Chapter 14
Holy shit, I just kissed Henry.
That’s the only thought running through my mind as I follow at a safe distance behind his car.
The kiss replays in my head on repeat. My lips tingle with the memory of his, like they’re permanently marked forever. One minute, we were two people having a heart-to-heart, and the next, I was lost in him.
I clench the steering wheel tight and let out a breathless laugh. A euphoric feeling of excitement vibrates throughout my body, and I feel lightheaded. I feel like I’m about to faint into a delirious state of happiness. This is new and unmarked territory.
I’ve spent weeks trying to keep everything together—staying focused on school, raising Milo, adjusting to a new job, and dealing with a divorce.
I’ve been floating through these big life changes and pushing myself to keep moving forward with no distractions.
And now, with one kiss, I’ve never felt freer than I have in this moment.
I finally kissed him, and it felt right. Yet, a dull ache lingers somewhere deep with the regret of not letting him in sooner. I thought I was protecting myself, but the bitterness of wasted opportunities is too strong to ignore.
My car closes in on his when he pulls up to the stop sign. The stray dog happily pokes its head out of the backseat window of Henry’s car, momentarily distracting me. At least someone’s having a good time.
I should be panicking, and this should feel overwhelming, but instead, I feel a bundle of nervous excitement humming beneath my skin.
I tried keeping my distance from Henry, but we couldn't stay apart. We were like two magnets, impossible to keep apart. Every time I told myself to keep him at arm’s length, there he was—kind, patient, and sincere.
A loud honk sounds behind me, startling me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t realized Henry had already turned the corner. I press down on the gas and follow, my heart hammering against my chest.
Still, doubt presses against my mind. We haven’t talked about anything, and there is still so much up in the air. I need to keep my head on straight until there’s a bigger conversation.
We'll drop off the dog, make some polite conversation, and go home. Then, once we sit down and talk things through, I can let myself believe this might actually work. I needed to know the logistics before moving forward.
No matter how intoxicating the idea of letting go feels, it’s not enough to push the thought of Milo and all my other responsibilities away. I’m still a mom, and Henry is still a man who is leaving at the end of the summer.
It takes us a total of twenty minutes to drive to Henry’s dad’s house on the other side of Honey Grove. It was the perfect amount of time to calm myself down before the awkwardness ensued.
Thankfully, the stray that bounds out of his Prius is enough to keep our kiss off of front-page news.
I laugh when the large black lab bounds out of Henry’s backseat, its tail wagging furiously as it sniffs the unfamiliar driveway. He looks distraught when he inspects the backseat of his otherwise clean car.
“And this is why I’m a cat person,” Henry mumbles.
I peek behind him, and sure enough, I see a bunch of muddy paw prints decorating the interior of the small area. “Wow, that’s rough, and that’s coming from the mother of a toddler.”
Henry turns toward me with a smile I wish he’d keep to himself. The kind of smile that makes my stomach do cartwheels out of thin air. It’s hard not to miss the feeling of his lips when he looks like he wants to reach out and grab me.
“Noted,” he says, brushing his hands in his jeans. “Next time we find a stray, it’s going in your car.”
The words next time fuel the electric current sweeping through me. “Ha, good luck. You’ll have to fight Milo for backseat privileges.”
We share a quick laugh, which feels like a nice reprieve from the charged and unresolved feeling I can practically taste in the air. After a few moments, the laughter dies down, and I’m anxious to fill the space with something.
“Does your dad know we’re coming?”
Henry’s smile fades slightly, his gaze flicking to the front door. “Yeah. I called him on our way here.”
His tone is casual, but something about the tightness in his posture tells me he doesn’t feel comfortable here.
Henry told me a little about him and his dad losing touch when he was a teenager, but it feels like there’s more to the story.
Before I can press him further, the dog lets out an excited bark when the front door creaks open.
George Cooke fills the door frame. For a second, I almost forgot that Henry’s dad is also my landlord. I have to do a double-take to make sure. Being here as more than just a tenant feels strange. It’s like stepping into a story that I have no business being a part of.
