Page 55 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc punishes him for that. Hands closing on his throat. Spots behind the eyes. Black.
The fourth delivery is a joke with sugar on it.
A child’s cake. A pink bear. Fondant eyes wide and happy. Note taped crooked: You’re the sweetest. He opened the door with a whip handle still inside him, cum dried on his thighs, welts raised and angry, blood starting to crust at the edges. The deliveryman stops. He looks at Henri’s face. His fingers shake as he dials.9. 1. 1.
Marc is there in three strides. Phone gone. The crack of plastic against the wall. A backhand. A kick. Words like bullets, Henri can’t track. The door stays open. The hall is a mouth.
By the time the paramedics arrive, Marc is dressed in new clothes. Calm. Smiling. Henri is locked in the master bedroom, slumped on the floor, ear to the door, listening to the smooth lie.
Marc was on a low-voiced call to the PDC Chief of Police as he opened the door to the paramedics.
“False report,” Marc says. “Disgruntled driver. My partner’s fragile. Under the weather.”
They leave without seeing Henri.
Later, when Henri asks, Marc only smiles. “The boy’s fired.” A sip of scotch. “Haldeman owed me a favor. He’s someplace less visible now.”
Then the rule. “You open the door. Clothed or not. Bleeding or not. You open the door.”
So he does. For years. The bell rings, and his body moves.
The bell rings now. His body moves.
“Henri.”
Michael’s voice cuts clean through. Not loud. Close. “Henri. Look at me.”
Blink. The couch is gone. The hallway is gone. Michael is in front of him, not looming, not angry. Thumbs stroke thehigh points of Henri’s cheekbones, bringing the world back into focus.
“Stay with me. It’s just our sushi delivery. I’ll get it, and you’ll meet me in the kitchen. At the breakfast island. Okay?”
Henri nodded slowly, throat too tight, but grateful for the clear direction. His heart was still racing, but Michael’s touch anchored him to the present.
“Good boy.” Michael kissed him softly. “Go on now. I’ll be right there.”
Michael set out the containers, watching Henri perch carefully on the barstool. “Want to tell me what happened back there?” He kept his movements deliberate as he broke apart chopsticks.
Henri stared at the counter, fingers tracing patterns on the marble. “It’s stupid. Just a memory.”
“Not if it affected you like that.” Michael placed a set of chopsticks in front of Henri.
After a long moment, Henri did. He glossed over it a bit, and left out that Marc had left him in the master bedroom for days without food, never bothering to heal his injuries.
Michael’s chopsticks stilled. “When was this?”
“Right after we moved back to PDC from Stanford.” Henri wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Michael set down his chopsticks and moved behind Henri, wrapping his arms around him. He pulled Henri back against his chest, one hand coming up to stroke his hair. “What he did was monstrous. You know that, right?”
Henri leaned into the touch, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The warmth of Michael’s chest against his back grounded him, away from those memories.
“Intellectually, I know.” His voice grew quieter. “But somewhere deeper... I also know I deserved it. I know I shouldn’t think that way, but I can’t seem to stop.”
Michael gave Henri one final squeeze before moving to sit on the stool beside him. He reached for the soy sauce, his movements deliberately casual, as if to bring them back to the present moment and their lunch. Henri watched him mix wasabi into the small dish, grateful for the shift in focus.
Henri paused, chopsticks hovering over a piece of sushi. “This has cream cheese in it. I didn’t realize—dairy isn’t great before...”
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he kept arranging the soy sauce dishes.
