Anne & Henry

by Dawn Ius

  “Anne’s manipulations have turned against her,” Catherine says. I push back the tears, focus on staying strong, on the second hand of the clock slicing away another minute of my final moments.

  At last, Sam calls John to the witness stand and he begins with the party, talking of inappropriate behavior and my excessive drinking.

  “You know what they say about tequila,” John says with a shrug. “By the end of the night, she was barely dressed.”

  I look to Henry to defend me—isn’t John’s comment breaking some kind of rule?

  Henry’s Adam’s apple twitches.

  He sits ramrod straight.

  “Anne has always been out of control,” John says now. It’s like he’s being interviewed for a documentary, playing up a role, pretending he knows anything about me. He doesn’t. None of them do. None except Henry. “We had this experiment in chem class . . .”

  Henry shifts and for a moment and I think he might interject.

  “She was all over me,” John says, shuddering for effect. “When the lights went out, she . . .” He coughs, clears his throat. “Let’s just say she’s lucky I didn’t make a complaint against her for sexual harassment.”

  “That’s a lie,” I say, my voice cool. “You’ve been on my ass since the first day.”

  John scoffs, but doesn’t deny it.

  I look to Henry, challenging him to dispute this if nothing else. He was there. He witnessed me rejecting John at his party. He understands why. I choke back a sob. “Henry?”

  He says nothing.

  Sam unpins Exhibit E. John’s hands are cropped out of the image, but mine are wrapped around his neck. I’m pressing up against him, chest, nose, lips. It’s clear I’m all over him—the photograph makes even me cringe.

  I tamp back self-loathing and disgust, reminding myself I’ve been set up, that this isn’t me. I would never do this. But Henry sits so still, I’m afraid he’s not breathing, that I’ve killed him somehow, that he’s dead. Just a shell.

  “To repeat,” Sam says, holding the photograph in the air, “your testimony is that Ms. Boleyn drank too much tequila at the party, danced provocatively on a table, and when she fell, you attempted to catch her. And that’s when she threw herself at you?”

  “It wasn’t even a party,” John says, and runs his hand through his perfectly placed hair. “Just a friendly barbecue. The rest of us weren’t even drinking.”

  Another lie. I scan the corkboard of strategically placed evidence. There isn’t a single photograph of anyone else with a drink. There’s no proof Catherine danced on the table, that Liz matched me shot for shot.

  My mouth turns to sandpaper and I realize that I’m done. That it was all a set-up from the start.

  Sam turns, faces Henry. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it almost looks like she’s smiling a little, having fun at my expense. She’s supposed to be my friend. Is the whole damn school against me now? The cavern in my chest widens. “I have no further witnesses,” she says.

  Henry nods. “Thank you.” He shifts again, addressing me with a low, pained tone. “Do you have anything you would like to say in your defense at this time, Ms. Boleyn?”

  I search his eyes, look for some reason to fight. Even before the verdict, the sense of loss is eating me alive, swallowing me whole. My body trembles, but I’ve got to try one last time to get through to Henry, to make him see that—

  “I’d like to request a recess,” I say.

  Another murmur ripples through the crowd.

  “That is highly unorthodox,” he says.

  My nostrils flare. “This whole fucking trial is highly unorthodox,” I snap. “It’s not even real. I’m clearly being set up.”

  Henry’s jaw leaps with anger. “That excuse is starting to sound a bit clichéd,” he says, and I see it in his eyes—he’s unraveling.

  “That’s not fair,” I say quietly.

  Henry nods stiffly. “I’ll grant a ten-minute recess.”

  It’s an admission he’s lost some control, a half-assed apology, but like hell I’m letting him off the hook. I follow him out of the room, down the hallway, ignoring the stares and glares slicing into my back.

  “Henry!”

  He freezes at the sound of my voice, turns around so slowly I can tell he doesn’t want to face me.

  “We can’t do this,” he says.

  The rawness of his voice gives me hope. I walk toward him; he doesn’t run. I reach for his arm; he flinches, but doesn’t move my hand. “You know this is a set-up,” I say. “I’m not innocent, but none of it happened the way they make it sound.”

