Chapter 20 Henri
Henri
Isit on the overstuffed chair in the corner of the guest room with the torn fabric star turned inside out on my lap. I didn’t have the same gold thread as the original in my emergency sewing kit, but I can at least try to make the stitches mostly invisible.
Knuckles rap at my door, and I look up to find Liam standing there sheepishly, with his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
He walks in and takes a seat on the edge of the bed nearest to me. “For the fact that it’s been nothing but chaos since you got here.”
“You want chaos? How about being hired to spend the holidays with a man because he’s in love with his brother’s fiancé.
I took pity on the guy, but that was before I realized I was just there to cover up the fact that he and the fiancée were hooking up this entire time and didn’t want to ruin Christmas.
” I swiftly push the needle through the felt, sped up by my mild annoyance at the memory.
“This is nothing compared to that. Everyone thinks their family is weird in some way, but let’s be real.
The families on TV? If we were actually a part of those, we’d feel the same way. We’re all just a little fucked up.”
“You would be the expert with all your experience,” Liam says, not knowing how true that is. “But you do have to admit, it’s at least a little crazy.”
I smile to myself, my fingers slowing as I reach a point on the star’s points.
“Yeah, a little, but it’s fun. I don’t really have any traditions of my own, so it’s always nice to see other people’s.
For a week each year, I get to pretend they’re mine too and I love feeling like I’m a part of those memories. ”
“You really do this every Christmas?”
“Christmas. Thanksgiving. Valentines. Easter—now that’s a fun holiday. Brunches and egg hunts are a blast.”
“Do you ever have time for yourself, Henri?”
“Are you asking as L. Hughes or Liam?” I ask, really hoping that this is just part of the interview and I can give a clean-cut answer.
“Both.”
“Well, I would tell you that being with others, helping them feel close to the people they love helps me to feel fulfilled. It’s a gift in and of itself to do that, make a difference. Not going to write that down?”
“My notebook is in the other room, I’ll write it down later, but I tend to remember everything you say.” He cocks his head. “So what would you tell me if it was just me and just you?”
Just me and just you. He makes it sound so simple.
“That I’m terrified to stop moving, of everything collapsing.
When I think of taking time for myself, my mind goes to all the other things I could be doing to make my life better or the grocery budget that might be tighter, the bills that I’ll just barely be able to pay.
I run my own business. I rely on myself and no one else.
” With each word my needle moves faster.
In and out. That’s all I need to focus on. In and out.
“Sounds lonely.”
“I’m always around people.” It’s a choice, so why do I feel myself growing defensive?
If I don’t rely on anyone else there’s no one to disappoint me.
I stab the needle through, but it slips to an odd angle and I catch my thumb. I hiss and lift my hand to find a small bead of crimson collecting on the pad of my finger. “Ouch.”
I don’t even see him get up, but a moment later, Liam is there, kneeling in front of me with a small plastic first aid kit cracked open next to him. He splits open an antiseptic wipe and cleans my finger before peeling off the paper tabs of a Band-Aid and wrapping it over my thumb.
As he seals the adhesive strips into place, his fingers trail down the lines of my hand, before lingering. As if he’ll take any excuse to touch me.
“All good?” he asks.
“Liam.” I pull out of his tender grasp, placing my hand on my lap and looking out the window at the falling snow instead of his face. “About last night.”
“You don’t want to keep going.” I can tell that he’s trying to wipe any emotion from his face, but he fails as his lips twitch downward. It’s almost like he expected this from me—to let him down. I hate that.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . we need rules. Hard lines. I like my contracts. I know what to expect, and so does everyone else. When someone steps out of line then there’s a plan already in place.”
“Okay,” he says. Then he gets up and leaves, which I have no idea how to react to, so I just keep stitching along, working my way down the final edge.
A few seconds later he’s back, notebook in hand. Taking the same spot as before, he flips to a blank page, and nods. “What are your stipulations, Henrietta?”
“Pulling out the full first name. So official.”
“This is important stuff.”
I take a moment to think. It’s less about what I want and more about what’s reasonable to expect. What will keep us in safe waters? No feelings. No wishful thinking.
“This ends the moment you drop me off at the airport.” As I start to speak, his pen begins to scratch against the paper.
“Six days to do whatever makes us feel good, but we stop if either of us asks. If things start to get complicated, we let each other know. You still have an article to write, and I need the money.” Using the small gap I left in the fabric, I pull it right-side out and start to put the stuffing back inside.
“Right.” A grin captures his mouth. “By the end of this trip, I’m going to make sure you know how to have fun, Henri. If you want to do something, we do it.”
“But—” That is not what I meant.
“Don’t say this is my holiday or some bullshit like that. I want to do it for you. If I was your boyfriend, that’s what I would do—make sure you enjoyed your time here. And I’m half the act, right? It’ll be less convincing if I don’t do my part.”
“I think we might be overestimating my ability to chill the fuck out, but then you have to agree to have fun with me—no doing shit for your dad. If you take the position, you deserve to have one last winter here without having to be the big boss worrying about everything.” With the star filled, I make the final stitches and fix a knot to secure it.
“Deal.” With a flourish, he adds two lines to the bottom of the page and signs his name on one, a looping L that devolves into illegible scribbles.
He holds out the notebook to me and I trade the now-repaired ornament for it. I sign my name at the bottom next to his and then thrust it his way. Standing, he tucks it in his back pocket then closes the gap between us. Fingers brush under my chin, tilting my gaze up to his.
