7. Henry
seven
Izip up the suitcase and stow it in the back while Franki stuffs the panties from the dog bed into her purse and pulls out Oliver’s harness.
Stop thinking about her panties.
As I move around to stand behind her, Franki straps the car bed into the backseat and lifts Oliver into it. He wiggles his butt, sighs dolefully, then rests his head on the edge of the collapsible box-like structure, watching me the entire time with what I can only describe as an “I’ve got my eye on you” glare. I dip my head in acknowledgment. Oliver’s hackles aren’t up, but he’s clearly disgruntled, viewing me as competition for Franki’s attention. Smart dog.
“Good boy. Play with your toys,” she says.
He huffs, then obeys, snuggling a stuffed toy hot dog like it’s his own child.
When we’re all settled into our seats, I check my mirrors and pull out into traffic. Beside me, Franki sighs and kicks off her shoes. We have more than an hour’s drive before we get to the Hamptons, which gives us time to talk.
“Can you turn my seat warmer on?” she asks.
Reaching for the button, I click it and glance at her in concern. “Are you cold?”
The weather is mild today. No jackets necessary.
She shakes her head. “No. Just a little achey.”
“Heat helps?”
“Sometimes.” Franki sinks back into her seat.
As I navigate the congested streets, I take the time to simply enjoy sitting beside her. I’ve always found Franki an unusually peaceful person to be around, and today is no different.
Her panties didn’t have me feeling peace.
Tightening my hands on the steering wheel, I try to think of something else. The last thing I need right now is to start obsessing over those tiny lace—Stop. I swear to God, if I get an erection right now, I will . . . do literally nothing except hope I don’t embarrass her.
I want to know every single thing that’s happened to her in the years she’s been gone. I don’t ask, though. I know better. She always preferred quiet when she closed her eyes with that look on her face.
Fifteen minutes of quiet introspection later, and Oliver’s snoring becomes soothing background noise that offsets the muffled cacophony of traffic.
Franki turns her head in my direction and says, “You recognized me yesterday.”
I shoot a quick glance her way. “You think I wouldn’t know you because you took your glasses off?”
She watches me like she’s trying to figure me out. “It’s a little more than that. Even Gabriel didn’t recognize me.”
“My brother was on at least his third drink, and you took him by surprise. If he’d seen you somewhere with Bronwyn, he would have recognized you sooner, but you were out of context for him.”
“But not you?”
“I can’t imagine you ever being out of context for me. You don’t look like a different person. Your eyes are the same. So is your smile.”
Her brows draw together. “My smile is completely different.”
“You mean your teeth? I suppose so. I meant”—I make a vague gesture to her face—“the way you light up. The way your face holds happiness.”
I indicate her left arm. “May I?”
She holds her hand out to me, and I rub my thumb over the familiar, small, raised freckle on her pinkie finger.
She blinks rapidly, her brows lifted in the center.
“Franki, I would know you in absolute darkness by the touch of your hand.”
Twenty minutes of quiet conversation later, I flip on my windshield wipers as the occasional raindrop gives way to a blustery October drizzle. “Bronwyn’s husband ended up building the thing a house made of sticks.”
“I can’t believe Dean let his toddler keep an earthworm for a pet.”
“Keep is an overly generous description. He told her she could visit the worm’s stick house outside, but Mr. Worm might be out with his friends when she stopped by.”
Franki shakes her head with a smile.
Eye contact is normally a deeply uncomfortable thing for me. I do it because it’s a necessary social interaction, but Franki’s dark amber eyes hold mine and I like it. I only look away at all because I’m driving. I clear my throat. “I think I may owe you an apology. It occurs to me that my proposal last night may have been insensitive.”
Her humor subsides. “What makes you say that?”
“Your reaction. I could see that you were disappointed in me. Later, I wondered if I hurt your feelings. If I did, I’m sorry for it.”
I don’t understand social cues the way most people do, but I’ve learned to adapt. The truth is I don’t know why she would perceive my proposal as insensitive or unkind. I certainly didn’t mean it that way, but I’ve learned to recognize certain body language, facial expressions, and tone to draw conclusions about how other people perceive things. It’s an analytical approach, rather than instinctual.
She takes a deep breath. “Would you like me to explain why my feelings were hurt?”
“Yes.”
“It felt as though you were telling me I wasn’t worth time or attention. That I should accept something so much less than what I want for my life because I wasn’t worth your love or the love of any man. You wanted to buy me like I was a product on a shelf instead of a person.”
