Page 88 of When We Were More
The pieces click into place as to why the woman is so comfortable touching Henry. She’s not justanacquaintance. She’stheacquaintance. The woman he had an arrangement with before me.
I grab his wrist and shove it away from me, forcing his fingers from my center. Henry peers up at me, confusion spread across his features. But I see immediately when he realizes that Iknow.Panic flits across his face, but he quickly masks it.
I stand abruptly and push my chair back.
“Excuse me.” I don’t wait for an answer.
I rush to find the restroom, my cheeks heated with embarrassment that I let Henry touch me under the table like that. Don’t get me wrong, I was worked up and got caught up in the moment because I wanted his hands on me.There was something about it that was incredibly sexy and naughty.
That was until I rememberedher.I no longer think Henry came to the party with her, but there’s no question she’d be open to resuming their prior arrangement. I could see the familiarity between them, and I didn’t put two and two together until Henry called her his acquaintance. I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
He should have told me about their history when we talked about things after his mother’s New Year’s Eve party. The fact he didn’t only serves to exacerbate the hurt.
After what seems like ages, I reach the restroom, find an empty stall, and lock myself inside it. I work to slow down my breathing and not vomit.
What in the hell is wrong with me? It’s only sex. He’s my friend, that’s all. Why does seeing another woman that he’s been with make fire flow through my veins? It shouldn’t upset me to the degree it is.
It could be because Henry’s actions at the table now feel more like him staking a claim and making it clear no other man can have me. He’s not wrong, if I’m putty in his hands like I was tonight. I feel a little cheap now for letting him touch me like that here.
Henry being possessive triggers thoughts of Joe. I hate that anything about Henry makes me think about Joe. I’ll never forget the words my grandmother said to me on the porch that night five years ago. They were the words that finally gave me the strength to leave. She said that what I had with Joe was “not love, it’s possession.”
Yes, I struggle with my self-esteem after everything with my ex-husband. I’ve been working on that and making progress in dealing with my physical insecurities. Honestly, that’s largely due in part to Henry’s frequent professions of his attraction to me and expressions of appreciation for my body. But even though that healing has come, I’m still terrified of ever being in a situation where someone treats me as a possession and not a person again. I simply can’t allow that to happen.
Once I’m calm, I head to the sink and take a few minutes to use a wet paper towel to pat my face. I’m not ready to go back out there yet. I open my clutch and pull out my lipstick. I do a little touch-up, then I take several deep breaths in and release them at a controlled pace, trying to center myself. I do a decent job, and I’m heading out of the restroom when Henry’sacquaintanceis walking in.
For fuck’s sake, universe. Cut me a break, okay?
We walk past each other without a word, and I’m almost through the doorway when she speaks.
“I saw you talking to Henry.”
I stop, then turn around after a few seconds and face her.
I say nothing in response, but we stand there, studying each other.
“Henry and I have a history.” Her smirk screams ‘bitchy.’
I tilt my head as I study her, trying to figure out her game.
“Tell me, does he have a little nickname for you? Mine’s kitten.”
My stomach drops. If all I feel for Henry is friendship, then this wouldn’t be making me queasy. It wouldn’t make my stomach tighten hearing her words about them being together. About what he calls her.
I somehow manage to keep it together and leave the restroom without speaking a word to her.
I don’t make it far when I’m confronted with Henry, leaning against a pillar, clearly waiting for someone. I assume me, though my old insecurities creep up and make me wonder if he’s waiting forherto come out of the bathroom.
I drink him in—he’s gorgeous in his tuxedo, his hair tousled like it gets when he’s been running his hands through it. Or when I’ve been running my hands through it…
He pins me with his gaze as I approach him. I might as well get this over with.
“I’m going to head out, Henry. The party is lovely, really.”
“I should have told you,” he says, in a hushed voice. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” It’s all I can think to say. Plus, I’m distracted by the heavy odor of alcohol on his breath. Jesus, did he havemorewhile I was in the restroom?
“Don’t I?”
