TRASH SMELLY HOT throat palms sweating gurgling empty stomach head pounding humiliation eyes watering muscles clenching life over.
Hushed voices confer behind me. An obnoxious cackle—I think from Mons—thunders through. I’d crawl right into the garbage if I had the wherewithal to make my muscles cooperate.
“I’ll stay,” Henry says. “Go ahead without me.”
Oh God, no. Breathing through my mouth doesn’t prevent me from smelling the contents below me. I pretend there aren’t people walking by snickering and gaping. If only Pop could see me now, amirite?
“Here,” Henry says, and hands me a wet napkin. I don’t know from whence he acquired this miraculous object of relief, and I don’t care. It could be soaked in chloroform at this point and I’d happily bury my face in it.
The cool cloth wipes away the sweat and ickiness on my face and lips, smearing red lipstick everywhere. I realize it a moment too late and whimper. Henry hands me a peppermint. I dizzily unwrap it and pop it in my mouth.
“Feel better?”
I grunt. He stands, hands in his pockets, casual as ever. Not a care in the world about the passersby. His glassy eyes twinkle behind square frames and he smiles. Just like the smile he gave me in the pub.
Oh. I get it now. He’s amused. This is fun for him.
My anger flares hot and sudden on the back of my neck. Come Monday, he’ll be reminding me how I embarrassed myself with a guitar and then yakked in a trashcan. And I’ll have no defense, because look at me. I’m a complete mess.
The universe decides things aren’t bad enough, so it starts to rain. Cold, stinging drops sizzle against my flushed skin.
“Go find your friends,” I say. “I don’t need an escort.”
But he just stands there. Doesn’t say a word. I pack up my shame and start walking, but before I make it very far, the sky opens up. Again. Of course.
Something tugs at my back, and I have to step backwards to keep from falling over. Henry pulls me under an awning as I whirl around, and he lifts the guitar by the strap over my shoulder.
“At least let me carry the guitar,” he says. “I’ll wrap it in my coat so it doesn’t get ruined.”
“Since when do you care?” I stumble.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t. But Patrick might.”
He has a point. I hand it over and then zigzag into the downpour. It’s so infuriating the way I know where I want my feet to go but they won’t cooperate.
By the time I make it to the back door of the Fox Den, I’m drenched to the bone. Freezing water rolls down my forehead, into my ears, down the front of my dress, which is suctioned to me like a second skin.
I press my key into the lock and turn, but the handle doesn’t budge. I fiddle with it, becoming more water-logged by the second.
“Getting drenched is becoming a habit for you.” Henry steps past me, balancing the wrapped guitar on his back. He holds an umbrella, dry as can be beneath it.
“Nice umbrella,” I mutter.
“I borrowed it. You could’ve walked with me.” The grin in his voice pisses me off more. “Allow me.” He takes the key from my hand and my reflexes are too delayed to stop him. I cross my arms over my chest. He deftly fits the key in the lock, lifts and jiggles the handle and opens the door, then raises his finger to his lips. “Shh.”
When we step into the dim hallway, the door closes behind us and mutes the roar of the rainfall. I’m acutely aware of the chill on my skin, the quiet drip of water off the hem of my dress, the amber glow of the hallway and all the colors of the famous albums lining the walls. Henry closes the umbrella and sets it down. Before we get to the stairwell, he drapes his coat over my shoulders and clamps a hand around mine. I startle at the sensation of sudden warmth.
He narrows his eyes. “Go slowly. And be quiet.”
It hadn’t occurred to me until now that I should worry about George catching me sneaking in drunk out of my mind. If he told Mama, I’d probably be on a plane home tomorrow.
We tiptoe up the steps, and I’m so dizzy I’m glad he’s holding on to me. The drip of water from my dress hits the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud. His eyes stay on me as we go. It’s dark in the stairwell, but his aura is different now. The lightest I’ve ever seen it. Henry likes me better drunk. Clearly. I giggle aloud.
He shoots me a warning glare and I button my lip.
When we finally make it to the third level, he drops my hand. I stare at him for a moment, wanting to say something, but he turns and goes to his room before I can.
I head to the bathroom for a towel. In the mirror, horror awaits. The black eye makeup has drizzled down the sides of my face like charcoal lines in the snow. Red lipstick is smeared across my cheek. The colors pool on the collar of my dress. I look like Harley Quinn on a drunken bender inside a gas station car wash.
When I remove the coat and hang it on the towel rack, it’s even worse. No wonder he covered me up. White dress plus lots of water is a really bad combination. I don’t stop to analyze whether it was because he was helping me preserve modesty or because he was repulsed by me.
I strip down and towel off my hair and ruined face. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can remove all the humiliation of tonight along with the water and clown makeup. I brush my teeth to get rid of the puke-and-peppermint taste, then stumble into Patrick’s room.
There’s an ever-present spinny feeling, and it makes simple things difficult. Like putting on a clean t-shirt and pajama pants from my thrift store pile, and brushing the tangles out of my wet hair. I fall on the bed. Closing my eyes makes the spinning worse. I clench my fists, despising being so out of control.
“You’re a liar, Pop. There’s nothing magical here.”
I lie awake in the dark for a long time until the sickening turmoil begins to subside.
I’m nearly asleep when cabinets squeak in the bathroom. Doors open and close. I pretend it’s a stranger in there, because it’s easier than thinking about who it actually is and endlessly analyzing his behavior. He’s not some puzzle to be solved. Even though maybe, if he was someone else and I was someone else and we hadn’t gotten off to such a weird start, I’d like to be his friend.
The light strip under the bathroom door disappears and I listen to his quiet footsteps. Into his bedroom. Out into the hall. For one nauseating moment, I think he’s coming to my door. But then there’s a loud creaking. Footsteps fade and then get louder again—a thudding on the ceiling above me. The attic?
Above, Henry’s voice is faint, but he’s talking to someone. I can’t make out the words—just the baritone warmth of his voice. I creep to the door and crack it, ever-so-slightly and peek out.
A pool of light spills onto the hardwood across the hall. Above it, the trap door is open. Henry’s voice sifts down. I tiptoe toward the ladder and listen.
“…had to be hard for her, knowing her dad played there.”
I stop dead in my tracks and hold my breath. There’s a liquid sloshing sound.
“Right, right. I tried to tell him that. Nobody ever listens to me.”
Except me, right now. I’m listening to him. And tried to tell who what?
“Right, then. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I attempt a sneak-away but step on a squeaky board that announces my location.
“Hello?” he calls, somewhere out of sight. Then a moment later, he peers down at me.
“Sorry,” I bumble. “I heard someone talking and—”
He reaches down through the opening in the ceiling. “Come
up here. I’ve got something for you.”