Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HENRY
I drag my sorry ass home from my birthday escape with my brothers, and the darkness of my bedroom is a gut punch it didn’t occur to me to expect.
I can’t remember the last time my Kait lamp wasn’t a soft, warm glow welcoming me home.
From the day I opened the box, it’s been a constant reminder of her affection for me.
Now, the darkness is unrelenting. I touch the lamp to turn it on, knowing hers will turn on too, if it’s not in a dumpster.
A silent message that I’m thinking of her. Please call me. To forgive me.
It’s my favorite gift from her, now one more reminder that I’ve ruined a good thing.
I leave it on as I doze, the gentle glow soothing, even though I had to turn it on myself.
I toss and turn in fitful, restless chunks until I’m wide-awake at four.
I try to doze but fail. I give up and head to the office early, before the sun lights the morning sky.
“Good morning, Henry! Happy belated birthday to you…” Julian sounds like a cat being mauled when he sings, bouncing into the office like he’s spring-loaded. “What did you do for your birthday weekend?”
Why is he so happy? I want to tape his face hole shut. And why does he have to smile so much?
“They took me to Isle Royale National Park. We flew to Michigan, then took a seaplane to the island and back.” Going to the national park has been on my bucket list for years, but I never knew there was no cell service on most of the island.
“Is that for me?” I tilt my head toward the package leaning against his half of our partner’s desk, beautifully wrapped, complete with ribbon.
“This thing wrapped with a giant red bow and a card that says ‘Henry’?”
I reach for the package, thin and about twenty-four inches by thirty-six, and he swats my hand.
“What?”
“Not now,” Julian says. “Later, if you’re a good boy.”
“Fine.” I’m not in a mood to care, so I sit back and watch as Julian throws himself into an effort to sanitize our already tidy office.
He cleans the glass, dusts, does the Swiffer thing on the century-old hardwood, all while harassing me to clean my desk.
Rather than refuse and have to hear about it, I organize my desk and files, but my thoughts are on Kait.
All I want is to hear her voice again. I put in my earbuds and play an old voicemail.
I never deleted a single voicemail she left me, so I have all kinds of salt for my wounds.
I don’t have the courage to listen to the last one she left for me, so I poke my phone to start an old favorite.
Her voice nearly doubles me over. “Henry, baby cakes, sugar nookums, call me when you get off the plane. It’s been 8.
77321 hours since we talked. I have a secret: I’ve missed you desperately.
Oops, not much of a secret now! If you’re home at a decent hour—or even an indecent hour—I’d love to hear your voice.
” I bury myself in putting my desk and documents into the so-clean-it-looks-like-nobody-works-here state that Julian expects from me.
I’ll wonder about her good news for the rest of my life.
What was it? I’ve called dozens of times in an effort to find out.
Each time, someone different answers, and they all say the same thing: there is no Kait here, and then they ask me what turns me on.
Kait would be appalled. I hang up when they don’t know her.
“Which drink is mine, or do I get two?” There are three drinks on his desk and a box of cookies. I hope the extra is mine. I’ve spent more time thinking than sleeping the last few days.
“The Americano.”
I take it and make intentionally annoying slurping noises. “Can I have a cookie?”
Julian stares at me. “No, later.”
“How much later?”
“Never, if you keep asking questions.” Such a sweetheart.
“I don’t like surprises, Julian,” I grumble. It’s not true, but I have the overwhelming urge to complain about something, to think about anything other than how much I want to curl up in a ball and be numb.
“Nothing like that,” he mumbles. “A friend stopping by and a birthday snack.”
That’s not suspicious at all.
He keeps working, and when Martha Stewart would feel comfortable serving a six-course brunch directly off the floor, he starts shredding documents. I pretend to work for an hour, even though he can see me losing at sudoku as he works around me.
The third coffee has long gone cold, and Julian’s frowning at it. “Have you talked to Kait today?” I flinch at the sound of her name.
“No.” I don’t elaborate.
“Have you heard from her at all?”
“No.” I’m a lawyer. We volunteer nothing; we only answer the question asked.
“The last time you talked, was she okay? I rather thought we would speak today, your birthday weekend and things being what they are.”
“Things being what they are?”
“You know, the planning of things.” He waves a hand in the air like he’s turned into a fae queen, wishing and magicking shit into existence.
“No, Julian, I don’t fucking know,” I snap.
