Page 52 of Daydream

He sighs, but again, there’s nothing about his tone or demeanor that makes me think he’s not finding this really fun. “Art is personal to me. I don’t show anyone voluntarily, so it isn’t you. But if you want to fight about it, I don’t see you offering to let me read your book.”

Damn it. He’s smiling so big because he knows he’s got me right where he wants me. “That’s because it’s less book and more chaotic ramblings of a woman who daydreams too much and spends her time finding the perfect playlist when she should be writing. Anyway, don’t distract me when we’re talking about you.”

“But I love distracting you.” Henry holds the door to the hallway open for me, and walking through it feels like defeat. I do it anyway, but only because I’m considering the potential implications of me breaking into the sculpture studio later. “Stop scheming, Halle.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. You get pouty when you’re plotting. You do it when you’re working on your book. Where do you want to go for lunch?” he asks, pressing the button for the elevator.

“I’m not talking to you until you agree to tell me what you’re working on.”

“You underestimate how much I like the quiet.” My mouth opens to argue back, but I’ve got nothing. Pressing the button for the ground floor, Henry pushes my mouth closed with his knuckle. “My project is to re-create a popular sculpture in my own style using influencesfrom a different art period. My piece is a reimagined Renaissance sculpture, using influences from Harlem Renaissance artists like Augusta Savage. My version is much smaller than the original and I’m using clay. Happy now?”

“If your goal was to make me want to see it even more, you won. Is that all the detail I’m getting? Not even which sculpture you’re reimagining?”

“Not even. I don’t trust you not to go looking for it. And I always win, Halle.” The elevator doors open and he ushers me out, wise, since I really want to go back upstairs. “Now what do you want for lunch?”

The idea of Henry creating something so special and me never getting to see it makes me sad, but I understand not wanting people to see something you’ve created. He’s waiting for my answer, and all I can think of is him tirelessly working to make something beautiful.

“Something I can use my hands on. You’ve inspired me.”

“I have a suggestion, but it will need both hands.” He holds the door to the courtyard open and I duck under his arm. Looking back at him over my shoulder, I watch as the door closes behind him. His expression slips into something slightly scandalized, but mainly amused. I love how happy he is after time in the studio versus a classroom. “Burgers, Halle. I know that look; get your mind out of the gutter. Let’s go to Blaise’s.”

“My mind wasn’t in the gutter.” Itsowas, and the butterflies in my stomach agree. “Fine, let’s go. But you can’t judge me if it doesn’t fit in my mouth.”

For the first time in the two months we’ve been friends, I’ve caught him off guard. The look on his face is… enjoyable.

“Touché.”

WHEN WE ARRIVED ATBLAISE’Searlier, it was closed for maintenance, so we went to a different place close to school.

Fifteen minutes into a debate with Aurora about the book we were analyzing for our class, my phone started buzzing with messages from Henry about him feeling sick. The messages continued throughout the afternoon with increasing levels of self-pity until he finished at hockey practice, went home for his overnight bag, and turned up on my doorstep.

I haven’t seen Henry sick before, but I’m quickly discovering that it turns him into a massive baby. Looking over to where he’s sprawled across the length of my couch, I see Joy is happily purring on his lap as he scratches behind her ears. The two of them have become the best of friends, and it’s getting increasingly more difficult not to be jealous.

“Do you need anything? I’m helping Gigi with her homework soon.” The last thing I need is for him to walk shirtless behind my laptop.

“Attention. Sympathy. A cure,” he says, his deep voice monotone as he lists his requirements. “A do-over where I didn’t eat a suspicious-smelling hamburger.”

“Feeling real good about the chicken burger you called boring right about now. I can offer you freezer homemade chicken soup and at best a half-sympathetic pat on the back.” He scowls at me. “No, seriously. I’m sorry you don’t feel great. I promise to give you all the attention and sympathy when I’m done.”

“Thanks. I’m good. I had chicken soup already and yours won’t be as good as mine.”

“Where did you get chicken soup?” I ask, powering up my laptop and not even bothering to defend the integrity of my soup. Henry stretches his arms up; the ripped muscles of his stomach flex as he reaches above his head. He twists, fluffing up the cushions before rolling onto his side and repositioning Joy next to his chest on the couch so they’re both looking at me.

“My mom dropped it off on her way to work when I called her looking for attention, sympathy, and a cure.”

“You are so spoiled.” He smiles like he knows it. “What does your mom do? What’s her name? So I don’t confuse your moms.”

“Yasmine. She’s a surgeon at Cedars-Sinai, but she volunteers at a nonprofit in her free time, so she was heading there to do a few hours at the clinic when she dropped off my soup.”

I want to know every little thing about him, and I don’t think he realizes how much. “What does the nonprofit do?”

“Advocate for Black women who need medical support. They’re disproportionately impacted by medical negligence or insufficient care, and are more likely to go undiagnosed because of institutional racism.”

He looks like he’s about to stop explaining, but I imagine it’s the information-hungry look on my face that encourages him to continue.

“She volunteers in the clinic for people who aren’t being listened to by their own doctor or because they don’t have access to a doctor. And sometimes she does talks about racial bias in the medical industry at hospital events. Mama is also a doctor and she used to volunteer at the clinic with her, but not that much now that she’s teaching.”

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