Henry & Me
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Connect with the author
Henry & Me
A Romantic Novel
Sasha Clinton
Copyright © 2017 by Sasha Clinton
First edition
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.
For permission requests, please contact Sasha Clinton at alicemilleromance@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design by The Cover Collection
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Connect with the author
Chapter 1
Eight years ago
If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I’m going to win an Oscar.
Sure, it won’t happen tonight, but it’s definitely gonna happen—as soon as I get out of acting school, move to LA, land an agent, and make my major screen debut.
But right now I’m enjoying relative obscurity, sitting in the empty auditorium, listening to the sound of silence. Rehearsals for the theatre society’s fall play (in which I play the lead—of course) wound down half an hour ago, and since then a fog of quietude has descended over Farkas Hall. This kind of atmosphere is perfect to rehearse my Oscars victory speech. After all, I wouldn’t want to get it wrong on the day.
Standing up with a flourish, I wave at the imaginary crowd. Then I bend over to kiss my gorgeous (imaginary) husband next to me, feel a rush of heady joy, and make my way up to the seat in front.
“Thank you, thank you all. Please, please…thank you,” I say to the empty stage, envisioning a sea of faces. “This is such an honor.” Shedding a few fake tears for the sake of propriety, I shake the imaginary award in my hand and imagine giggles from the audience. “I’m really holding the award for Best Actress. It’s real.” Some more fake tears.
“This victory could not have been possible without the love and support of many people. First off, I’d like to thank my brother, who supported me through acting school. But really, this speech wouldn’t be complete without thanking the people who really made success possible—my dear fans, who’ve loved me in every movie. Thank you. God bless you all…good night.”
Pressing a flying kiss to the audience, I sashay back to my initial position, the sound of applause ringing in my ears. Slumping back, I take a big breath, buzzing with excitement. My heart rate is through the roof, my face has heated up, my fingers tingle with energy. This is what winning feels like—it’s a feeling I’ll remember all my life.
Clapping echoes through my ears.
“Wow!” A male voice climbs over my shoulder.
Startled, I snap my head around and spot a guy behind me, wending his way towards me. Even from afar, his blue eyes shine like chips of sapphire.
“Who are you?” I holler back, sliding back on the balls of my feet. I can’t believe someone was witnessing my fanfaronade. It’s…he had no right to.
“Henry Stone.” He waves at me with mock familiarity. “I help out with props here. And I share your penchant for sitting in empty auditoriums.”
I have this weird mental habit—I grade guys on appearance. I try not to do it, but I can’t help it. This guy’s a C—which in my book constitutes a failing grade. His chestnut-brown hair’s a messy mop and his fashion sense is abysmal. He’s wearing untied sneakers, a worn-out hoodie and faded jeans. His features are not bad, but they don’t stand a chance of being seen under the zits on his face.
“I was just hanging around,” I explain, keeping my expression casual.
“The same as me, then.” With one finger, he gestures behind me. “I was watching you from back there.”
So he’s a stalker? I’ve encountered a few of those, but they’re usually a bit more socially reserved.
I spin on my heel, then spin back. “No offense, but you don’t look like the theatre type. What’s your major?”
“Engineering. I know, it’s nerdy.” Blushing, he studies the ground.
“Ah.” Despite my best efforts, the smile on my face is fast turning into a grimace. “So you study flowers and stuff?”
“No, that’s botany. I’m an engineer. Chemical engineer.”
“Oh, oh, I got it! You study cells and do experiments in labs. I remember now. I once played the role of an engineer in a play.”
“Biologists study cells.” Frowning, he clears his throat. “I study things like…reaction kinetics, thermodynamics, heat and momentum transfer. The purpose of it all is to design efficient processes for manufacturing various things.”
I blink, my brain having short-circuited. There were too many big words in that sentence. What in heaven’s name is reaction kinetics? For that matter, what the fuck is kinetics?
“You okay? You look dazed.” He puts his hand on my head and a shock jolts me. I recoil immediately.
What was that I felt? It was some kind of overwhelming feeling. Maybe revulsion. I don’t know.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “You should go now.”
But he doesn’t budge, continuing to rub his shoe soles on the ground, stalling.
Annoyance rises high. “Are you waiting for something?”
His eyes arc up to me, searching. His voice drops to a whisper. “Um…the truth is I’ve always admired you. In freshman year, I joined the theatre club because I wanted to be closer to you.”
Definitely a stalker, then.
Toying with the bracelet on my left wrist, I squirm in my skin. “Really? How come I’ve never seen you much then?”
“I make props, so I’m usually away from the stage. But I really love watching you perform. There’s something special about you. You’re easy to fall in love with…for the audience, I mean.”