I have a tone, and it’s a dickhead tone.
“Perhaps you could use these things we call words to tell me about the planning of things and things being what they so obviously fucking well are not.” I’m being shitty, but the cookies, coupled with the extra cup of coffee sitting on the edge of his desk, feel ominous.
Julian’s face is the picture of complete shock. I don’t think he’s ever heard me use a curse word. Still, I have to give him credit because he tries again. “How was Kait when you talked to her?”
“She… she was okay,” I say, taking care to omit the “she was fucking sobbing” part of the sentence. “We didn’t talk long.”
“If you called her last night after you got home, I can’t say that I blame her. You were really late.”
I start to work up the nerve to confess, but he speaks first.
“Will you call her?” he asks. Then, in a soft and quiet voice, he says, “I’m worried.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, just busy,” I say, blowing him off.
He must recognize the liar in me; he gives me a sharp look, then fiddles with his phone.
He starts one of the playlists Kait made on the office sound system, and I ponder the window closest to me and whether it might open enough for me to fling myself out of it to the concrete below, putting an abrupt end to this shitty day.
“Why is she putting the Stevie Nicks hex on us? Remember the TikTok I made you watch with Stevie hate singing at the guy with the weird hair that Kait sent? She put like five versions of that song on this new playlist. And this masterpiece called ‘The Henry Poop Song’ is both disturbing and inspired. And ‘Say Something (I’m Giving Up On You)’? Not her style.”
I’m giving up on me too, sweet Kait.
“The guy with the hair is Lindsey Buckingham, and he’s a founding member of Fleetwood Mac.
” I don’t make eye contact; I keep fiddling around with my computer, pretending I’m busy.
“They used to be a couple back in the day and have a love-hate thing going, but they make too much money together to ignore each other entirely. Which is why they sing their songs at each other, like they’re still punishing each other decades later. Because they are.”
“Oh. Life is too short for that nonsense. Oh, look, she put some old Take That on this Henry Sucks playlist, ‘Back For Good.’”
“There’s a Henry Sucks playlist?” That tracks. “Must be new.”
“No, Kait would never,” Julian says, his tone sincere. “It’s actually Henry with a heart emoji, awwww, but the music… ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ by The Verve. That’s peak depressing.”
I say nothing and resist the urge to look at the new playlist. Sudoku is my friend.
“Henry?” His tone is gentle. I hate it. “Hey, Henry,” he says, trying again when I don’t look up.
“Yes, Julian?” I swallow, but I don’t look at him.
“This playlist is so sad. Everything’s fine, right? Everything’s okay?” I can’t lie to him. I’m fanfuckingtastic at lying to myself, but you have to draw the line somewhere.
“Not exactly. I mean…” I swivel my chair around so I can look out our windows and give Julian my back. “It’s not great.”
“Henry.” I’ve been looking everywhere but his eyes all morning. He stands up and walks around the desk so he can see my face, putting a hand on the back of my chair so I can’t spin away again. “Henry, I’m really worried about her. She…”
“I’m sure she’s fine, really. Can we please not today?” My tone says I’m done discussing it, and the words sound like something Kait would say, and that twists the knife.
“I’m legitimately worried, Henry,” he says, voice tight as he fidgets, lining up my pens like tidy little soldiers in a parade. “She was supposed to be here. Today. Hours ago. What if she fell asleep at the wheel? She had to leave Columbus early. Should I call the highway patrol?”
I meet his eyes for the first time all morning. There’s real concern on his face. Then his words hit me, like shrapnel, a sheer blast of understanding striking every inch of my body, and the damage is immense. Unsurvivable. Total devastation.
Kait. Here? Today?
No, but wouldn’t that be lovely? I wouldn’t be worthy of her if she did show up, but it’s nice to dream.
I look at Julian’s desk, and the picture becomes clearer.
The chocolate chip cookies are classic Kait, the extra coffee, the birthday present wrapped and waiting.
Cheap Kait, who, despite being frugal, has never missed an opportunity to buy me a present, and my birthday was Saturday.
She sent me a card for Groundhog Day, for god’s sake—she wouldn’t miss my birthday.
Kait saying she had good news that I couldn’t be bothered to hear. Our private line disconnected.
I didn’t think it could get worse. How wrong can one person be?
“Julian,” I say, my voice thin and scratchy. “You and Kait had a plan? Would you tell me more about that?”
He nods.