  He yanks out of my grip. “Are you fucking kidding me, Anne?” Reaching back, he rubs the nape of his neck. “It’s like goddamn déjà vu.”

  I’m so wound up I could spit. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on,” he says. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position. They can’t all be lying.”

  “You think I am?”

  His jaw has that unmistakable stubborn set.

  It’s like someone is doing backflips in my gut. “Answer me,” I shriek, aware I’m moving well past anger and into hysterics. “Do you think I’m lying?”

  Henry scrubs his hands over his face. “Christ, Anne. What am I supposed to think?” He slams his fist against the wall.

  The last of my hope leaks out in a horrified squeak. My whole body trembles. “You’re a coward.”

  Henry flinches.

  “This evidence is bullshit and you know it,” I say, now standing on my tiptoes to get right in his face. I can’t decide whether to smack him or kiss him. “If you loved me, had any feelings for me at all, you’d admit it.”

  Henry looks away and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “Have you ever wondered,” he says, much quieter, with more calm, “why this keeps happening? Why you keep getting in these situations?”

  I recoil. His attack on my character hurts more than anything. Is the most pain I’ve ever felt.

  “You used to be on my side,” I say quietly.

  “It’s not about sides,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Look, I get it. Some of the facts don’t add up.”

  “So defend me—don’t sit there and watch me burn,” I say. I’m pissed that I’m crying, but I can’t stop.

  “That’s not my job,” he says, and runs his hands through his hair, like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. All I want is for him to pull me into his arms. But I know that’s not happening. Will probably never happen again.

  Maybe I should let up, but I deserve an explanation. “Maybe not in the courtroom . . . but what about us?”

  “There can’t be an us,” he says, and my stomach drops to the floor. Drops under the floor. “You’re unpredictable. My life can’t—won’t be able—to handle that.” My heartbeat slows. “I don’t want to always be worried about you losing control,” he says. “What you might do.”

  He keeps going. “Look, you’ll be okay, Anne.” His eyes meet mine and even though I know it’s futile, I search them for a thread of hope, something to tell me there’s still a chance for us. I’d give up Media Academy, my new friends, Clarice—I’d give up all of it for Henry, for another chance. “You’re strong—stronger than all of this,” he says, but it’s like I can’t hear him because he’s not saying the right words. “You’ll learn from this, go on and do great things.” He smiles a little, but it’s ironic and sad. “Maybe you’ll even be an astronaut.”

  “And you’ll what? Go on to be president? Become the man your family expects you to be?” My chest is on fire. It hurts so damn much. I deserve better than this, am worth more than this public break-up. “Is this really what you want?”

  His eyes darken in shadow. “It’s what I need.”

  A spasm of pain rips across my chest and I bite back a scream as he walks away.

  I make my way down the hall and into the ladies room and splash water on my face. Dry my bloodshot and swollen eyes. I lift my chin and head back into th
e courtroom—deflecting the stares and the slurs, the way John sneers and Catherine scowls. Now I know it’s over, there’s nothing left.

  Henry resumes his position at the podium, coughs, takes a sip of water and sets the crystal glass down. Clears his throat. “I call this session back to order. Is there any further evidence to present?”

  A uniformed man steps forward. I’ve only seen him once. My stomach does a slow roll. Campus security. He whispers something to Henry, hands a small flash drive to Sam. A projector screen rolls down from the ceiling.

  Fear catches in my throat even as the first picture of Clarice emerges on the screen. My last act of rebellion, captured on film. Frozen, I watch as my bike crawls into the Medina Academy parking lot, idles, and paces. The room is silent but for the thunderous roar of Clarice.

  The engine revs, and I know what happens next. I twist the throttle, leave behind skid marks and—

  Oh my God.

  The scene unfolds in slow motion. Clarice’s tires spin on the asphalt. Loose gravel flies everywhere. The bike lurches forward, kicking up a rock that sails back, back, back, toward the school and, holy shit, no!

