Page 26 of I Hear You

“I’m eighteen.”

“Oh, me too,” I say.

Once again, his attention goes back to my notebook.

I wish I could see inside his mind and know what he’s thinking as he reads over my words. I want to know what’s causing the subtle changes in his expressions. Why his eyes are closing lazily sometimes and widening with curiosity at others. I’m about to ask him to say something, anything, because the not-knowing is killing me and he’s been looking over the notebook for what feels like decades.

Henry finally closes my notebook and hands it back to me. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I’m about to just shove all my books into my backpack and leave out of total embarrassment when he stands up and starts walking toward the book shelves. My notebook is a little messy, and there were some pretty raw emotions on the page I let him read, but his reaction still wasn’t what I was expecting. Is he serious? Who just up and walks away from someone after they’ve let you into one of their most private spaces? Now I’m getting kind of pissed off and I’m about to call after him when he turns around.

“Are you coming?”

He wants me to follow him? Then why the hell didn’t he say so? The huge smile that spreads across my lips is completely out of my control. My body seems to react of its own volition around Henry frequently. I get up, brush off my pride, and follow him.

We land in the poetry section and he scans the shelves. Still a little irritated, and a lot confused, I stand there with my arms crossed, waiting. Henry pulls a book out of the shelves and walks over to me, our toes practically touching as he hands it to me. I look at the book in my hands and back up at him for an explanation. His hands are tucked in his front pockets, but he doesn't move to give me any space.

“It’s a collection of modern poets, all women. I found it the first week of classes and I think you’re gonna love it. It’s not what you’d probably expect someone like me to be checking out from the library, but let’s just say I’ve needed to do some soul searching and knew reading women's words was a good place to start.”

I’m stunned, and a little impressed. Henry doesn’t seem the type. This is refreshing.

“Definitely didn’t have you pegged for the poetry type, I can admit that. And really not the type who consciously gravitates toward women’s words. That's actually kind of beautiful.”

We’re standing here now, just staring at each other, the book in my hands fitting between us by the narrowest of margins. Without thinking, I suck my bottom lip in, chewing on it lightly. Henry’s breathing gets raspier, more shallow. His eyes light up with emotion and I think I see desire in them.

Henry leans forward first, but I close the gap and our lips meet. At first, they’re just pressed against each other perfectly still. Neither of us moving a muscle for several earth shatteringly long seconds. But slowly he begins to part his lips and uses his tongue to part mine. Running his tongue gently between my lips, from one edge to the other. The movement reminds me of the fantasy I played out in my mind while I got myself off in my bed. A warmth is growing deep in my stomach and traveling lower. I’m still holding the book with both hands between us, but his hand comes up to cradle my jaw, his fingertips in my hair. The faintest moan escapes me when his tongue meets mine.

Then, as fast as it began, it’s over. Henry’s pulled away and has put several feet of space between us. He runs his hand over his face as I stare at him. I’m dizzy from the feel of his hand on me and the taste of him in my mouth.

“I am so sorry,” he says, and rushes past me out of the row of books we were hidden between.

Chapter twelve

Henderson

Idon’tknowwhata panic attack feels like, but I think I’m having one. Really, it’s just shame and embarrassment because I am a complete dick.

I’m sitting in my truck, my head on the steering wheel, trying to process what happened. I can still taste her on my lips, a warm taste with a hint of vanilla. The feel of her soft hair is still making my fingertips tingle. Gripping the steering wheel, I let out my frustrations and emotions with an audible groan.

She is most likely so pissed off and confused right now, but honestly, so am I. Getting lost in her scent, her touch and her taste for those brief moments was one of the best feelings I’ve ever experienced. I didn’twantto stop. I wanted to deepen the kiss, to run my hand through her hair to the back of her head and pull her into me. Let our bodies touch as much as they possibly could.

As much as I wanted that, as soon as I got the first taste of her, I knew it was wrong. I knew I couldn’t let her kiss me as Henry when she didn’t know I was Ender. Kissing her felt familiar in the best way, but she can’t have any of the same emotional ties to my touch. There has to be a way I can come clean and tell her who I am with no repercussions. If I don’t tell her in the right way or wait too long to tell her, she’ll never trust me again. Even if she stopped talking to me, stopped talking to Ender, I know she trusts him. I know she trusts me.

Reading her journal, seeing her handwriting for the first time, made me think back to all the poems she shared with me. All the beautiful words she’d typed over the years. All the secrets we would share with each other, letting all of our vulnerabilities be on full display for each other in the words we typed. But, there in that little book, I could see her words in a new way. I noticed the soft curves of some words likelifeandpromise, the ending letters swooping up and around the page into doodles. There were other words that were sunken into the pages where she felt more passion, or maybe anger, and pressed her pen harder to the paper. It was so much of what I adored about her right in front of me.

All these years I've felt like I could see her when I read her emails, especially her poems. I couldn’t see her physically, but I could see her for who she really was. Who she was in her deepest and darkest parts alongside her brightest and most heartwarming. Touching the words she wrote in that journal with her own hand gave me chills. When we were standing so close, hidden between the rows of books, I could smell her unique scent and it was overwhelming.

My heart rate is finally slowing down. I’m supposed to be on the football field warming up for practice in twenty minutes. I’m parked in the lot by the field, so it’s a short walk and I don’t have to worry about running into her if she’s leaving the library. She probably left right after I did. Most likely she’s in the main parking lot looking for my car so she can key it. No, the Mads I know isn’t vindictive, and she definitely doesn’t handle any kind of confrontation well.

She once told me about a time when she was young, maybe in fourth or fifth grade, when all thecool girlsmade fun of her because she brought a stuffed animal to a sleepover. They teased her about it and ignored her for the rest of the night. She called her mom and faked a stomachache so she could get picked up early. She didn’t tell her mom the truth, that the girls were little bitches. And when the girls acted as if nothing happened at school on Monday, she wasn’t mean to them. She didn’t even ask them why they were mean to her. She kept playing with them at recess like nothing ever happened. When she told me that story, it made me want to go back in time and hug that poor girl. The girl who just wanted to fit in and have friends. It also made me want to kick sand at those mean girls.

Fifteen minutes until I need to be on the field. The weight of my gym bag slung over my shoulder as I walk to the field is nothing compared to the weight of the mistake I just made.

The entire team is pretty much here already. I should be one of the first people on the field for practices since I’m the quarterback, but I’ve found it hard to care that much. It’s not like the coaches will kick me off the team. Hell, I could not show up to practice and still start every game. When you’re a team whose best record in the past ten years is going 2 and 12, you don’t pass on a quarterback who once had his pick of D1 schools.

Emmett and Jesse being on the team is one of the few reasons I even agreed to play for Pinehurst. That and I’m still weighing my options of trying for the pros when I graduate and if I don’t play for the next four years, there’s no way I’d stay in shape.

Jesse never really took football seriously, but he says it’s fun, so he still plays. Emmett could have played for a better school and I have my suspicions he turned down a few offers. Lately, Emmett’s been acting weirder than normal. I brought it up once, that I thought he was wasting his talent here. He almost bit my head off. I’ve since avoided the subject. He’s been missing a lot of practice lately, but he’s here today. Nobody seems to know where he goes when he’s not here.

Practice seems to drag on for longer than normal. We don’t have any games until fall, but a lot of these guys are in shit shape. The coaches are all in crappy moods and make us run drills until half the team is puking in trash cans. There should seriously be some kind of scoring advantage to being a team who practices in the heat and humidity we have to deal with. When we finally get released, I don’t follow the team into the recently finished locker rooms. I just head home to change and shower.

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