Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  There, that sounded mature, didn’t it?

  My chest puffs up in pride.

  “Why’re you smiling?” Ji-ae flips the month page of the calendar to September.

  I wipe away my smirk. “Nothing. By the way, good job with the food tonight. It was superb. You outdid yourself. My gut tells me you’ll be getting a flurry of catering requests soon.”

  Predictably this makes her glow. “You think?”

  “I know. Everybody was impressed with your work. Lucien couldn’t find a single fault in your food. And he’s the toughest critic.”

  There’s more cooing from Ji-ae. “Oh, I hope it’s as you say. I could use some big orders.”

  “My crystal ball says they shall soon be coming your way.” I knead my tired eyes. “How were the part-timers you hired today?”

  “Better than I expected. I could never have gotten through today without their help. How was your singing performance?”

  “It went well.”

  The blinds haven’t been pulled over the window, so I can see the stars outside. You can’t usually see stars in New York, but Coop’s house provides a good view of the sky.

  “Sorry I couldn’t listen to you sing. I was too busy,” Ji-ae says.

  I swing my arm around her. “No worries. Eavesdrop on me when I’m in the shower for an encore anytime.”

  “Wait! Here’s an idea: how about you become a party singer? This could be your new passion. I’ll make a website and Facebook page for you.”

  I love her enthusiasm, but I don’t enjoy singing as much as she thinks I do. It’s one thing to sing in the shower or while cleaning, and quite another to get up on stage and have to deliver a set of songs professionally.

  “Actually…I was thinking I should give acting another shot,” I tell her.

  That was the revelation I had on my fifth slice of pizza. Regaining an avenue to release my chaotic emotions would help improve my emotional state. And if my emotional state improves…who knows? I might become calm enough to have sex someday.

  “That’s what Coop and I have been telling you for ages.” Ji-ae stifles a yawn.

  “I’ll start looking for local plays that are auditioning. There should be plenty in New York.”

  “Good idea.” We edge towards our respective rooms, sleep beginning to haze our minds and slur our words. She waves at me. “Good night, Max. Don’t fret too much about the future. It’ll work itself out.”

  “Yeah. Good night to you, too.”

  Chapter 11

  In the end, I shouldn’t have lost sleep thinking of what to say, because I never got a chance to say anything.

  Henry said it first.

  “Max, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I can’t apologize enough. You were crying…you regretted everything…I should’ve known better than to be led astray by my hormones…especially after you told me about what happened in Hollywood.”

  “No, no, it’s not your fault. It was the atmosphere.” Keeping my eyes to my shoes, I bite my lips nervously. “But it’s best not to repeat what happened.”

  Not that there’s any chance of a repeat. I may have muddled through a handjob somehow, but the chances of that happening again are slim. My anxiety’s been on guard since yesterday night.

  “But you didn’t want it.” His voice is savage—that’s a tone I’ve never heard from Henry before.

  He must be berating himself so much for what happened. I wish I hadn’t cried and blubbered there at the end. It might have made the morning after just a little less brutal for him.

  “It’s not that I didn’t want it. I wanted it, but I couldn’t feel comfortable when it happened.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It’s not the same thing! Last night, I did feel good at points…”

  There were moments…moments when I felt I was overcoming the walls around me. Moments when I was giving rather than receiving. Moments when I was oddly relaxed, such as when he kissed me. I’d like to think of those moments as progress.

  Henry claps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t try so hard, Max. I know what I saw on your face.”

  “Whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault. That’s all I want you to know,” I reply.

  His jaw is stiff. I don’t think I managed to get through to him.

  “Regardless, we cannot keep on the path we’ve been heading down. We need to get rid of whatever is between us, or it will cause entropy in our lives. We will become two highly disordered systems, heading towards thermodynamic ruin.”

  “I agree…” Rubbing my thighs, I ask, “By the way, what’s entropy?”

  “The logarithm of the number of configurations in a system multiplied by the Boltzmann constant.”