  One of the windows cracks.

  A collective gasp echoes through the room.

  I’m sick with remorse. With the engine revved, my thoughts scattered. I never heard the glass break, and I know I’m done. I’ve broken every last rule.

  The screen fades to black.

  Voices carry and rise.

  Henry slams the gavel on the lectern, and the room goes so still I am terrified to breathe. He turns to me and says, “Is there anything you would like to add, Ms. Boleyn?”

  An apology is worthless, and I’m not about to beg. I shake my head, lower my gaze.

  Henry clears his throat. “In light of the fact that you’ve offered no evidence to counter these accusations, I can only pass judgment according to what is presented.” His gaze moves to the corkboard and the incriminating photographs. “Based on the testimony heard today, and this video, I find you guilty on multiple counts of inappropriate conduct and damage to school property.”

  A collective sigh. And then—

  “You are hereby expelled from Medina Academy. Effective immediately.”

  A roar of noise. Some scattered clapping. Henry silences the room with a heavy thud of the gavel.

  “Do you wish to say anything at this time?”

  My throat is raw, my chest weighs ten million pounds, but I stand and lift my chin. Who cares what they think of me now?

  “I get it—I’m guilty. . . .” I pause. “According to your student laws. But you guys know the truth. I was never going to fit in here.” I shift my gaze to Catherine. “It’s useless to point fingers or shift blame to anyone in this room. I can’t dispute those pictures. Well played.”

  A dull ache swells against my chest and presses against my heart. I draw strength from the pain. I refuse to walk out of here with my tail between my legs. They don’t deserve that kind of satisfaction.

  “But I hope that each of you”—I scan the length of the first row of students, pause at Catherine, and then John—“can live with what you’ve done. It’s not right. Everyone in this room knows it.”

  Finally, I turn to Henry, begging my voice not to crack. “You are a good president, Henry. As good as your brother. Better even.”

  His jaw twitches, and he finally looks up, meets my eyes.

  Maybe I’m not good for him. Maybe I can’t fit into the perfect life everyone has built for him. But as we stare into each other’s eyes, I know that whatever we had was real. It meant something to him, meant something to me. “You’ll do the right thing in the future—really make a difference.” I blink against the tears threatening to fall. “I have to believe that. Because it’s the only way I can accept this.”

  Whispers echo through the crowd.

  I search his face for a sign that he understands the message, that it’s not the party I regret, not the falsified mistakes I’ve made, not even breaking the rules, but that I couldn’t be who he needed, that I embarrassed him, embarrassed myself.

  Henry offers only a stiff nod, then taps the gavel one last time. “I hereby deem this session adjourned.”

  The room falls silent, and I wonder how long I’ll hear that gavel echo through my dreams.

  Henry gathers his papers and stuffs them into a file folder. Smoothes out the creases in his pants. For one dizzying moment of bitterness and hope, I worry that he will turn to me, say something final, say anything at all.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Students file out of the room, hushed voices rising as they hit the hallway. By tomorrow, they will have forgotten this, forgotten—

  Me.

  But I will never forget

  When the last student leaves, Henry stands at the corkboard, carefully removing the pins from Exhibit B, C, D, and F.

  Look back. Please look back.

  He pulls the pin on Exhibit E.

  My chest swells so fast I think it will burst. I make my eyes go wide, so big they’re like saucers, but the tears won’t stop.

  Henry stares at the last exhibit. Shoulders rigid. I know without looking what’s on the print. The first photograph of the evening, the picture that started it all. Marie’s voice echoes in my memory: It’s for Henry. Give me some sass.

  I chew on my lower lip so hard I draw blood. Its coppery taint pools under my tongue.

  Look back, I beg in silence. Just look at me one more time.

  But Henry doesn’t turn. His shoulders slump. One

  two

  three seconds pass.

  I love you.

  The pushpin holding up the last picture is stuck in my throat. Henry grabs the corner and yanks. The bottom half of the image rips and floats to the floor.

  The door clicks shut behind him and he’s gone.