His face resembles a tomato. I know there are girls who find clumsy, innocent guys like him charming, but I don’t. I like confident, sexually experienced men who don’t behave like a three-year-old asking out his kindergarten crush on a date.
There’s a dead pause, before he delivers a startling comeback. “So…will you go out with me?”
What? Did he just ask me that? Did he just ask me—hot, twenty, in the prime of my beauty, size zero with a perfect heart-shaped face and Angelina Jolie lips—to go out with him? It’s a struggle to decide whether to be flattered or disgusted at how approachable I’m starting to seem to the likes of him.
“Are you kidding me?” I scream. “How could you even think of asking me out? We’re not even at the same level.”
I flail my hands around, fighting off the terrible visions invading my head. “No, no. When I win an Oscar, how could I kiss someone like you before receiving my award? Urgh! What would people think of me? My perfect moment will crumble. No, no, no! It cannot happen.”
In my dreams, it’s always been my sexy, loving husband whom I kiss before getting up to receive the award. And everybody swoons in envy. But this guy? Sexy and he don’t even belong in the same dictionary.
“Oscars?” Henry shoots me a puzzled look. “You’re winning an Oscar?”
“Yes…eventually.” I stick my nose up in the air. “So you don’t have a place in my life.”
Puzzlement falls over his face, creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t see how me being in your life has anything to do with the Oscars.”
With one finger I tap the center of his forehead. “Use this a little.” My finger now does a U-turn and stabs at my chest. “Look at you and look at me. It should become obvious to you. I am the hottest girl on this campus with the brightest future. And you are a geek. Do you even know how far apart we are on the social scale? If a guy like you dates me, the order of the world will be disturbed. It’s obvious that I’m meant to date somebody hot and gorgeous and sexy…in other words, somebody who’s not you.”
“I’m not a geek,” he protests in a hurt voice, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His angry breaths reverberate loudly in the auditorium. “And I don’t believe in this so-called ‘social scale’.”
“Fine. Then say one romantic thing to me. Make me believe that you’re capable of being charming. And make it quick.”
Blinking, his irises dart here and there, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is what happens when guys like him try to reach above their level. How did he even think he and I could go out in a million years?
“See? You don’t have a single charming bone in your body.” Spreading my hands, I gesture heavenward. “I need romance. I need a guy who can make me swoon with his words, somebody who knows how to make a woman feel loved, someone who understands what women feel. You don’t fit that description.”
“You shouldn’t judge people so quickly,” he admonishes, anger flickering in his eyes.
“And you shouldn’t dream impossible dreams of dating me,” I fire back.
He coughs in disbelief, groping for a comeback, but as everybody knows, he’s not gonna come up with anything. In the end, he settles for throwing his hands out to his sides.
“Why’re you being so mean? You’ve never talked like this to me backstage.”
I rack my brains, trying to recall when the hell I ever talked to this guy. Nothing comes to mind. But then again, in all likelihood, even if it had happened, I wouldn’t remember. He’s just one of the numerous nameless faces that I see at rehearsal every day. There’s nothing special about him that would stand out to me.
“I have no clue what you’re on about.” Plucking my ChapStick from my pocket, I apply it to my lips. This conversation has left my lips strangely dry.
“Do you really not remember? You said I was cute, and that my voice reminded you of Rhett Butler from Gone With the Wind.”
I did? Why can’t I recollect? Oh, right. I’ve said that to too many guys to count.
“So? I say that to almost every guy I meet,” I admit.
If he’d bothered to ask around, he’d have known that I’m famous for being ‘the heartbreaker of Harvard.’
“But when you said it to me—”
“You thought you were special? Is that it?” My voice dips into the realm of vicious.
See, I do feel bad for him. It takes balls for someone like him to ask someone like me out. But I wish he understood that I’m not going to change my mind if he keeps pestering me. Why won’t he take a ‘no’ and just leave?
“Know when to give up, dude,” I tell him. “Or you’re gonna make this painful for both of us.”
He releases a slow nod, the first signs of realization dawning upon him. It’s the moment when all the illusions are shattered, when the truth becomes clear. Henry’s face arranges into an indecipherable expression. Rejection is something I’ve never experienced, being so blessed and all, so I can’t relate.
“Fine. Sorry for wasting your time,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a little bad for him.
He looks so heartbroken. He’s probably going to remember this humiliation all his life, even though I don’t really want him to. This is not the kind of impression I want to leave on people. Maybe I can be nice to him—
Immediately I quash that sympathy. It won’t do to start caring about everyone who proposes to me. I’m destined to break many more hearts in the future.
