Chapter Twenty-Nine - Henry
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Henry
ANDREW’S FLIGHT WAS delayed so instead of waiting at the airport for him, I decided to run home and shower first to wash off the feeling of flying. If I have enough time, I could probably take Mirabelle lunch. I’m learning she’s not very good at remembering to eat when she’s in the zone.
Opening the garage door, I’m surprised to see her car still here. Stacey didn’t say anything about her working from home today, but I guess it’s good I came here first.
I grab my bag from the trunk of my car, my stomach flipping a little at the thought of being in the same room as Mirabelle.
Last night on the phone might be the new fantasy I replay in my head, because holy fuck, she looked incredible. I was in a pretty awful mood after the game until I checked my phone, and the picture she sent of herself wearing my jersey blew my mind. I didn’t call with the expectation of anything happening, but I’m sure as fuck not complaining. When Mirabelle asked for permission to touch herself in my bed, I think my brain stroked out for a moment.
I want to kill her ex-boyfriend for making her feel like she’s not good enough, but I also want to thank the stupid son of a bitch for being the reason she looks at me like I hung the moon and the stars. It does something to me that I can’t describe, but it’s an addictive feeling.
I think for my birthday present I’m going to ask Mirabelle to wear my jersey—with pants—to the next game. That would be a dream come true. Shit, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
I open the door, but the handle doesn’t turn. Why is this door locked? We never lock the garage door. I pull my keys from my pocket, unlocking the handle, but the door still won’t open. Did Mirabelle flip the deadbolt too? What the hell is going on?
It takes me a moment to find the right key, but I’m finally able to get in. Whoever thought of designing all the keys to be the same shape and color but for different locks deserves a special place in hell.
“Mira? Are you home?” I call out, setting my duffle bag next to the door, punching in the alarm code to disable the system. The house is silent, and it puts me a little on edge. A quiet Mirabelle is a sign of trouble, and I’m just hoping I’m not in deep shit with her.
Oh fuck. What if she locked the door to let me know she’s mad at me for falling asleep on her last night? It was an accident, and I would think if she were upset, Mirabelle would have sent me a middle finger this morning instead of telling me she would start the book I sent her while she works?
She’s in my room, sitting on the floor as she scrolls on her iPad with headphones on. I don’t mind at all that she’s in my room, but I feel like there’s definitely an underlying reason for it that Mirabelle hasn’t shared. She sets her iPad down to reach for her laptop when she finally spots me standing there.
“Henry, you scared the shit out of me.” She laughs, pressing a hand to her chest as she takes her headphones out.
“Sorry,” I apologize, because that wasn’t my intention, but this sort of feels like déjà vu from a few months ago when I crashed her morning surf. That feels like a lifetime ago. So many things are different now, but I’m not sure I would change anything if it meant I wouldn’t be with Mirabelle. Not that I’m with her, but I enjoy spending time with her like this. We’ve always been friends, but now I can’t imagine going a day without talking to her.
Mirabelle tilts her head. “Are you?”
“Nope.” I grin at her, moving to sit by her on the floor. “I didn’t know you were working from home today?”
“It wasn’t the plan,” she admits.
“What happened?” I ask, and Mirabelle sighs, shrugging.
“Just more shit with Miley. It was either work from home, or get myself sent to HR.”
Based on the little bit Mirabelle has shared with me, it sounds like nothing she does is going to be good enough for Miley. “That bad?” I ask, and Mirabelle drags her hands over her face, groaning.
“It could have been worse. I told her to cry me a river and to stop bitching about whether I’m doing my job, but that’s the only time I swore,” she defends herself, and I know I would have paid good money to see Mirabelle try to control her temper. “Stop smiling. I’m supposed to be a professional by not stooping to their level,” she says, scolding me in a way that makes me want to lean over and kiss her senseless.
“You are a professional,” I agree.
“Damn straight. Miley can fuck off,” Mirabelle says, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles.
“Or you could come run my PR team after your internship, but I’d understand if you want to quit to start sooner,” I suggest.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course,” I answer. “You’re doing a great job. I think by the end of the season, people might actually start rooting for me.” Stacey told me earlier things are looking a lot better for me, and I know Mirabelle’s played a large role in that happening, even without pretending to be my girlfriend.
Her face lights up, and she grabs for her phone. “I saved these earlier to show you, but I think they already are,” she says, handing it to me.
User59285483: price left everything on the field #myqb1
cpfo0tball: henry price is my new fav player
User82417: price is the next GOAT
A lump forms in my throat, and I know it’s just a few, but damn. It feels good to see that everything we’re doing is working. It’s . . . I can’t even express how much it means to me that Mirabelle saved these so I could see them. “Thank you,” I say, handing her phone back. Mirabelle’s as pretty on the inside as she is on the outside. Like this is . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what this is, but I think it scares the shit out of me.
“Of course. I thought you would want to see them,” she says, setting her phone down on the ground again.
