What's Broken Between Us (12 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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H
enry’s bed isn’t made. It’s a bed that’s been tossed and turned in—like my bed. The dishevelment makes it all the more inviting.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he explains.

“Me neither.”

He kisses my cheek. Once we’re both under the covers, he switches off the lamp he turned on when we entered. The slanted window above the bed casts shadows, dark blue over black, and leaves streaks of gray light across the bed. We’re both on our sides, facing each other. His arm hangs over my hips; his fingers softly tap against my back. I keep my hands curled up in front of my chest.

“Can I tell you something?” Henry asks.

“I don’t know.” I’m very afraid of what he might say to me right now. Something honest, maybe. Or something so perfect it will still haunt me when the sun comes up.

“Henry?” I say, because he hasn’t said anything.

“I’ve missed you for sixteen months.”

“Me too. Henry?”

“Yeah?” His hand has moved to my shoulder. Without realizing it, I’ve reached out and mine are around his neck.

I was going to ask him to promise that when we fall asleep, he’ll still be here in the morning—that nothing, even the most insignificant details, will be like the last time we fell asleep together. But bringing that up feels like it will push us backward, spit us out in a place that reminds us of all the reasons we shouldn’t be here, like this.

Instead, I whisper, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He kisses me firmly—it’s a kiss that could hold up a building. And it holds me up, too. “It’s okay,” he says, moving closer.

The next time we kiss, it’s like a waterfall; roaring and everywhere and unstoppable. He slips me out of my shirt, out of everything, and when he moves over me, I keep both my hands around his face, kissing him with all I’ve got. His hand fumbles across the bed, reaching into the nightstand to retrieve a condom. I’m in the process of slipping him out of everything too, when suddenly he rolls onto his back.

“Amanda—” His voice cuts off, and he swallows hard. The obvious effect I’m having on him makes me swimmy, despite
how abrupt it felt when we stopped. “Do—do you remember what you said to me the last time?”

I freeze, completely shocked that he’d bring up that night.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But do you remember?”

“Yes,” I mumble. I do remember, and it’s unfortunate. What business did I have talking at all that night? But that’s what I did, rattled on and on, saying whatever naive and whimsical thoughts that passed through my mind.

Henry shifts so he’s lying on his side, letting his feet tangle with mine, and tracing a finger over my forehead to chase away stray hairs.

“You said—”

“Henry—” My hair rustles against the pillow as I shake my head.

“You said, ‘Don’t be so hasty.’”

His smile is bigger than ever. I have to cover my face in case mine is too. I’m so embarrassed. Why—
why!
—did I think it’d be okay to say that?

“Well, that’s not what I’m saying now.”

“Mmm.” He nods. And fine, back then, that night, it had been like a flood: months of flirtation and weeks of conversation dancing around the possibility that there was something between us, all leading up to a night of kissing. I’d pulled back and he had, too.
Don’t be so hasty
—I was borrowing what I’d perceived to be a British phrase to tease him, but I was also serious. I thought there’d be time to wait for the perfect moment. I thought we’d have a hundred perfect moments.

“I was wrong,” I whisper. “I had no idea—”

I shake my head, not wanting to admit the rest—that I had no idea how fast things could change; how easily time could slip through my fingers. I prop myself up on my elbows and look right at him. “I’ve missed you for sixteen months, too, and I want you now,
posthaste
—”

He lets out a burst of laughter, shaking the mattress. “Careful what you wish for.”

“Henry.”

And now he gives me his full attention. His hand reaches under the sheet and wraps around my waist, like he’s going to pull me closer. He closes his eyes for a second, and he bites down on the corner of his lip. “I’ve thought about this a million times,” he says.

I’m stunned silent by a cataclysmic combustion of happiness and relief. I can only smile.

His leg bends so his knee is resting over mine. I lie on my back, reaching up and locking my hands around his neck, guiding his lips to mine.

“This is what you want?” he says, breaking away. He sounds more nervous than I’ve ever heard him. We’re pressed together so close I think I can feel his heart pounding away. Maybe it’s my own racing heart. Maybe it’s both of ours.

“Yes,” I manage, cupping his cheek with my hand. “Isn’t this what you want?”

I feel him nod against my palm.