“What are you doing?” I gasp as his face lowers to mine.
“Were you hoping for a handshake?” His breath feathers over my skin.
“No. This is good.” Not in the middle of the night. Not in a torrent of need.
The light slashing through the window brings out streaks of gold in his brown eyes. I could stay here for hours and count all of his freckles.
“Hey,” someone says and my eyes dart to the door to find June standing there, arms crossed over her chest. I slam the notebook shut. Since I saw her downstairs, she’s changed into navy bib-style snow pants that fasten like overalls over a teal underlayer.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Liam groans.
“Door was wide open.”
“Here.” Liam grabs the star from the bed and tosses it across the room like a frisbee and June snatches it from the air with ease. “Put it on your tree. You wanted it more than me.”
“Thanks. I was coming to say I overreacted.”
“It was the heat of the competition. And you’re stressed about the fundraiser, right?”
“Something like that.” June rubs the back of her neck. “You know the Wilsons?”
“Yeah. The ones who do the dual slalom.”
“Well, Mr. Wilson has a concussion and can’t compete this year,” she says.
“His wife called this morning and is threatening to pull out unless we find someone to fill the spot. That’s ten thousand dollars of entry fees we’d be losing, and it would wreck the tournament bracket that we have.
Not to mention, I have some assholes who signed up for private lessons today. ”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She shrugs, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her snow pants. “I’ll figure it out. I need to get going before something else falls apart. Have fun at the café.”
The lodge’s café is situated in the lobby, facing the front doors so guests have a clear view of them when they walk in, kicking off snow and craving something to warm them from the inside out.
I’ve worked in cafés before, though I’ve always preferred bartending.
The tips are great, but there’s also something about talking to people and sinking into their stories, helping them voice whatever has been festering inside them.
I’d take it over an asshole demanding a red-eye at five in the morning any day.
We have a line from the moment we step behind the counter, I take orders and Liam makes drinks, mostly hot chocolates and drip coffees. About thirty minutes in, we hit a lull and Liam starts making new whipped cream canisters.
“So, why don’t you sign up for the free ski spot?
” I ask, taking a sip of the latte I made for myself as I watch Liam make more whipped cream.
I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ease into it, but sometimes it’s better to just dive right in, especially since I don’t know when we’ll get another break between customers.
His attention snaps up and he fumbles with the frosted metal canister, nearly spilling the cream inside on the floor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m nowhere near as good as I used to be.”
“No one said anything about winning the damn thing. As you explained it to me, half the people in the competition are just rich idiots, and it’s for charity.”
“See that hill?” Liam walks up to me and points out the window across from us to a steep incline dotted with bright blue and red poles.
“I’d be going down that—weaving through those poles going head to head with the person on the other side.
Normally, slalom skiing has one person making quick turns down a hill to be scored on a mix of points and time.
The dual head-to-head event is done tournament style and adds a level of entertainment for those watching. ”
“See, you already know all the rules, and all you need to do is get to the bottom in one piece,” I say.
“I’m going to tell you something about hobbies: you don’t have to be good at them.
And if you’re going to be here, it’s worth trying to rediscover a part of it that you enjoy. I just want you to be happy here.”
“I’ll think about it, okay? Could you help me with these canisters? We need to have at least eight more ready for the lunch shift.”
“All right, show me how.” I don’t push against his attempt to redirect the conversation, and it’s nice to do something with my hands, to work.
He demonstrates as he explains the process.
“Pour this liquid into a canister, to the line, and then screw on the top, pop in one of these nitrous canisters into this bit and screw it on.” There’s a hiss from the bottle as he finishes.
“Shake the bottle and then you’ve got whipped cream, but you should always test it first.”
He grabs an empty cup and tips the nozzle inside, pulling the trigger hard. White flecks explode out the top, sending the cup flying across the counter.
He flushes. “I might have been a little too trigger happy.”
“Nah, I think it’s perfect.” A laugh burst out of me, the full body type that shakes me from the inside out, causing me to clutch at my stomach. “I personally love it when my whipped cream explodes in my face.”
“I hit you with a bit.” Liam starts to reach out but pauses at the last second, fingers hovering next to my cheek. “Can I?”
“Yeah,” I say, the word coming out husky and almost unrecognizable.
I fight the shiver running through me as the pad of his finger swipes away the cream. “Got it.”
Something must possess me because I lean forward and flick my tongue out to lick his finger clean. “Tastes good.”
His Adam’s apple bobs heavily. “You need to stop before I close this place up and carry you off to somewhere private.”
“Hmmmm tempting.”
His eyes go toward the entrance and his entire body sags. “Fuck. Let me take care of this next group.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I ask.
With my back pressed to the counter, I can’t see them, but I can hear them laughing and roughhousing behind me. Throwing taunts and challenges at each other.
“Just some rich entitled assholes who treat this place like their personal playground. They’ve been coming here for five years now.”
“I work at a bar where my main clientele are finance bros. I can handle it. And you’re faster with the drinks anyway. This way, we’ll get rid of them faster.”
“Excuse me, could I order?” a woman says.
I turn, a bright customer service smile plastered on my face. “Hi, what can I get started for you,” I say, but the last few words crumble into ash on my tongue as I take in the all-to-familiar slender curly-haired woman standing before me.
“Henrietta?”