How she can explain the way I hurt her with so much patience, I’ll never understand. “I didn’t mean it that way. No one deserves happiness or to be loved more than you do. I know you’re a person.” I rub my chest. I may have to make an appointment to see my doctor and get an EKG. Something is wrong with me.
I look her way. “You weren’t just hurt. You were pissed.”
Her lips twist. “You’re the only person who ever catches on when I’m angry.”
Other people hear her sweet voice and make assumptions. I look at a number of data points, including body language, facial expressions, and the pacing and emphasis of people’s words.
“If I promise not to propose another business marriage, could we start over?” I ask.
“What would that look like?”
I ponder the question. “I think it would look like us getting to know each other again.”
“As long as you understand I’m not marrying you so you can get your hands on a company. It’s not happening.”
“You made that clear last night. I understand.” She’ll never marry anyone for mercenary reasons, only emotional ones.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “What’s your favorite song?”
She considers for a moment. “I guess right now it’s ‘Twin Size Mattress’ by The Front Bottoms.”
“Is that a real song or a joke I’m not understanding?”
“Jokes are only funny when we’re both laughing. It’s real.”
I nod and relax. “My current favorite is ‘The Night We Met’ by Lord Huron.”
“I love that song.”
“Good.” I smile.
“What’s your favorite movie?” she asks.
“I don’t watch movies. I watch documentaries. That sort of thing, but I still prefer to read. Mostly nonfiction, but sometimes science fiction.”
Her mouth tips up at the corner. “You don’t like movies?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t watched a movie in”—I grimace—“I can’t remember. A lot of years and only then because my mother asked me to.”
Her smile grows until it seems to encompass her entire body.
I lift an eyebrow. “Why does that amuse you?”
“It doesn’t amuse me. It makes me happy. This sounds terrible, but my mother is so famous for her movies that whenever I meet anyone new, it pretty much ends up the only thing anyone wants to talk about. That’s especially true with guys. I couldn’t begin to tally up the number of men who have called me my mother’s name.”
Like those assholes in the lobby. She was afraid of them. That much was clear. I don’t make threats in anger, but something hot had roared to life inside me. They were moving too close to her, telegraphing aggression in every word and step. In that moment, kerosene poured onto embers of emotions I’d thought were nothing but cold ash and lit me with fury. Then I’d turned back to Franki and seen kindness.
“Women see me, and they see status and money. I’d like to believe it’s the least interesting thing about me. Your parentage is certainly the least interesting thing about you.”
Her lips twist. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“Always assume I’m complimenting you.”
She shakes her head with a little smile.
I smile back. Not the kind where I move my lips because I know I’m in a situation where it’s expected, but because there’s some light thing inside me that’s insisting on exiting my body. Through my face.
“What’s your favorite dinner?” she asks.
“Croque Madame and tomato bisque.”
She leans toward me. “That’s still your favorite?”
“I’m a creature of habit. My favorites don’t change. Once I love something, I always do.”
“Have you tried pumpkin bisque?”
“I have not.”
“It’s really good. We should do that. Have pumpkin soup. Us. At the same time.” She straightens her spine and nods as if in resolution. “Together.”
“We will,” I promise, even though the idea of eating soup that reminds me of pie isn’t something I’d normally do.
I’m making headway with her, and I haven’t even begun my campaign.
Franki reclines back, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”
“For pumpkin bisque soup?”
Her next words are so quiet, I almost miss them. “For still being my Henry.”
I keep my eyes on the road, unsure how to respond. I’m not the nice kid she used to know. When I finally glance over, Franki’s eyes are closed, her features relaxed in slumber. Her oversized cardigan bunches around her; the thin material of her black pants creasing around the outline of her knee brace.
As she shifts in her sleep, a lock of hair slides out of her cap and drops to cover her face on the right side. Reaching out, I smooth it back, unsurprised to find Franki’s hair is as soft as her skin. She’s turned toward me, weight resting on one hip, long lashes fanning beneath her glasses.
When Franki was eight, she tried to trim them with scissors because she hated the way they bump against her lenses.
She says we don’t know each other after all this time.
I can’t imagine any woman, let alone someone as sweet as Franki, would want any part of me if she really knew me. “I enjoy long days at my desk and longer nights in Interceptor Body Armor. Oh, by the way, I know hundreds of ways to kill someone. If you need an assassin, I’m your man.”
She has only the vaguest idea of the things I’ve done. If she ever truly understands, she’ll call me a monster too.