Again, it’s like last time, except now we don’t stop. Time
trips over itself, and for a moment I inhabit the girl I was then—so hopeful,
too
hopeful, so sure all of this would come together for her one day, with him. She thanks me silently for giving her what she wanted, for letting her come back here—letting her go through with it when she won’t be surprised by what’s going to eventually keep them apart, and she won’t be alone the next morning.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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H
enry’s alarm goes off at six a.m.—it blares Jock Jams’ “Get Ready for This.” I recognize it from the country club’s kickboxing class.

“Are you kidding me?” I yell at the ceiling.

Henry fumbles with the alarm, accidentally causing the volume to skyrocket before he manages to turn it off. He lies back down and we laugh—loudly, because we can, and deliriously, because we’re still half-asleep.

We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder; his hand finds mine and squeezes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m stunned and appalled to learn how you start off your morning, but I’ll be all right.”

He laughs quietly. “No, I meant, about last night.”

Immediately I think of that poem—“i like my body when it is with your body”—and start to blush, remembering in middle school how Dawn and I used to gasp at the words, so sure it would always be the most seductive thing we’d ever read. But I know better than to start quoting E. E. Cummings, or to even admit to the truth: that last night happened because Henry knows all the darkest parts of my mind, and now he knows every inch of me, too. “I’m fine,” is all I say.

“It’ll be better the next time.”

I roll to my side, so he can’t see how flushed I am, as I reply, “You promise?”

He kisses the exposed skin between my shoulder and my neck and whispers, “I promise.”

It’s a few
hours later when we actually get out of bed. Henry throws on workout shorts and a T-shirt and goes downstairs to make coffee. I change into a T-shirt and sweatpants Henry gave me—not from his gym bag—and use the bathroom. The spare toothbrushes are right where Henry said they’d be, in the third drawer down. I wonder what will become of my toothbrush when I leave; if he’ll keep it somewhere for me, in case I’m ever back; if he’ll throw it away, knowing I won’t be. I fantasize for a moment,
Maybe
I’ll never go
. The thought makes me smile like a dimwit.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I look different. There’s something unfamiliar about my expression. Like this girl in front of me hasn’t been through anything horrible. She’s fresh-faced, with a smile playing on her lips, and her eyes look like they’d have to take a trip around the world to find sadness.

“Coffee?” Henry calls from the kitchen when I come downstairs. I can’t get to him quick enough. He smiles, and I’m so embarrassed at our uninhibited delight at seeing each other that I pretend some of my excitement is because of the coffee.
Is this how it’s supposed to be? How does anyone accomplish anything once they’ve found their own little world with someone else?

“I really need fuel.” I grab at the coffee like a fiend. Henry’s quick; he moves it out of my reach and takes my extended hand, pulling me toward him until I’m close enough to kiss.

“It’s equal parts coffee and vanilla cream,” he says, inching away slowly and handing me the mug.

I hum with delight as I move to the other side of the kitchen island and take a sip, propping myself up on one of the stools. Henry groans, probably because this coffee-cream combination is disgusting to 99 percent of the population.

Henry plays me the message his mother left early this morning that says they’re planning to stay another day in Madison and won’t be home until Monday.

“I can’t stay tonight.” Last night, I told my parents I was going out with Graham, but I think even they might start to get suspicious if I don’t come home for two days.

“Sure you can.”

And I start to think that maybe I really could. It’s effortless to pretend I have no one to answer to; and easy to forget I could possibly be hurting anyone, while I’m this happy.

We lounge around flipping channels, watching movies, any excuse to be smashed up next to each other on the couch. We make the brownie mix Henry finds in the pantry and eat it all by the spoonful until there isn’t any left to bake. We don’t ever stop kissing, and clothes come off, but they’re so comfortable and warm we put them back on. We play foosball in Henry’s basement. The level of lame trash talking that goes on rivals that of our middle school days.

At eight p.m. we’re starved and lazy, and we order delivery from Henry’s favorite to-go restaurant. He’s offended I’ve never had their fish and chips. We sit in front of the fireplace while we eat it, another carpet picnic. It’s so good, and we’re so hungry, we moan at the first few bites.

All of a sudden, Henry’s eyes go wide.

“What?”