  “In simple English, please.”

  “Chaos. Disorder.”

  That sounds like a pretty good description of what yesterday felt like. Chaotic. Disordered. Look, I’m not saying the sex wasn’t good. But I need it to feel secure and peaceful more than good.

  The running of the faucet lifts me out of my thoughts. I guess Henry forgot to shut it. Rushing to prevent water wastage, I yell over my shoulder, “You’re absolutely right. Let’s go back to our old relationship. I’m the housekeeper. You’re my employer. That’s how it must be.”

  His vigorous nods confirm his agreement. “That’s exactly how it must be. I hope whatever happened won’t make it hard for you to continue to work here. I have to visit a client’s power plant in Illinois this week, so I’ll be away the whole week. That should give you enough time to start feeling comfortable again. You also don’t have to come in the mornings to make breakfast, if that’ll help you.”

  I’m honestly disappointed by that offer. I love coming in the morning and watching his sleep-streaked face. I love catching a sniff of his wet hair as I serve him breakfast and listening to slow jazz on the radio while doing a terrible imitation of Diana Krall.

  “Henry, please don’t think I’m uncomfortable with you. I’m not.” It’s stupid, but I feel the need to prove my point, so I put a hand on his head. He doesn’t recoil; he doesn’t even breathe. Neither do I. “Even now, I feel safe around you. Because I know you’re rational and you wouldn’t take advantage of me. So I have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Who predicted that there would come a day when I would think of those qualities as being positive?

  Although I dreaded seeing him again today, he talked everything over so rationally and without making me feel guilty or uncomfortable. It went better so much than I expected. There were no hurt feelings on either side. And now I feel silly for having fretted. Henry’s Henry. He always deals with everything rationally, which I love.

  “I’d like to make this up to you. I’ll think of something appropriate. Maybe a weekend break to somewhere nice. Solo, of course.”

  I’m about to protest, but I don’t. I’ll have enough time to protest later, if this plan ever materializes.

  Henry strides towards the door and unlocks it. “I’ll have a look over what’s available and let you know. Then you can pick where you want to go.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  Overriding my protest, he says, “I’ll see you later,” and leaves.

  “Have a good day,” I shout to his back as it vanishes.

  Then I get to work, too.

  “Entropy,” I repeat to myself, while dusting the curtains.

  It might just become my new favorite word.

  *

  Disaster just calls on some people more often than others—it’s like it has them on speed dial. Unfortunately for me, I happen to be one of those people. So is it any wonder that I forgot my purse, which had my phone, on the subway on the same day I was supposed to turn up at an audition?

  As the subway zoomed past, with my purse full of precious belongings lying forlornly on the blue seat, I couldn’t help but break down. What the fuck is wrong with my life?

  Even so, I remembered where I had to go, so I continued. But it turns out that there are two t
alent agencies in New York called SK Talent Management, and I got the wrong one. Great. Now I’m in the middle of the city without a phone, a MetroCard, or a clue about where to head next. This is the kind of situation modern nightmares are made of.

  Wading through the maze-like grid of streets and avenues that are blurring into each other, I keep going straight until I’m on Fifty-First Street. The place I’m supposed to be at thirty minutes from now is God knows where.

  After taking the morning off from work to do this, I can’t believe I was stupid enough to forget my phone on the train. Feeling the sting of angry tears behind my eyes, I force them down, force myself to think of a solution. It feels like luck’s kicking me for trying again. Maybe I’m really not meant to be an actress. I should just go back home, inhale Ji-ae’s fajitas to make myself feel better, and pick up Lucien.

  But I don’t want to.

  I’m tired of my ordinary life. I feel so out of place in it. I wasn’t born to be normal. Even after a year, I can’t accept this kind of life. And now that I’ve decided to give acting a go again, I won’t give up so easily.

