Page 90 of When We Were More
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to find a man frozen to death on my front porch tomorrow morning. So, yes, come in, Henry. Either come into the house or go home.”
I turn and walk to the kitchen, not waiting for him. I throw some coffee beans in the grinder, and when they’re ready, I make a pot of coffee.
I’m a bit surprised when Henry doesn’t show up in the kitchen after a minute or two. I wait there until the coffee finishes brewing, and I pour a cup for each of us. If he’s left, I’ll lock up the house and go to bed. If he’s still here, I think we’re going to both need something to perk us up.
As soon as I near the doorway to the living room, before I can even see into the area, I know he’s still here. I can sense it, as ridiculous as that sounds.
Henry is sitting on the couch, reclined against the cushions, with his head resting on the back of the sofa. He’s staring at the ceiling.
“Where are the girls?”
“They’re staying with my mom tonight. I’m not positive, but I think my mom’s boy—I think Leo might be staying there, too.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Honestly, I’m trying hard not to think about it. I don’t have the bandwidth right now to delve into that.” He sits up and stares over at the coffee. “Thank you for this,” he says quietly.
I hand him a cup and we sip from our mugs in silence for a few minutes. A few feet separate us on the couch, and neither of us makes a move to lessen the distance. Not physically, or emotionally.
When it gets to the point that it seems like we’re going to sit here silent all night, Henry speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice filled with shame.
“For what?” I peer down into my cup, unwilling to look at his face right now, afraid of what I’ll see there. I take my index finger and trace the pattern on the mug while I wait for him to answer.
“Hell, a lot of things. But mostly that I acted like such an asshole tonight.”
“Which part?” My voice is quiet, and it betrays my hesitancy in asking. I glance up at Henry, and he studies me with his head tilted. I bite my lower lip, nervous.
“I’m sorry because I saw you standing at the door when you first came in, and I didn’t immediately walk up to you and apologize for earlier.” He pierces me with his eyes, and I don’t think I could turn away if I tried, if I wanted to. “That I waited too long and let Jake be the one to greet you and tell you how gorgeous you looked. That when he took you to his table, I didn’t come and get you and ask you to come to mine. To the seat I had saved for you. I’m sorry that I stopped over to your table and acted like an asshole. And…”
He hesitates, leans forward, and takes a sip of his coffee, then clears his throat. “For…”
My eyes are on him now.
“For what happened under the table?” My words are quiet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t hear them.
His eyes change, desire flashes in them for a split second, then something else. Something I can’t quite name. He scoots over nearer to me, close enough that our legs are touching.
We hold eye contact as he raises a hand to my cheek and cups the side of my face. My heart races.
“No. Not that. I’ll never be sorry for touching you, wanting you.” He pauses and uses his free hand to tuck a strand of hairthat’s escaped its messy bun behind my ear. “I’m sorry I was drunk and, most of all, I’m sorry you had to seeher.”
Ipull away from him at the reminder. I stare down at my hands and pick at my peeling nail polish. Then I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“It’s okay, Henry. You have a past. But you didn’t tell me she was theacquaintancewhen everything happened with her at your mom’s party. Was that on purpose?”
“Yes and no. It came to mind that I should tell you, but not immediately. I was too worried about finding you that night, and then it never seemed like the right time. It felt weird, and I didn’t want to hurt you. She’s in the past, and it was nothing.”
“You don’t owe me anything. But… butmaybe we should officially end this, say the words. If you want to move on, that’s?—”
“No.” Henry moves lightning fast, and his hands cradle the sides of my head while he brushes his thumbs across my cheeks. Still, I avoid eye contact. “No, Matilda. Look at me, please.” I shift my eyes to meet his request.
“Henry—”
“No. I don’t want her. I want you. Only?—”
