Page 24 of The Heartbreak Hotel
“Stellar,” I squeak, taking the flashlight. “Thanks.”
Henry toes off his boots and waits for me to lead him into the kitchen, where Mei stands with three shots lined up in front of her. “Henry,” she says grandly, taking a deep bow, “welcome to the Power’s-Out Party. May I offer you a beverage?”
In the dark, I can just see one corner of Henry’s mouth start to hitch up. I jerk my flashlight around to get a better look at it—a smile!—and he winces, reaching out to angle the light away from his face. His hand covers mine on the flashlight. I choke a little on my own spit.
“I’m good,” Henry says, his fingertips sliding off the backs of my knuckles. “But thank you.”
“Should I show you the breakers?” I say, tipping into his space. “They’re in the murder basement.”
“I know where they are,” Henry says, and just as I feel my center of gravity start to slip, his hand comes to my waist. It’s light, his grip—open palmed, gentle through the thick fabric of my sweatshirt. Once I’m righted, he lets go. “Let me take a look”—his eyes connect briefly with mine—“in themurderbasement.”
Henry makes for the basement door, and I look at Mei. She’s swiping the back of her hand over her forehead, and when she whispers, “He ishot,” I’m not fully convinced it’s quiet enough for Henry to miss it. I shush her so violently it makes my head pound, and she erupts into a loose guffaw of laughter as I spin in my socked feet to follow Henry down the stairs. I feel fizzy and light, like Nate’s a world away, like all I need is in this house with me—Mei, laughing in my kitchen. Henry with his flashlights. The foreign feeling that ached through my belly when his hand landed on my hip.
“See anything?” I ask, lumbering down the stairs with all the grace of a newborn elephant. Henry’s bent over the panel, flashlight trained on the breakers. He swings the light over to me and, just as I hit the last step, says, “Be careful.”
I make a noise likePffftand swat my hand at him. When I come to peer around his arm at the panel, hooking one hand on his shoulder, he looks straight at me. Our faces are very, very close. “Well?” I say, and his eyes track back and forth over mine.
Henry blinks, and when he stands up my hand slides off of him. “There’s nothing flipped here. Were you running power to anything upstairs that you don’t normally use?”
I shake my head, rocking back and forth on my heels. “TV, lights, fridge. Wereyourunning power to anythingyoudon’t normally use?”
Henry’s mouth twitches, and I lean in close, pointing to his lips. “Ha!” I cry. “Smile.”
Now he smiles in earnest—but it’s bewildered, unsure. “Smile?” he repeats.
“You never do.” When I tap his mouth with my outstretched fingertip, his pupils blow wide in the dark. “But you just did.”
“I smile,” Henry says quietly, and my hand drops.
“Not around me,” I say. “You hate me.”
The line forms, severe, between Henry’s eyebrows. “Why would you say that? I don’t hate you.”
I frown right back at him, yanking my own eyebrows together. “You tell me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he says again, firmly.
“But you hate being here.” I wave my arms around the basement. “With me.”
Henry’s eyes flicker over my face. He doesn’t answer me, not really. “Are you okay, Louisa?”
I spin like a ballerina, arms arched above my head. “Of course!” When I stumble out of the pose his arms jerk out to steady me, flashlight beam arcing across the room. My ribs are framed between his hands. “Why?”
He shakes his head, drops his hands. “You just seem…”
“Drunk?”
He tips his head back and forth, lips twitching like he’s embarrassed. Like he doesn’t want to call this what it is. “Is there a reason?”
“That I’m drunk?”
His lips pull between his teeth when he nods. I watch him press them together, watch his tongue scrape over his bottom lip as he waits for me to respond. His mouth is full and soft; with his cheeks shaved clean he looks young and gentle—like that angry person from my kitchen isn’t here at all; like he’s someone I know.
“Just this dumb article,” I say directly to Henry’s mouth. His hand lifts, his fingers angling my chin so I’m looking up at him. He drops his hand as soon as our eyes meet.
“TheDenver Postarticle?” he asks. I see him across the kitchen island: sweaty T-shirt, angry eyes. Hot flush breaking over his cheekbones.
“People,” I say. I’m suddenly having trouble getting his face in focus. I blink once, hard. “About Nate and his new girlfriend.”
