Page 33 of Daydream

“I don’t understand the point.”

“Of love? Is this the part where the handsome playboy reveals he doesn’t believe in love? Are we that cliché?”

Henry smiles, and it really invokes a feeling in me I haven’t quite gotten used to yet. “You think I’m handsome? Are you flirting with me?”

“I’m not even sure I know how to flirt, so no.”

“You can practice on me.”

“How generous of you. C’mon. Playboy who doesn’t believe in love, tell me more.” I laugh, but the heat is creeping up my neck. Nobody needs to witness me attempting to flirt, especially not him.

Henry rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling. “You watch too many movies and I’m not a playboy. And no, I do believe in love. I just don’t value it over other types of love. There are people in my life I love. I love art. I love my parents. I watch my friends love each other. I just don’t see what the big deal is about romantic love. Everything seems more complicated when people fall in love with each other.”

“Sometimes complicated is exciting, I guess. I imagine, at least.”

“People value romantic love over platonic love or familial love every day,” he says. “I didn’t really understand platonic love until I met Anastasia, and now I think I’d rather have that with someone. I look at the art people have created on the basis of being in love with someone and it’s never the emotion I feel.”

I can’t think of anyone I platonically love anymore. “What do you mean?”

“If you made a piece of art—a picture—I’d look at your choice of medium, the colors you chose, your personal style, your skill level. I’dseea landscape, or a person, an event, or whatever you wanted to create, but I’dfeelsomething else.

“People paint people they’re in love with and I feel the lust, the longing, the joy, the sadness. It’s a physical manifestation of someone going,Look! Look at how in love I am.But I don’t believe people can look at a painting andseelove. I can see friendship, though. It’s hard to explain.”

“Remind me not to paint you anything. I have a feeling you’re a harsh critic.”

Our food arrives and we fill the silence with a mix of questions about my book, life, and family while we eat. By the time ourdesserts—plural because Henry ordered multiple when we couldn’t decide—arrive, I realize all I’ve done is talk about myself.

“Are you avoiding talking about yourself on purpose or…” I ask, taking my first bite of cheesecake.

He leans over with his fork, stealing the top corner. “I like listening to you talk.”

“Well, I like listening toyoutalk. Where are you from? Where did you go to high school? When did you realize you could draw? Did you have any pets growing up? What’s your favorite color? Where would you have studied if you didn’t choose UCMH? I don’t know. Tell me something, mystery man.”

At no point in any of the articles I looked at did it saystart interrogating your date at the dinner table, but I feel totally self-absorbed right now so we’re going off script.

“I grew up in Maple Hills and I went to Maple Hills Academy from kindergarten to senior year. I don’t know exactly, but I’m told my kindergarten finger paintings rivaled Picasso. My parents put me in a creative kids program after school. We did different things and I learned I liked basically everything. No pets because my nanny was allergic to almost everything. I don’t have a favorite color.”

I’m trying not to visually react to the idea of Henry in a Maple Hills Academy uniform. It’s a private school not far from the hotel, and I see the kids after school sometimes when I’m driving to work. Little Henry in a blazer and tie soundsadorable.

“I don’t believe you don’t have a favorite color. You’re an artist, for God’s sake.”

“Adults don’t have favorite colors, Halle,” he says, stealing another piece of my cheesecake. I push the plate slightly closer to him, but he pushes it back and stands up. Saying nothing, he moves his chair beside me and sits back down, moving the plate between us. “And Parsons, but everyone told me I’d regret not playing hockey ifI didn’t go to UCMH. I wouldn’t have, but I was scared of moving to the other side of the country and trying to make friends.”

“But you make friends so easily!” I wish I’d said it in a calm, normal way. Especially since he’s close enough to me that his leg is resting against mine. But no, it comes out all high and scratchy. “Sorry. I just mean you have so many people around you now. And you befriended me.”

“I had no friends freshman year, and I didn’t have close friends in high school. People were nice to me and I had acquaintances and teammates, but I preferred to be by myself. I sometimes mirror new people by accident, but I can’t maintain it.” He pushes the final bite of cheesecake toward me on the plate. “Being around so many new people is overwhelming. I stayed with my parents a lot because the guy I shared a dorm room with used to watch his TV, laptop, and phone at the same time. There would be different sounds blasting constantly and I felt like I was going to lose my mind.”

“What changed?”

“Nate and Robbie. They’re like an old married couple and they treat everyone like they’re their children. They grew up together, and Robbie had a serious accident and Nate’s mom died, so I think they trauma bonded. Now they act like they’re everyone’s dads. They let me live with them and it gave me space to adjust and learn how to process college.” He reaches for the next dessert. “And JJ, too, but I guess he’s more like an irresponsible uncle than a dad.”

“That’s really nice, Henry. I’m happy you found your feet.”

He pushes the strawberry on top of the torte to my side of the plate, a gesture born from me telling him strawberries are my favorite fruit. “I told you, platonic love is more effective.”

My fork sinks into the strawberry. “I think you might be right.”

The car ride home is the same comfortable quiet as the one there. He tells me he’s thinking about getting his own car so he doesn’tabuse Russ’s or Aurora’s kindness by borrowing one of theirs. I tell him I doubt they would ever think that about him.

---