Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  “What did you say?”

  “That I’d taken a course in bioreactor design in college, even though I hadn’t. They never checked.”

  My mouth forms into an ‘O’.

  “Henry Robert Stone…how could you?” I shake my head reprovingly. “That’s perjury.”

  “Perjury means lying in court, not lying during an interview,” he corrects, with a tsk.

  Melted ice cream drips down my lips, staining my chin. “Really?”

  “It seems you’re as clueless about the law as you are about engineering.”

  “I’m an actress,” I retort right back. “Why do I need to know about such things?”

  “Right now, you’re my housekeeper.” His gaze trails down to my lips. “Wipe that ice cream off your face.”

  “Does it bother you? The ice cream?” I have no idea why I’m asking him this. Maybe I enjoy seeing him flustered.

  “Yes. So wipe it away.”

  “I’ll do it later,” I say.

  “Do it now. It’s distracting,” he barks.

  Why is he giving me instructions all of a sudden? I’m off work.

  “I won’t,” I protest. I’m not easily pushed around and it is time everybody realized this.

  “Then I’ll do it.” A second later, the meaning of his words sink into his head. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yeah, why don’t you?” I mock, moving my face closer.

  His eyes widen. “Max, this is inappropriate.”

  I realized I’ve never heard a guy use that word before. Inappropriate. It makes me want to rebel.

  “So what?” I angle my chin up, touching my lips to his.

  And I don’t stop with touching, I kiss him.

  Holy smokes, Henry Stone can kiss. You know what they say about judging a book by its cover. Henry might look boring, like historical fiction, but he’s actually an erotica novel. I savor every bite of his teeth on my lips, every flick of his tongue against mine, the friction of us together. He must have really wanted to kiss me for a long time.

  His tongue caresses my lips, spreading heat all over it, before plunging deeper to stroke the intimate corners of my mouth. I respond the best I can, caging him with my arms, just as eager to explore his mouth as he is to explore mine. Every swipe of our lips ignites another conflagration inside me. I might be a dud at science, but even I can recognize good chemistry. And this is some chemistry.

  The kiss lasts for minutes, making me forget time, space and everything in between. Encircled by his scent, his strong hands, and his safety, I feel secure.

  As I open my eyes, the truth hits me like cold water.

  I like Henry Stone.

  I really like Henry Stone.

  Chapter 8

  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 ha
nd 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.)