Page 11 of The Heartbreak Hotel
Henry steps past me, his bare forearm brushing my own as he sets his mug next to my platter of secretly burned pancakes. He clears his throat, a tic I recognize from his office. “Look, Louisa.” He backs away from me, toward the front door, his eyes finally coming to mine. “I think it’s best if you run with this. If I’m not involved.”
I think of my conversation with Joss last week—grouchy. But Henry doesn’t strike me as grouchy; he strikes me as a trapped animal. I can see the tense line of his shoulders through his shirt.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my lip between my teeth. Henry’s eyes flick to my mouth. “I just want you to feel good about it.”
I’ve always craved validation but been horrified to ask for it. Growing up in Goldie’s shadow was a study in second place: she was good at everything, entirely self-sufficient. And then came Nate, who packed stadiums with roiling oceans of fans screaming his name. I’m so used to the background, the passenger seat, supporting actress. I don’t want to need the praise—but swallowing the need feels like drowning.
“I do,” Henry says, though it comes out a bit like a question. “It seems that you have everything perfectly under control.”
I think of Mei, fixing my wet eggs, and manage a frozen smile. “Thanks.”
Henry glances toward the dining room and adjusts his watch, a thick leather strap with a gold face. Ropy veins race up from his wrist to his elbow.
“You should keep some of the money that comes in.” He casts a hand over the kitchen island without looking at it.“Whatever you need to pay for this. And compensation for your time, of course. Just—” His eyes flick to me, then toward the front door. “Just give me the numbers when you have them.”
It’s generous—and surprising, considering his tone. But Henry doesn’t even give me time to respond before saying, “I’ll let you know when the permit comes through.”
He turns, then, heading for the front door.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. He’s the first man in the house since Nate, and as he’s framed by the hallway I’m struck by the differences between them: Nate’s jangliness, the looseness of his limbs as he careened through the house with pent-up energy and an echoing laugh. Henry is stoic, zipped into himself. He moves so carefully, like he’s afraid to touch anything.
When he reaches the door he turns back to me, sun from outside lighting his blue eyes so they look snow-bleached and frigid. “Don’t forget to look over the regulations.”
“I won’t,” I say, and his eyes flicker to something behind me. When I turn to look, there’s nothing there.
“Henry!”
We both whip around at the sound of Martina’s voice, reedy and high from across the street. She’s still in the yard with Custard—she’s sitting in a folding chair now, with his heavy snout in her lap. She waves, beckoning.
“I need to be going,” Henry says, ducking his head like an apology.
I glance from Martina to Henry one more time. “To Bill and Martina’s house?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat again, twisting his body toward the driveway, his car, away from me. A flush, pink and warm, rises from the neckline of his T-shirt. “Once a month, I—”
“Bring Lou with you!” Martina shouts, cutting him off.
Henry swallows as he turns back to me. He’s tall—taller than Nate and Mei and my sister. In the afternoon sun, he casts a shadow over my face.
“Um,” I say.I think it’s best if I’m not involved.“I don’t want to—”
“You don’t have to—”
Our mouths snap shut in unison. Henry takes a step backward; he moves like there’s a magnet pulling him from the house. “I guess we should—”
Custard starts barking, watching us now from the fence. His tail whirs like a wind sock.
“Okay.” I yank the door shut behind me. Flap my hands at Henry, who can’t seem to get rid of me. “Let’s just go.”
It’s not my fault Martina invited me over, but as I wait for Henry to pull a zippered leather bag from the back seat of his SUV I feel distinctly burdensome—like I’m a burr he’s spent the last ten minutes frantically trying to shake off and I’m still clinging, stubbornly, to his pant leg.
“Hello!” Martina calls, standing from her chair as we cross the street. My flip-flops thwack the asphalt, my shoulders burning around the straps of my tank top. Late afternoon is the hottest time of day in the mountains—at two thirty, early September, the sun feels like it’s cast through a magnifying glass.
Henry opens Martina’s gate like he’s done it a hundred times. Her yard is a postage stamp of verdant grass on the flat, brown envelope of our street; lawns are rare in Estes Park, but Bill’s outside watering theirs every morning. Custard promptly shoves his nose into Henry’s hand, and all five of Henry’s fingers disappear into his fur.
“Hello, my friend,” Henry says. His voice is soft, none of the uneasy edge he had at the house. “How are you feeling today?”
“He’s so good,” Martina says, reaching us and dropping her own palm onto Custard’s head.