  I gather my belongings, suddenly desperate, ready to leave this place, these people, leave Henry behind. With my hand on the door handle, I pause at what’s left of the exhibits, my heart heavy and broken.

  But all that remains is the stark image of my severed head.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s cliché but true that it takes a village to raise a child, and that is perhaps no more relevant for me than with the “birth” of Anne & Henry. From its earliest origins, this book has enjoyed the support and encouragement of some incredibly supportive people, beginning with my amazing agent Mandy Hubbard and the awesome Bree Ogden (a true Tudor expert and Anne Boleyn fan).

  Sometimes, when I’m having a (stereo)typical writerly doubt kind of day, I look back on those e-mails where Mandy and Bree fed my fragile ego with inspiration and unwavering praise. Thank you ladies for your (ginormous) part in making this publishing dream come true. Your passion for this book and for my portrayal of the characters means more to me than I could ever acknowledge in words.

  As I write this, thinking of all the words she’d probably strike through, I struggle not to make this acknowledgement page “An Ode to Sara Sargent.” As an editor, Sara is professional, thorough, and brilliant, if not at times a royal pain in the ass—what the heck is wrong with breathing, inhaling, exhaling, smirking, laughing, and smiling, anyway? In all seriousness, this book is so much more for her insight, skill, and absolute faith. From her earliest revision notes, peppered with hand-drawn hearts and stars, to her (almost) daily e-mails that made me laugh and cry (I know you’re not surprised, hon!), she’s become so much more than an editor. Sara, I can never thank you enough for all that you’ve taught me, and the support you—and the entire Simon Pulse team—has given to me and this book. Thank you for believing in me.

  A giant virtual hug to Regina Flath, who designed a dream cover for Anne & Henry. Thank you for “getting” this story. I could not have envisioned a more perfect cover. You are brilliant.

  Eternal gratitude to my writing mentors Gary Braver, Steve Berry, James Rollins, and Jacquelyn Mitchard, who taught me to write tight, write often, and to
always dream big.

  Writing is, by nature, a solitary act, but I am so fortunate to be surrounded by friends and family who have acted as cheerleaders for not only this book, but also my entire career. To my remarkable critique partners Kyle Kerr, Kitty Keswick, and Rocky Hatley, my undying gratitude for reading, rereading, and rereading Anne & Henry yet again, for listening to me whine, and for (repeatedly) picking me up when I thought I was down for the count. I know you can recite this book word for word by now—and yet, there are not enough words to thank you.

  And to my awesome beta readers Karen Dyck (my Henry VIII expert!); Bessie McLaughlin (thrilled you love THIS version of Henry); Savannah and Amanda Ius (write your books, ladies); James Grasdal (chief cheerleader); Brandon Freund (thanks for American Politics 101, now finish writing your book!); and Hailey Pelletier—your feedback, knowledge, and keen reading skills are, as always, invaluable. Special thanks to my early chapter readers Jessica Bell, Karen Bass, Louise Gorenall, and Jamie Provencal, and to my always-there pom-pom waver, Sue Worobetz. You’ve talked me down from many a cliff—thank you.

  To my incredible sister, Jessica Driscoll—you are my rock. There is nothing I could say that could ever adequately convey how much I love and appreciate all that you have done, and continue to do for me, not only for this book, but Every. Single. Day. I love you so very much.

  I am incredibly fortunate to have such support from my entire family. Thank you, Dad, for buying me that old rolltop desk, begrudgingly admitting that you supported my career choice, even if it meant I’d always be a “starving artist” and you wouldn’t be able to retire—ever. And to my mom, for encouraging me to be Alice (your dreamer)—even if this book isn’t a Lee Child–like story. (Hey, there’re no vampires!) And to my amazing stepfather, Simon Angell, whose love of me, coupled with his love for Anne Boleyn, made writing this book that much more important.

  Last—but certainly not least—I thank my beautiful stepdaughter, Aydra Dalton, whose words of support can melt the most stubborn self-doubt, and my husband, Jeffrey. You may not fully understand this industry, babe, but you understand me. I love you. Always.