Henry
Text me when you land.
Did you make it?
Hello?!
You’re leaving me to wonder if you died in a fiery crash?
1:22 a.m.
You suck.
2:20 a.m.
Henry. Could you just let me know you’re okay?
2:48 a.m.
I texted your mom. She told me you arrived. Thanks a lot.
Shit, I think when I read those time stamps. I saw that she’d texted last night when I got back to Dad’s, but I didn’t open the thread because I’d just spent a drama-free hour with a girl, and it was so rejuvenating that I didn’t feel like taking a step backward.
But it was a dick move, making Whit worry.
I check to be sure it’s not the ass crack of dawn in Spokane, then shoot her a text.
Henry 10:27 a.m.
Sorry! Yeah, I made it.
10:33 a.m.
Whit, I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m good.
Whitney 11:02 a.m.
I’m so glad.
The sarcasm saturating those three little words is mind-blowing.
I head out for a quick beach run. By the time I’ve gotten home, guzzled water, and cleaned myself up, Dad’s shouting that it’s time to head out.
We’ve got a tee time at a very nice local golf course, the Emerald Outlook.
Tiger Woods plays there when he vacations in Sugar Bay, according to Dad, who whoops me even though what he’s drinking is a lot stronger than my Gatorade.
He’s not very humble about his victory, either.
When we get back to the Towers, I stand beneath the cold spray of the shower, hoping to soothe the sunburn I earned on the course. Afterward, I swipe a hand over the foggy mirror to find that my face is thoroughly charred. Fantastic.
I slather on aloe I find in the medicine cabinet, then throw on shorts and a T-shirt before grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen. I hole up in my room, thinking about how skiing with Dad is a thousand times better than golfing with Dad. Why’d he have to move all the way to Florida?
My phone buzzes with a text: Whitney again. I still feel bad about cold-shouldering her last night, so I fire off a response.
Whitney 4:29 p.m.
How’s Sugar Bay?
Henry 4:30 p.m.
Okay. You good?
Whitney 4:33 p.m.
Fine.
Henry 4:35 p.m.
You sure?
Whitney 4:36 p.m.
Yep.
I don’t know how to reply, or if I even should. I came to Florida to put space between us. I feel shitty about leaving her to sift through the mess we made together, but I can’t let her anchor herself to me again.
Back in March, before spring break, before everything really went to hell, I sat my mom down and told her Whitney and I had broken up. She was shocked. She loves Whit, and she loves Whit’s family.
“You two were so happy,” she said, taking my hand in both of hers. We were at the table in our tiny kitchen. She’d just gotten off a shift and hadn’t yet changed out of her scrubs.
“Were being the operative word,” I said.
“Oh, Henry. I’m sorry.”
I pulled free of her grasp, putting a mug of steaming tea in her hands instead. I love my mom a lot, but her sympathy wasn’t helping.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t. I was a walking contradiction. Sad but thankful. Relieved but pissed. Free but somehow still obligated.
Whitney 4:40 p.m.
Your mom misses you.
Henry 4:42 p.m.
I’ve barely been gone a day.
Whitney 4:43 p.m.
I miss you.
4:57 p.m.
Henry?
Henry 5:00 p.m.
Yeah—sorry. I’m with my dad. You know how it is.
Whitney 5:01 p.m.
Not really. Let me know when you’ve got time to talk.
She doesn’t text again after that. I open our thread a dozen times over the course of the night, trying to figure out how to fix this for her. If I should. If I can.
I don’t reengage.
After Dad leaves for the restaurant, I dial Mom. She answers with, “Whitney texted.”
“I know. Sorry. I texted her back.”
“Henry.”
“Mom. What am I supposed to do?”
She sighs. She’s at work. The sounds of the NICU are unmistakable. “I don’t know. It’s a fine line you’re walking.”
“Yeah.”
She says my name again, less admonishingly. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I’m sorry Whitney’s become a source of discord.”
I run a hand over my sun-fried face, which prickles and aches. Mom doesn’t know every detail leading up to what happened this spring, but she knows the important stuff.
“It’s my fault as much as it’s hers,” I say.
“It’s not anyone’s fault, honey. It just is.”
“I wish it’d go away. I wish I could forget that any of it ever happened.” I sound bitter, though I’m not sure I have a right to the emotion.
“It’s part of who you are now. Grow from it. Don’t let it drag you down.”
I sit with that for a minute, hoping that one day her advice will tunnel from my head to my heart. “I’ll try. Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome. Now, tell me how your dad is.”
“He’s good. Same as always.”
“How’s the sports bar?”
“Really cool, actually.” I don’t mention Dad’s request that I call him Davis or his suggestion that I have a beer with him. Mom mixes the occasional Seven and Seven after a tough shift, but she’d drown in the stuff before she offered it to me.
“What’s his apartment like?”
“It’s okay,” I say, downplaying how nice the Towers are.
Mom’s never cared much about lavishness, and we’ve never been able to afford it anyway.
I’m not gonna make her feel less than by describing Dad’s leather sofa and state-of-the-art home theater system.
“He fixed up the spare room for me. Bought a quilt and a dresser and everything.”
“Does that mean you’re never coming back?” she asks, her tone teasing.
“No way.” Dad’s place is great, and running into Piper last night didn’t suck, but Spokane’s home. “He’s trying hard,” I tell Mom. “Like, too hard.”
“That’s his way. He can be a pain in the neck, but his heart’s in the right place. Give him a chance, okay? He loves you.”
“I know,” I admit, though I had my doubts on the golf course. Seemed like the kind of torture you’d inflict on your worst enemy.
“I’ve got to get back to work, Henry. But I miss you. You’re my whole heart.”
She tells me that a lot.
I know it’s the truth.