  Putting one foot in front of another, I stare up at the sun, its rays tickling the lines of my jaw. I need a miracle now. A big miracle. A sign from the one up in the sky that acting is my destiny, that this time, I will truly make it.

  Three blocks later, I’m still chasing that miracle. Buildings rise up like prison bars around me, their intimidating edifices throwing shadows on my face, the grand facades blurring into each other, the company names a never-ending string of letters. Ace Accountants, Pret-a-Manger, Duane Reade, Parkhurst Legal Associates, Stone Engineering…

  Stone Engineering…wait, that’s Henry’s company, isn’t it? I remember it was on the business card he handed me on the first day. Excitement rushing inside me, I quickly reach for my purse, realize it’s gone, sulk a little, and then cross the street.

  My feet are picking their own path, heading into Stone Engineering, even as my mind tries to conjure up something to say when I’m there. I’ll have to ask the receptionist for Henry…obviously. Then I’ll borrow some money to buy a MetroCard. I can pay him back when Emilia pays me at the end of the week. Yes…that sounds like a plan.

  But as I cross the threshold into the office, negative thoughts bind me tightly. What if he’s not there? What if he doesn’t have time to deal with my problems? What if I can’t get past the secretary? In my already panicked and anxious state, I can’t help but panic more.

  When the doorman of the building asks me to sign in, I do so with trembling hands. Then I alight the elevator like a zombie: eyes blank, mind blanker.

  “Fifth floor,” the doorman calls out to me, and I press the button in front of five, marveling at the fact that I can still make out numbers. As the elevator ascends, a knot forms in my stomach. Then the doors cleave and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. Henry’s face floats in front of me.

  With a gasp, he slides back. “Max? What’re you doing here? I thought you were taking the morning off.”

  “I’m in trouble,” I blurt out, proceeding to explain the nature of my trouble in excruciating detail.

  To his credit, he appears genuinely sorry and refrains from pointing out my obvious idiocy.

  “Take my MetroCard.” He plucks a yellow card from his wallet and offers it to me. “Subway station’s a block from here. Go down and turn left.”

  “T-thanks.” I’m so happy I could hug him.

  “You should go.” Fingering the file in his hands restlessly, he presses for the elevator. I become aware of the fact that I’ve been staring at him.

  “Um…sorry…but can I ask you one more favor?”

  “Sure.”

  I study my shoes, wondering whether to admit it or not. “Can you look up Google Maps for the address of SK Talent Management? I got the wrong address last time.”

  “SK Talent Management.” He arches one perfect eyebrow, an expression of interest crossing the planes of his face. “What changed your mind?”

  “Imaginary numbers. I read that when you multiply two imaginary numbers, the i’s cancel out and you get a real number. So I decided that if I give my dream a second chance, it would become real this time.”

  “You’ve been studying up on imaginary numbers?” He taps the back of the pen he’s holding on my forehead, eyes shining with fascination. “I need to be on my toes starting today.”

  Unlocking his phone, Henry opens up the Google Maps app, which spits out the shortest route to my destination.

  “West Fourteenth Street between First and Second Avenues. Number one hundred and fifteen.”

  “Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

  It’s kinda weird that my employer knows I’m trying to find a new job, but it’s Henry so he doesn’t make it awkward at all.

  When he enters the elevator with me, I hold up my hands. “I can find the way out myself.”

  “I’m coming with you,” he announces, tapping the button that says L.

  My initial reaction is relief and excitement; I didn’t want to do this alone. But I also don’t want him to think I’m needy.

  “But you’re busy!” I protest. “I don’t need your emotional support.”

  “I’m coming to see you act.” The elevator doors meld together, caging us in, amplifying the heat passing between us. I’m beginning to see why elevator rendezvouses have gained so much popularity. This had better not turn into another regrettable event.

  I stick to the elevator walls to keep the distance between us. “Why do you want to see me act?”

  “Because I’m your biggest fan.” Turning his face to me, he transfixes me with his gaze.