But then I hear for myself—there’s a faint noise starting up in the distance, a low humming. The sound of a garage door closing. And soon, the unmistakable click of a door unlocking and people talking in British accents. I have the urge to hide, though I have no idea where. Maybe bolting out the front door is the best option, since the Cranes are coming in through the garage. I look at Henry for a clue.

His face is paling, but he whispers, “It’ll be fine.”

I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to himself.

The Cranes are speaking over each other as they enter—a sudden circus bursting into our sanctuary. Mr. Crane can’t carry all the bags himself. Sutton left her phone in the car. Mrs. Crane can’t believe they drove all the way to Wisconsin just to eat meat loaf. Mr. Crane reminds her that it was also to hold a baby. Sutton accuses them of treating
her
like a baby. Mrs. Crane tells Sutton she thinks she should take a nap.

They all go silent when they spot Henry and me sitting there with messy hair, both dressed in Henry’s clothes, and a pile of fish and chips in front of us on the floor, the fireplace crackling.

“Oh,” Mrs. Crane says. Her smile looks forced, but it could also be because she’s tired from traveling. “We’ve got takeout as well.” She holds up a white paper bag. A look of surprise flashes across her face, like she can’t believe this is what came out of her mouth. Her eyebrows merge in the middle, and it seems that, more than anything else, she is actually quite sad to have walked into this.

“Brilliant.” Henry’s smile is an imposter, too. “We’ve been . . . having a lazy Sunday.”

“What are you doing here?” Sutton says. She looks around the room, and I watch as her wide eyes return to their usual perturbed squint. Jonathan isn’t here, she gets it now. I notice she’s using only one of her crutches to brace herself. Her hair is longer, and straighter. And she’s in more clothes than I’ve ever seen her in before—a black velour tracksuit with big brown slippers that look like they could double as boots. The Sutton I remember had
milky-white shoulders always exposed; a skirt that always needed to be pulled down. She’s not wearing any makeup either. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without black eyeliner and shimmery pink lip gloss. She looks cleaner, younger. Less like someone Jonathan would have noticed.

“Hi, Sutton.” My voice sounds strained and weird. It’s not like Sutton to let this go without commenting on it, but thankfully she does. “Hi,” I say to the rest of the family.

“Well, come on, boy, help me with these bags,” Mr. Crane calls out, his back turned as he’s already headed out to the garage.

Henry hesitates, glancing at me, before he follows his dad.

“You’re more than welcome to join us at the table,” Mrs. Crane says. She won’t look me in the eye.

Sutton takes a seat and folds her arms over her chest. “Unless you and Henry prefer to be alone.”

“Be nice.” Mrs. Crane says this through her teeth, in a hushed tone, but I can still hear her.

“I’m always nice.”

The last time I had dinner with a family that wasn’t mine, I was at Dawn’s. I always helped her mom set the table, and even though it’s takeout and setting the table only involves opening bags and passing around plates, I still ask, “Can I help?”

I take a step forward, tripping slightly over Henry’s sweatpants, as they are too long on me.

“No need,” Mrs. Crane says. Her smile is pitying now, but genuine. I hate myself for preferring it this way.

I almost wish she would have screamed at us—kicked me
out, threatened to ground Henry. If I were someone else—Imogen, maybe—I wonder if she’d be this nice. The way she looks around, eyes darting between me and Sutton and the garage where Henry has disappeared to—I think mostly she’s afraid of me. Like I’m a bomb that’s sensitive to too much light or heat or movement, and I’ll blow up with news about Jonathan all over their dining room if I’m aggravated. I gather the fish and chips from off the floor and bring them to the table.

Henry and his father return with the bags. Mr. Crane is talking to Henry like this is just another day, and he nods along, saying, “Right, right,” but his eyes find me and they don’t let up. I try to read them for clues. I don’t know what he expects me to do.

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Crane says.

I hesitate before I sit, afraid of taking someone’s normal seat.

“Right there is fine.” Mrs. Crane motions to the chair across from her.

“Next to Henry.” Sutton smiles. Her smile hasn’t changed at all. It still reminds you that she isn’t the uncomfortable one in the situation, and that she could very well make it worse.

I hear Henry’s footsteps moving fast up and down the stairs as he drops off the bags. We all sit staring at each other until he returns to the table. He’s breathing heavily from rushing with the luggage, his eyes on me, then his mother, then back on me. He gives Mrs. Crane an apologetic smile as he sits down beside me.

