought together in grief, an impossible, unsustainable connection, fused by an ancient, idiotic promise between our families.
We both know I can’t be who she wants—needs—me to be now. I can’t be Arthur.
“I was there for you,” she says.
There’s no denying it. Arthur’s death blew a gaping hole in my chest, a giant cavern of loneliness Catherine struggled to fill for the past six months.
“We were there for each other,” I say, gathering my wits. “It’s what we both needed . . . then. But time marches on, Cath. We move on.” Jesus. I never anticipated this being so damn hard. “What we have isn’t love, not the forever kind. Don’t you want to find that? Find someone who—”
Twists your insides into knots? Rocks your body with desire? Leaves you restless and hungry and desperate? I don’t say the words, but it’s too late. I’ve already tipped my hand.
“Oh. I see.” Catherine snarls. “Your mother will never accept her.” She twirls her hair around her finger to reveal the soft flesh of her neck.
Another day, another time, the distraction might have worked, might have lured me back into my comfort zone. But today, my resolve is stronger than Catherine. I have to do this.
“Anne is—”
I fill in the blanks, my temperature ratcheting up. Beneath me? Unworthy? No, Anne is none of those things.
“Manipulative,” Catherine says, her eyes wide. “God, Henry, can’t you see it? She’s only after your money. You’re a fool to think otherwise.”
I remember Anne standing under the ballroom chandelier, surrounded by strangers, holding in her disgust and discomfort at having to put on a show, pretending to be enamored by insurmountable prestige and wealth.
No, Anne is definitely not interested in my family’s money. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to her, knowing that she doesn’t give two shits about my last name.
“She drives a motorcycle,” Catherine says, as though this fact alone isn’t fearless and sexy, but further reason to send her out with the trash.
Vulnerability oozes from Catherine’s skin, tainting the air with bitter jealousy. I’ve seen this from her before, the kind of grief that transforms disbelief into remorse, anger into desperation, acceptance into revenge. She’s a good person—she just isn’t good for me.
A storm brews in the distance, a warning of what’s to come. “I’m sorry,” I say.
Catherine straightens her back, holds her neck high. “I thought you were better than this.” She shakes her head and turns toward me with pleading eyes, one final act of desperation. “What happens when you get her? You don’t want to do this, Henry. She will ruin you.”
My jaw twitches. “You think I’m that weak?”
“Please.” Catherine looks away. “Don’t. Just give this a chance.” Her small voice trembles, betraying her fear. A spasm rips through my chest. “Can’t you see what you’ll lose? Everything,” Catherine says. “And for what? A fling?”
I know enough not to feed the fire. A cool breeze blows off the lake and ripples over my skin.
“It’s cold,” I say, and hold out my hand, hoping for her friendship at least. One last chance to end this without a war. “Let me take you home. You’ll feel better after you rest.”
Catherine breathes out a tired sigh. Her fingers intertwine with mine as we walk
across the sand and get into my car. I can’t shake the unease burrowing in my chest, the ominous feeling of emptiness that often comes with change. Being with Catherine is expected. What if she’s right? What if I can’t do this—can’t be who my family wants—without her?
Catherine sits rigid against the car seat, her pale face clear of tears, wiped of all emotion. She leans her head against the cushioned headrest and stares vacantly out at the shifting landscape. I don’t bother filling the awkward silence with assurances and promises. I can’t take back the words, can’t go back to a time before our first date, before Arthur died.
Before Anne.
As I pull up to Catherine’s real house, she pushes open the passenger door and pauses. A long beat of emptiness hovers between us. She turns and rests her cool hand on my wrist. I grip the gearshift, trying not to flinch. She deserves the last word, even if I know it will be tainted with the raw pain of rejection.
“I’m not going to tell my parents yet.” Determination flickers across her eyes. “In case you change your mind.”
I open my mouth to tell her I won’t, that it’s really over. But she silences me with a hand to my cheek.
“You’ll want to think really hard about that, Henry.” She pauses, and I realize she’s digging deep. “Because I know how much my father’s internship means to you and your mother.”
Catherine leaves without a backward glance. And only after I make sure she gets into the house safely do I jam the Audi into first gear. As I careen around the first corner, I shift again, increase my speed. The road blurs, merges into the landscape, and I want to scream. I step on the gas and hit third, letting go of the anger and the doubt. Slam it into fourth.
A wide grin creeps across my face.
I’m free.
And despite Catherine’s parting warning, I am, in this moment, invincible.
My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. I glance at the screen, prepared for the flood of questions and accusations, for one last desperate plea. There’s no way Catherine will keep this to herself—even this early in the morning. But my pulse skips when I see Anne’s name appear on my dash. A robotic voice reads aloud a text through my Bluetooth.
Hey. You ok?
A lengthy pause and the voice continues: I feel like a jerk. It’s my fault Catherine’s mad at you.
My heart hiccups. I resist the impulse to correct her, tell her this isn’t her fault, that she isn’t to blame. But we both know she kind of is.
Another beat of silence and then: Anyway. If you need to talk later . . .
I think of my mother, of football practice, of the Senator’s gala I’m supposed to attend. I consider Catherine’s threat and the lies she’ll soon spread. I think about the responsibility that has been drilled into my mind, my whole being since my brother’s death. . . .
And then, I stop thinking at all.
I pull over and text: There’s supposed to be a full moon tonight. Up for an adventure?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Anne
My pulse hammers over Clarice’s throaty rumble.
Henry’s arms wrap tight around my waist, hanging on like I’m his last hope, his only chance for survival. He’s half laughing, half screaming as we hit the straightaway and I gun the bike. A little reckless in the dark, but it makes Henry hold tighter.
