Page 20 of The Heartbreak Hotel
I hit the first floor in my bare feet, hardwood warm from the sunlight spilling across it. The back door to the garden is open, screen letting in the morning breeze. Mei must’ve left it like that before heading into town—she told me she was getting up early to go on a walk. The microwave clock says it’s 8:22.
“…not here, Joss.” Henry’s voice is clipped. “Of all places, in this house—”
I push open the screen door, its hinges whining conspicuously, and his mouth snaps shut. Both of them freeze, faces turned toward me. Henry is in running clothes—a gray shirt ringed in sweat, blue sneakers, shorts that hit midthigh and give me a clear view of the faint, yellowing bruise on his knee. He pushes sweat-damp hair off his forehead and says, “You’re awake.”
“Yes.” It occurs to me that I’m not wearing a bra, and I cross my arms over my chest. “What’s going on?”
Henry snatches the article out of Joss’s hands and points behind me. “We need to talk inside.” He casts half a glance back at Joss, who says, “I don’t see the big deal.”
“Joss.” Henry’s voice is nearly a snarl, and I tense as she lifts her chin and holds his eyes. “Please.”
“You’re overreacting,” she tells him, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. She looks at me before turning toward the garden shed. “Lou, don’t worry about him.”
Joss has been tending to this house forever—long before I came into the picture. Maybe one day I’ll have the same resolvewhen it comes to our shared boss, but right now, when Henry turns his gaze back on me, I feel like I’m in big trouble. I think of the poison dart frogs, the blue of his eyes, the way meeting them feels like having the wind knocked out of me.
Henry says nothing, just jabs his finger toward the kitchen again. His cheeks are pink, stubble scraped along his jaw, shoulders tensed under the thin fabric of his shirt. Inside, the door wheezes shut and he slides the newspaper toward me across the island.
“We didn’t discuss this.”
“Press?” I say. When I meet his gaze, he doesn’t blink. “I’m just trying to drum up bookings.”
I edge toward the living room as casually as I can, reaching for the throw blanket on the back of the couch. When I wrap it around myself to hide my barely covered breasts, Henry’s eyes track the movement like a cat—quick and unblinking.
“Not press,” he says as I lower myself onto one of the island stools. He stays standing, rigid. “ ‘The Comeback Inn’? ‘A haven for the heartbroken’? You told me this was going to be vacation rentals, not some kind of rehab.”
“It’s notrehab,” I say on half a laugh. Henry does not crack a smile. If anything, his lips press into an even more sinister line. “It’s just a—” I hesitate, and Henry’s eyebrows hike upward. “A soft place to land.”
“A soft place to land,” he repeats. His voice is different—not the gentle rumble he used with Custard, not the carefully restrained tone that so offended Nate. This is something new, something scraped and unchecked. “Meaning what?”
I force myself to hold his gaze. “A safe place to come and heal.” His eyes flick back and forth between my own, like he’ssearching for something he understands. A muscle jumps at the corner of his jaw, sharp and angry. “I’m good with heartbreak.”
Henry blinks. “You’re good with heartbreak.” His eyelashes are long and dark, almost pretty against the austere set of his face. “Because you’re a therapist?”
I hesitate for half a breath. It’s not true, quite yet—not until I pass the NCE. But I can tell it’s what he needs me to say. I think of that moment, back in his office, the worried line between his eyebrows.Trust me.“Yes.”
“And there was no other angle you could have chosen?”
I bite my lip. Henry doesn’t look away. Outside, a squirrel trills in the garden. “I know this one best.”
His hands are pressed flat on the counter, half covering the article, one thumb on my printed face. His voice softens, hardly enough to notice. “Because of Nate.”
Because of my mother, I think. But it’s too much to admit—and given what Henry saw between Nate and me the last time he was here, this makes its own kind of sense. “Yes,” I say, and Henry’s eyes drop from mine, down to the article framed between his hands. They’re big, his hands, his fingertips pressed white against the granite. “And because my friend just went through a breakup, too, and I feel like I have the experience—”
“With breakups,” Henry says stiffly. The muscles in his forearms flare, like he’s barely holding himself here. He looks back up at me. “That’s what this is about? Come stay here to get over your ex-boyfriend?”
I flinch. He makes it sound silly and small. But nothing about the way I grew up—nothing about Mei sobbing on my couch—has been little. It’s been enormous. It’s been big enough to knock both of us out entirely.
“I’m picking up on your tone,” I say coolly, “and I don’t appreciate it. Recovering from a broken heart isn’t trivial, whether you believe it or not.”
Henry clenches his teeth, the corners of his jaw sharpening. “No,” he says, and there’s wavering heat in his voice that betrays something hidden. Something he hasn’t shown me. “It’s not trivial.”
I straighten my spine, force myself not to look away from him—from those dangerous, inescapable eyes. “Then what’s the problem, Henry?”
“The problem, Louisa, is this isn’t what we discussed. I don’t want my house full of—of—” He breaks off, and his chest rises. He draws breath like he’s drowning.
“Sad people?” I say. The line forms between his eyebrows. “Whether I host other people here or not, it’s going to be. I’m going to be.”
Silence hangs between us. On the counter, Henry’s hands have uncovered my face. I stare down at myself—that smiling, self-sure person who was gripped by this idea andknewit was the right one. Who felt so much more confident than I do now, faced with this man who can’t seem to stand me.