  My legs start to wobble, and something warm smothers me from the inside. When did Henry Stone become someone who could make my muscles lose their will? When did he become someone who could drive the breath from my lungs, turn my insides to glass shards?

  Who are you? I ask nobody in particular. Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing to me?

  Of all the things he could have said, that was the best. Nothing touches an actor more than knowing they have a fan’s love. It’s the greatest type of love for a struggling artist.

  Craning my neck, I bestow my ‘star’ smile upon him. “I’ll give you an autograph after the audition, okay?”

  He scoffs. “Praise goes to your head so easily.”

  At that moment the elevator doors are thrown open and the bright light of mid-afternoon pelts my eyes, chasing away the images of Henry and the gold walls of the elevator.

  Ahead of here lies the new world that I must conquer.

  And conquer it I will.

  *

  So I’m with Henry at a restaurant—just us.

  I know what you’re thinking: this is a fuckin’ stupid thing to do. I thought the same, too, but know what changed my mind? Food—because the stomach doesn’t reason.

  The audition passed smoothly. I was late, but nobody seemed to mind. Henry thought my monologue was brilliant, but I don’t exactly trust his opinion, since we all know how blindly adoring fans can be (cough, cough). But it’s thanks to his blind adoration that he wanted to buy me lunch. And with all the shit I’d been through since morning, I wasn’t in the mood to refuse.

  I surreptitiously finger the satiny tablecloth that skims my knees.

  Did I mention how fancy this restaurant is? It has classy table décor, vintage wine, two Michelin stars, the whole nine yards. The lights hanging down over the table are framed by a nest-shaped artifact. An assortment of liquors is on display at the bar. Unsurprisingly, the place is pretty packed. All this is raising my expectations for the food.

  The waiter slants the bottle of wine toward Henry’s glass, filling it with wine. When he tries to pour me some, I refuse. I can’t drink, because I have to pick up Lucien later in the day, and who knows what nonsense I’ll unload on him if I’m drunk.

  “Thank you.” Henry dismisses the waiter with a nod.

  “Wow, I never kne
w there was a place like this around here,” I say appreciatively.

  “Neither did I, for that matter.”

  Right, because we spotted this place while we were walking and Henry suggested we go in. Spontaneity from him, who’d have thought?

  Slipping my feet out of my sandals, I wriggle my toes under the table. “Thanks for the lunch.”

  “You’re welcome.” He takes a sip of the white wine. I’m sure it has a French name or something, but I’m no expert at wines. “Call your credit card company later and let them know you lost your card.”

  “I don’t have a credit card,” I reply. “I cut mine up when I realized how much debt it was running me into.”

  “Whoa, that’s…” Henry pauses. “Surprisingly prudent of you.”

  “I have my moments.”

  Fingering the velvety-smooth tablecloth again, I marvel at being in this kind of place. It’s a Cinderella moment for me—I haven’t been somewhere like this in a long time.

  Henry clicks his fingers ceremoniously. “Do you remember I told you that I’d compensate you for what happened at Lucien’s birthday? I figured maybe I could give you money—”

  “You can’t pay me for what happened!” I raise my voice. “That would make it prostitution.”

  The word causes more than a few curious eyes to fall to us, trailed by whispers. Great.

  Henry blushes.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that!” He’s visibly unnerved; he knocks over his wine glass, barely catches it before it spills. “I meant as an apology.”

  I know what he meant. Still, I don’t want to take a single thing from him. He’s already given me so much in the brief months that I’ve worked for him.

  “You absolutely don’t have to compensate me,” I assert.

  “I insist.”

  I slam a fist on the fork. “Then I’ll consider this lunch compensation. Thank you.”

  He digs his back deeper into the chair, exasperated. He clearly did not see that coming. A waiter passes us by and I catch a whiff of delicious shrimp from the plates he’s carrying. There’s the aroma of tomato and basil coming from a dish that looks way too delicious. There’s also some kind of chocolate cake, which is very tempting.