“We decided to come home today after all,” she says, looking down.

“So sorry we’ve spoiled your evening,” Sutton says to Henry.

“While the cat’s away, indeed,” Mr. Crane says, taking a seat and nodding at Henry and me. He laughs. He
actually
laughs. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Henry’s dad. He looks more like Sutton than Henry—pale, with full lips and pragmatic eyes. The way Mr. Crane is smiling, I don’t think he knows who I am. He’s looking at me like I’m just some girl he caught in his family room with his teenage son.

“At least you didn’t burn the house down,” he says, serving himself a heaping spoonful of chow mein. “And I guess I don’t need to ask you how your weekend was.”

Henry keeps his head down as he divvies out the fish and chips between us. Eating anything right now seems impossible.

“What happened to Imogen?” Sutton asks. She’s sitting at the head of the table, one leg outstretched and braced on a chair that’s been pulled up next to her.

“Sutton—” Mrs. Crane hisses.

Mr. Crane covers his mouth.

Sutton sighs like she’s bored, picks up an egg roll, and sets it down without taking a bite. “How are you doing, Amanda? How’s your family now that the prodigal son has returned?”

“Okay, enough,” Henry says quietly.

“I hope everyone’s well,” Mrs. Crane chimes in softly. She’s still smiling, but she’s also warning me with her eyes.

I nod, stuffing a bite of fish in my mouth as an excuse to stay silent.

“I’ve had the absolute worst time trying to get in touch with
him,” Sutton says. “Not like I can just drive myself over.”

Mr. Crane’s eyes shift from Henry to me, and I think he’s starting to finally understand who I am. A glance at Mrs. Crane, who’s looking down at her plate and batting noodles back and forth, confirms it for him.

I’m about to say my line about Jonathan not participating in telecommunications, when Henry saves me.

“Don’t, Sutton.” Henry turns in his chair so he’s facing her.

Sutton ignores him. “Amanda, darling, when you get home, tell your brother to call me straightaway. I have the most alarming bit of gossip to share.” She turns her attention to Henry, and her smile widens.

If this were an exchange in the hallway at Garfield High, now would be the time I’d say, “What do you want?” And whatever it was, I’d give it to her.

“We talked about this, Sutton,” Mrs. Crane says.

“Remember what Dr. Allister said,” Mr. Crane adds. His expression is so stern, I can hardly remember the jolly jokester he’d seemed like just seconds ago.

“You all have to stop,” she says. “Relax, okay? You know the reason I have to get in touch with him. It’s what they want! It’s what she would have wanted, too!” Sutton raises her arm and motions in my direction.

At first I think she’s pointing at me. But when Mr. Crane follows his daughter’s finger, his eyes are fixed above me. I glance over my shoulder and see it. A large framed photograph of Grace and Sutton. They’re smiling and standing arm in arm on my
porch as the sun beams down around them. Jonathan was there, I think. Maybe he was the one who took the picture.

Henry puts his hand on the back of my chair, but only for a moment.

“Henry?” Sutton says, her eyes still crazed with fury. “Since you’re apparently very close with Amanda, did you tell her why I need to talk to Jonathan now that he’s . . . available?” There’s a small quiver in her lips. I’ve never seen her look or act this desperate. Her stare is like venom.

“The Marlamounts want to talk to him—to us,” she explains. “They don’t want another apology or anything, but like it or not, he was one of the people who knew Grace best.” She sniffles, tears welling slowly behind her eyes. “They only want to sit down—with both of us—and talk about her. They just want to hear more about what she was like from her best friends.”

Sutton looks around the table, like she’s examining everyone’s reaction. Her eyes are locked on me when she finally says, “So think about it.”

She pushes her chair out from the table, and the crutch that was balanced against the back of the chair falls to the floor. Henry gets up and retrieves it for her. He offers her his hand too, but she doesn’t take it. We’re all quiet as she holds on to the table to lift herself up, takes her crutch from Henry, and limps away.

“I should go,” I say, standing up, anxious to get out of there, too. Henry’s mother nods, staring at her plate, and I feel more hurt by this one small action than I could have imagined.

I turn to Henry. I whisper, “I just have to—” I clumsily
gesture to the shirt I’m wearing.
His shirt.