Page 63 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri looked at the water drops, then back at Michael. “But—”
“Promise me,” Michael said. “It’s just water. Nothing to fix or clean or worry about.”
Henri’s jaw worked, clearly fighting every instinct. Finally, he nodded, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. I promise.”
“Good.” Michael wrapped himself in the other towel and squeezed water from his hair, sending more drops spattering to the floor. Henri’s eye twitched, but the smile stayed.
Michael chose Henri’s clothes for the evening. Soft pajama pants and one of his own shirt, a well-worn cotton one Henri had admired. Henri accepted the choices without protest, seeming to find comfort in not having to decide.
When Michael pulled the shirt over Henri’s head, Henri caught sight of himself in the mirror, and his face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I—”
“Hey.” Michael turned him around, hands on his shoulders. “No more apologies tonight. You did nothing wrong.”
“I yelled at you.”
“You were honest with me. That’s not wrong.”
“I...” Henri’s voice broke. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“I know,” Michael said. “And that’s okay. We’ll learn together.”
In the kitchen, they worked together to make something simple. Spaghetti with parmesan, lots of parmesan, because Henri deserved richness and flavor and all the dairy Marc had denied him. Michael watched as Henri tentatively tasted the cheese, then smiled, a small, fragile smile, and added more.
But Henri only took a few bites before setting down his fork, staring at his plate.
“I’m not... I can’t...” He swallowed hard. “My stomach feels wrong.”
“That’s okay,” Michael said. “You don’t have to finish it.”
Henri looked at him as though he’d spoken a foreign language. “But you made it.”
“And you ate what you could. That’s enough.”
Henri’s eyes filled with tears again. “Is it always going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“Not knowing. Not understanding. Feeling as though I’m going to mess everything up.”
Michael reached across the table, taking Henri’s hand. “Probably not always. But maybe for a while. And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
They curled up on the oversized couch afterwards, Henri tucked against Michael’s side while Netflix played something mindless in the background. Henri kept apologizing, for not finishing his food, for crying, for being difficult, until Michael gently pressed a finger to his lips.
“No more tonight,” he said. “Just rest.”
Michael pulled out his phone and opened Amazon, scrolling through dinnerware sets.
“What are you doing?” Henri asked sleepily.
“Ordering new dishes,” Michael said, selecting a pristine white set of plates, bowls, mugs, glasses, everything. “The whole collection. I’m donating all the old ones tomorrow.”
Henri was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Michael said, though they both knew it was a gentle lie. “I’m doing it for us. Fresh start.”
He added the complete set to his cart, then ordered it for next-day delivery. Every dish would be perfect, whole, unmarked. Henri would never again have a reason to choose the damaged option, because there wouldn’t be one.
Henri’s arms tightened around him, and Michael felt some of the tension finally leave his body. On the screen, the Netflix show played on.