I want to see you.
I return her smile, but before I can say anything, my phone starts to ring. Mom calling.
“Sorry, I should probably get this,” I say, on the off chance that something is wrong. Penelope doesn’t normally call during the day.
“Do you want me to go?” Mirabelle asks and I shake my head as I answer.
“Mom? Is everything okay?” I ask.
There’s a cough, and a voice deeper than Penelope’s catches me off guard. “Ah, actually, it’s me. I didn’t think you would answer if I called.”
“Probably not. You haven’t spoken more than a couple words to me in almost two months, Dad.”
Mirabelle looks at me in surprise, and while I had a feeling this call was coming, I assumed Dad would call tomorrow on my birthday.
“I know. That’s why I’m calling.”
“And?” I ask, knowing I’m being a dick, but I’m hurt. I’m angry he didn’t even try to come talk to me when I went to watch Kaitlyn cheer. I expected Thalia and Sebastian to be mad when we first announced our fake relationship, and I even understood why they were upset. It still hurt, but I understood. My dad, though? That one I didn’t expect.
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to wrap my head around the fact he’s apologizing because I know that’s not easy for him to do. He’s stubborn and proud, but I still love him.
“Okay,” he replies, and I want to tell him how unfair it was for him to treat me the way he did, but is there even a point? I know Dad’s a man of few words. I can vaguely hear whispering before my dad continues. “Can you forgive me?”
Did he even want to apologize, or is Mom making him? “Penelope wants to know, or you want to know?”
“Both,” he confesses. “I understand if you’re not ready, but son . . . I was wrong, and I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I hope you can forgive me.”
I drag a hand through my hair, and Mirabelle pushes her laptop away, resting a hand on my leg in silent support. “It’s fine, Dad. I forgive you,” I say, watching her closely, and while this doesn’t make everything okay, it’s a step in the right direction. I have to give him credit for that.
“Thank you, Henry,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, um, how are you and Mirabelle?”
“We’re good,” I answer vaguely, because this just feels weird and unnatural.
“I’m not sure what you have planned for the weekend, but I hope you have a good time and that you’re safe.”
“Andrew’s flight should actually be landing soon so I have to go pick him up at the airport. I think some of us are just going to hang out at a bar, nothing too crazy,” I say, looking at my watch. Shit, I still have to shower. “Hey, Dad? I’m glad you called, but I have to get a few things done. Can I call you tomorrow?” I ask, leaving the ball in his court.
“Okay. Please give Mira my love and tell Andrew I said hello. I love you.”
“Will do. Love you too.”
“Wait, Henry?” he asks, catching me just before I hang up.
“Yeah?”
Dad hesitates for a moment, and it makes me a little nervous. “You’re doing a great job with the team. Last night’s game was tough, but you played well. I’m so proud of you.”
My breath hitches as pride swells through me. “Thank you,” I say, and he hangs up.
Did that just happen? I drag my hands over my face, rubbing my tired eyes. I should have slept on the plane instead of listening to my audiobook, but once Mirabelle said she was going to listen to it too, I knew I couldn’t put it down.
“So, who do you think the serial killer is?” I ask Mirabelle, needing to talk about anything but my dad right now.
Mirabelle smiles, shaking her head. “Obviously it’s the boyfriend.”
“You think?” I ask, standing up.
“Obviously it’s not the dad because he’s in prison for the murders twenty years before. It makes sense if the boyfriend is the copycat because I think he started dating her to try to get a better insight into the dad’s mind from the original killings,” she explains, and I had the same theory.
“I thought so too,” I say, walking toward my walk-in closet and bathroom on the other end of the room. “I’m going to hop in the shower quick, then I’m going back to get Andrew. Want to come with?”
“I would, but Stacey is going to call me soon to go over something she asked me to look into earlier. I’ll be here when you get back, though. Unless Stacey asks me to do something else, I should be good to log off after our call.”
“Okay,” I say, grabbing clothes to change into.
I’m halfway through showering when I realize I never asked about the locked door. “Hey, Mira?” I call out, lathering my arms with soap. The lower half of the shower wall is tiled, extending up to my upper stomach before changing to glass paneling.
“What?” she calls back.
“Can you come here?”
“While you’re in the shower?” she asks, her voice climbing in pitch like it does when she’s flustered. I think it’s cute because she already saw me naked last night, and Mirabelle didn’t seem flustered when she wanted to watch me lose control.
Fuck, I can’t think about last night right now.
Mirabelle walks in with her hands covering her eyes, and I can’t help but smile. “Mira, you can’t see anything unless you’re wearing X-ray glasses,” I tease and she pulls her hands down to glare at me.
“Yeah, well the parts of you that I can see are pretty damn distracting. Can’t you put on like a shirt or something to cover up?” Mirabelle asks, her cheeks flaming as she waves her hand at my chest. “I mean, come on, Henry. It’s unfair you’re built like a Greek god. I feel like I need to write whoever your trainer is a thank you note.”