We cross the bridge and I ease off the gas. Storm clouds roll in and hover over us like guilt. Henry’s supposed to be somewhere else, at some gala with his mother—but I didn’t make him choose, didn’t ask him to blow off the event to be with me.
“The bridge deck might be slick,” I shout, with a quick glance back at him. Tufts of windswept hair curl out from under his helmet. His eyes are wide and shimmery, giant orbs of awe under the Plexiglas face mask. I love that he’s not scared.
Clarice’s headlights glint against the asphalt and skip along the white-capped waves like twinkling fireflies. Henry’s body presses against mine, stirring to life those mutant pterodactyl wings in my stomach. We could go anywhere right now, ditch this place and go far, far away. But as we round the hairpin curve, I know that Henry would never really leave his friends, his mother . . . Catherine.
I try to ignore an unexpected cloud of sadness and focus on leaning into the curve, on navigating the potholes that could knock Clarice on her ass if I’m not careful.
“This is awesome,” Henry yells. His excitement thrums through my skin and bleeds into my veins, firing up my adrenaline.
As we come up to the Medina Cemetery, I gear down and ease off the throttle, steering the bike along the narrow path toward tombstones flanked by a dark forest of hemlock trees. Under the shadow of moonlight, the branches extend like ominous arms, reaching out and drawing us in.
I pull the bike over and cut the engine. Henry doesn’t move. He just sits there with his arms wrapped around my waist. His woodsy scent is so strong it catches in my throat, making it hard to swallow.
“Okay, not what I was expecting,” he says, his voice a low drawl of confusion and amusement.
“You figured we’d go somewhere less haunted?”
I admit, it’s an odd choice, but I want Henry out of his comfort zone, the chance to give him an adventure, a reminder that life doesn’t have to be boring.
“Afraid of ghosts?” I say.
His biceps twitch and push against my rib cage. “This place isn’t haunted,” he says, though the hesitation in his voice suggests he doesn’t quite believe it. The cemetery is deserted, except for a mist that weaves through the maze of tombstones like souls waking from deep slumber.
Henry untangles his arms and slides off the bike. A chill hangs in the air, penetrating deep into my bones. Without the warmth of his body, I’m vulnerable to the elements, the oncoming storm.
“You can’t believe everything you hear in this town,” Henry says, and slips off his helmet. His hair stands up everywhere, giving him a Medusa-like appearance that makes me laugh. Under the dim moonlight, I see him blush and pat down his hair. It’s cute that he’s embarrassed.
I climb off the bike, remove my helmet, and bite my lower lip. “If you’re scared—”
He shakes his head. “You calling me a wuss?” He pumps his eyebrows twice. “Or maybe you’re challenging me to a game of chicken? That’s cool. I’m in if you are.”
“I like graveyards,” I say, and for the most part it’s true. I’ve read the brochures and heard the stories. This particular cemetery is rumored to be haunted, and I’m a sucker for things that go bump in the night.
“Me too,” Henry says, and then adds, “from a distance.”
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve caught a glimpse of Henry’s soul, and I can’t help but wonder if beneath the entitlement and royal facade, the boyish charm and the sexy smile, there isn’t something—
More.
I turn to face him, start walking away, beckoning for him to follow me deeper into the maze of tombstones and grave markers. My heavy footsteps crunch on wet orange-gold leaves that shimmer under the full moon. I tiptoe through the headstones and the crypts to the unconsecrated section, where early parishioners once buried those they considered “unclean.”
“You’re nuts if you think I’m coming after you,” Henry says.
My veins pulse and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m afraid he won’t—or terrified he will. “Plum crazy,” I say in agreement.
I stumble on a rock, rebalance, and look up. He’s taken his first step, inched across the soil threshold, and I know somehow that there’s no turning back from this.
A cool breeze howls through the trees. The branches sway, giving life to shadowed limbs.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Henry whispers. “It’s dark.”
My breath becomes shallow. “You’ll protect me though, right?”
His response is cut off by a sharp crack of lightning and a roll of thunder overhead. I barely feel the rain as it trickles down my temples and the back of my neck.
“Come on, Anne, w
e should head home. You don’t want to be caught in a downpour. Medina weather is—”
I don’t stop walking. The rain picks up and slaps me across the face, freezing in the drizzly October air. My bangs stick to my forehead and strands of hair cling to my cheeks. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go back, don’t want to lose this time alone with this Henry, the Henry who isn’t weighted down with expectations and responsibilities. I stand under a tree and motion for him to come closer. “We can hole up here,” I say, and glance at the sky.
Henry ducks under the low-hanging branch and stands next to me. The current between us hums louder, drowns out the wind, the water, my thundering heartbeat.
Henry’s lips are wet, his eyelashes glisten like dewdrops. Beneath his open brown leather jacket, a white T-shirt clings to his broad chest. My gaze drops to his jeans, the denim darker, almost black, from rain.
“We have to dry off a bit before we get back on the bike,” I say, and try not to think about peeling off Henry’s clothes, pressing our cool skin together for warmth. “We’d freeze.”
“The old theater is across the cemetery,” he says, nudging his chin forward and to the right. “It’s boarded up, though. We’d have to—”
I open my mouth in mock horror. “You’re not suggesting we do something illegal, are you?” Goose bumps rise on my arms in a way that has nothing to do with the wind.
Henry stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, kicks at a rock. “Not exactly.” He looks up and grins, an adorable sheepish expression that slices through the chill and creates an inferno in my blood. “My family kind of owns it.”
Figures.
“The road is blocked. We’ll have to cut across the graveyard,” he says.
I think about making sound effects, mocking a horror movie soundtrack, some kind of chee-chee-ha-ha noise, but Henry’s face pales. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?” I say.
“Nah.” He pauses and chuckles. “Terrified, actually.”
“I’ll hold your hand,” I say, grinning.