Forcefully flipping my hair back, I strut out.
I have Oscars to win and hunks to date.
*
Present
“Hurry it up! This ain’t your father’s vacation home,” screams the plump lady behind me, snapping me out of my reverie—one that included me in the arms of a hottie and a tabloid story about our five-million-dollar mansion and new baby called Zillion.
“Sorry,” I mumble, dragging my feet forward to fill the empty spot left by the alcoholic in front of me.
As much as I wish we were all lining up for the Oscars after-party, the sad truth is that it’s a line at the public library. And it’s moving at a snail’s pace. The head count behind me is steadily growing, while the number of heads in front isn’t diminishing at anywhere close to the same rate.
First off, why is there only one lady at the counter? And secondly, why did it take her ten minutes to figure out the problem with the previous guy’s NYPL app?
Irritated, I open up random apps on my phone, inwardly moaning at the sad state of my life.
I’m twenty-eight. Unemployed. Mooching off my older brother, with no job in sight. In simple words, my life’s a wreck.
What about acting, you ask? My acting career…well, it didn’t pan out the way I expected. My agent dropped me last year, after seven years of nothing but small-time supporting roles, and paying rent and gas in LA on a waitress’s salary became a nightmare, so I moved into my brother Cooper’s house in New York.
The problem is that Coop is married, and his wife Ji-ae constantly complains about having lost her room to me, even though I make myself useful by doing housework and helping her out with her business every now and then.
Currently I’m trying to find another passion in life and hopefully make a career out of it. After all, my days at Coop’s place are numbered, and I need to have an income to fall back on if things go south between Ji-ae and me.
That’s why I came to the public library—to look at job listings and use the free internet. Ji-ae constantly hogs the computer at Coop’s place for her business. Also, she wanted me to borrow some business-related books for her from the library, a request I couldn’t refuse (beggars can’t be choosers), and that’s the long and short of how I came to stand in this line when it’s pouring cats and dogs outside.
“Line’s movin’ slow today.” The guy in front of me picks his nose, flashing me a yellow-toothed grin.
Ew. Disgusting.
I hold my breath, praying to the gods who didn’t save my acting career that they at least spare me the misery of having to spend more than one minute in this gent’s company.
But no such luck. Three minutes later, he’s still talking and my face has turned blue due to lack of oxygen.
But I sorta feel bad for the man, so I put up with his aimless ramble. Homeless, penniless, unemployed, with nowhere to go—that can’t be a pretty life. In the past, I used to sneer at guys like him hogging up space in public facilities when they’d never paid taxes, but now that I’m in the same boat as him, I feel sorry for having judged him so harshly. Like with me, life didn’t go his way. It really sucks to be us.
The sudden vibration of my phone tickles my round hips (yeah, I’ve man
aged to acquire those after three months of eating Ji-ae’s home cooking). Fishing it out of my coat, I stare down at the flashing screen that’s lit up with an incoming message from my dear sister-in-law.
Found the perfect job for you on Indeed. Part-time housekeeper and child care expert. $35/hour. Isn’t that great? Walk-in interview this afternoon at 3 pm.
An angry gasp tears out of me. Ji-ae must’ve gone crazy if she thinks I’m desperate enough to scrub floors, battle dust, deal with wailing kids, and cook meals for a living. I’m not Cinderella, for heaven’s sake…although I could definitely do with a rich prince and a palace. At this point, actually, I’d be happy if I had the glass slippers. I’ve heard those net good money at online auctions.
“Next, please,” the man at the checkout counter calls.
The guy in front of me disappears and I delete Ji-ae’s text. Thirty-five dollars an hour might be a great hourly wage, but dignity is more precious than that. I want to do something I’m passionate about, something that sets my soul afire, like acting did. Something that’s…not acting. But after eight months of bumming at home and soul-searching, I’m no closer to finding my passion than I was the day I arrived in LaGuardia with tears in my eyes.
“Lady, move,” the woman behind me screams again, and I finally get to the counter.
Ji-ae’s right: I’m prone to flights of fantasy. I can’t help it; for the longest time I made a career out of this.
I hand the books to the librarian, who checks them out one by one, then prints a slip and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Gathering the checked-out books, I start back home.
Doesn’t look like I’ll be finding a job today.
*
Ji-ae looks up at the building in front of us in wonder, clutching her phone tighter to prevent it from slipping through her fingers.
“Wow, this is better than I thought. He must be rich.”
Ashwood Greens, the silver letters engraved at the front of the red-brick and glass building read. I pop my chin up, trying to find the top of this building that seems to stretch vertically to the clouds. People streak past us on the sidewalk, one of them bumping into me and pushing me closer to the entrance.