“You want me to wear a shirt in the shower?” I ask, biting my lip to keep from grinning as Mirabelle covers her face again, groaning loudly. I think that’s the best damn compliment I’ve ever received.
“Henry, just ask me whatever it is you want to ask me,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
I choke back a laugh, stepping under the shower head to rinse off the soap. “Are you mad at me?” I ask, unsure of the best way to go about asking this. I probably should have thought more about that before asking her to come in here.
Mirabelle tilts her head in confusion. “No? Why do you think I’m mad at you?”
“You locked the handle and the deadbolt was flipped. Those are never normally locked, so I thought maybe you did it to passive aggressively let me know you were mad,” I explain, wiping the water off my face before reaching for my conditioner.
And then her face pales, Mirabelle looking away quickly as if I can’t already see it all over her face that something’s wrong.
“Mirabelle, what happened?” I ask, trying not to let my brain run rampant, but the longer she stays silent, the more tense I become.
She hesitates, twisting her hands anxiously. “It’s nothing, Henry. I thought there might have been someone in the backyard last night, but I’m pretty sure I imagined it. It just made me feel better to have everything locked up until you and Wilson were back. You know me, I have an overactive imagination,” she jokes, trying to play it off as if this doesn’t mean anything.
What the fuck?
“What?” I ask, the blood in my veins turning to ice. Mirabelle thought there was someone in the backyard while she was here by herself, and she said nothing about it? She’s pretty sure she imagined it, but what if she didn’t, and they broke in to hurt her? “Are you okay?”
I think I might be sick. God, the thought of someone hurting Mirabelle when I wasn’t here to keep her safe makes me physically ill.
She’s picking at her cuticles now, and I quickly dunk my head under the water to rinse out the conditioner, before grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my waist. Mirabelle tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine. I’m pretty sure I imagined it. I looked, and there was nobody there.” She shrugs, forcing a laugh.
“You thought there was someone there, and you went to look? ”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mirabelle asks, her eyes narrowing at me.
I thought I knew what fear felt like, but it’s never felt like this for someone else. If there had been someone in the backyard, it would have been so easy for them to overpower her. “It means you’re not supposed to go look if you think someone is trespassing. It means you’re supposed to call someone, Mirabelle! Fuck, I know how strong you are, but you’re also what? Five foot two at most? You’re lucky if someone was actually there, they didn’t—” My voice breaks, unable to voice it out loud.
“Who was I supposed to call? You? My uncle? Wilson? All of you were in Colorado, unless I dreamt the game I watched last night,” Mirabelle exclaims, but her bottom lip is trembling. “I made sure the security alarm was set and everything was locked. There was no one there. It was fine, Henry.”
“Mira, you call the police.” I exhale sharply, holding my towel in one hand and dragging the other over the stubble on my jaw. She should have told me last night when I called her. I’m hurt she didn’t, and I’m mad at myself for not knowing, despite the fact there was no way for me to know. “It’s not fine . They never caught the person who set your family’s house on fire, in case you forgot that.”
Her jaw falls open, and I know I took it too far, but I need Mirabelle to take this seriously instead of trying to downplay it. “I’m very aware. For the record, I was on the phone with my brother when all of this happened. Je ne suis pas une putain de gamine alors ne me traite pas comme tel.” 29
She scoffs, turning on her heel to walk away. Fuck! I’m not trying to fight with her, but I need her to listen to me.
I grab my underwear and pants off the bathroom counter, quickly pulling them on so I’m not chasing after her with a towel wrapped around my waist. “Mirabelle,” I call out and she ignores me, picking her things off the ground. “ Mon c?ur ,” I say softer, and this time, Mirabelle stops.
She turns to look at me, her brown eyes glistening.
“Tu n’es pas une enfant. Je suis désolé.” 30 I mean it, too.
Mirabelle tilts her chin up. “You’re acting like an asshole,” she says. Her stubbornness, as infuriating as it is at times, is one of my favorite things about her.
“I am,” I agree. I shouldn’t have brought up her family’s home.
“You’re overreacting.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “I’m not. This is serious,” I say, slowly moving closer.
“Nothing happened.”
“How do you know for sure there wasn’t someone there?” I counter, and Mirabelle crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting you to be safe. You should have told me last night,” I say, stopping in front of her. “I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t in my life. I’m sorry I made you feel like a child, but I’m not sorry for being upset about the possibility of someone hurting you while I wasn’t here. I care about you, Mira. It would fucking wreck me if something happened to you.”
Mirabelle’s face crumples and she closes the gap between us to bury her face in my chest as I wrap my arms around her. Her tears hit my skin, striking me like daggers to the heart.
“You’re being an asshole,” she mumbles, and I run my fingers through her soft hair.
“I’m being an asshole.”
“I care about you too,” Mirabelle admits. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Yeah, me too.