If I hadn’t known George was Henry’s father before, it would have been easy to tell now. Henry and George both wore glasses that concealed eyes with my new favorite shade of amber. There are a few more similarities here and there, but it’s hard to ignore my favorite part of one man on another.
“Hey, Dad,” Henry replies, devoid of the warmth I’m used to hearing from him.
“Hey, Son,” George says in an upbeat tone, the complete opposite of the man standing beside me. “Hello, Emma. How’s the sink working?”
“Hi, Mr—George,” I stutter, remembering that he asked me to use his first name when addressing him. “It hasn’t given me any issues. Thank you for fixing that.”
“No problem. I want to make sure you and Milo are comfortable there. I hope Henry hasn’t been giving you any trouble,” he says with a glint in his eyes.
I know he’s joking. It’s something a father and son are supposed to do, but the way Henry’s stance locks up tells me that this isn’t that kind of relationship. I smile at George and say, “Henry has been a perfect gentleman. He’s been very helpful, too.”
“Oh, really?” George says, with a suggestive flare to his tone. Heat rises to the balls of my cheeks when I feel Henry’s eyes on me. When I notice his shoulders begin to relax, I decide it’s worth the embarrassment.
“Yes,” I clear my throat, “I’m taking an online college course, and he’s been tutoring me.”
“That’s great,” George says, flashing me a big smile that feels all too familiar. Thankfully, our rescued stray decides it has had enough of sniffing the driveway and runs up to George, who is still standing on the front porch.
“And who’s this little guy?”
Henry starts to move towards the small two-story house, and I follow. “We checked, and it doesn’t have a collar, but it’s friendly, so it might’ve run away. I figured you could take it to the shelter and see if anyone is missing their dog.”
“Of course,” George says while crouching down to scratch behind the stray’s ears. Our new furry friend instantly likes Mr. Cooke, leaning against his body as it enjoys the extra attention.
When George stands up, the dog lets out a huff of frustration and gallops back toward where Henry and I are standing, a few feet away from the porch. What an attention whore.
“Crystal just made some lemonade. Do you two want to stay for a glass?”
I look over at Henry, waiting for him to reply. He hesitates, his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. “We don’t want to intrude,” he says, the edge in his voice betraying the calm front he’s trying to maintain.
George waves off the objection with a lighthearted chuckle. “It’s just lemonade, Henry. Not exactly a banquet.”
I glance back at Henry, sensing the battle waging behind his frames. He looks over at me, and I try to curl my lips into a comforting smile. My hand bounces at my side, wanting to grab hold of him.
Finally, something clicks, and he exhales sharply before shifting his focus back to his dad. “Sure. We can stay for a glass.”
“Perfect. Come on, boy! Let’s go inside.”
“Uh, Dad, its paws are still pretty muddy,” Henry warns.
“A little dirt never killed anyone, Son.” Henry’s fist remains curled at his side, and I pray that this visit doesn’t last long. I hate seeing him this way.
George steps aside, holding the door open, and Henry walks in, his shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for something.
I follow, offering George a polite smile as I pass.
Inside, the house is warm and inviting, embodying everything I feel around my upstairs neighbor.
But now, in this house, he drifts against the current like he doesn’t belong.
“Crystal made cookies earlier,” George says, leading us into the small dining area. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to share.”
I continue to watch Henry closely as his eyes scan the room.
The Cooke residence reminded me a lot of Colt’s parent’s house.
Every wall was covered in family photos that spanned generations.
I always yearned to earn my place on that wall, but there was always a piece of me that didn’t fit.
I can see that feeling radiating from Henry’s back when he looks at the photos.
His gaze briefly lands on a framed set of photos decorating a wall we pass.
My chest tightens at the sight when I realize what he’s looking at.
The first photo is George and Crystal laughing together in front of what looks like a local park.
The second shows the two of them with a boy, maybe seven or eight at the time, grinning with a missing front tooth.
I assume it’s Knox—Henry’s brother, who I met at the bar that first night.
Henry’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t look away. It’s not anger I see in his face. This is something different. Something much deeper and quieter. Almost like grief.
“Cookies sound good,” Henry says suddenly, his voice hollow, like he’s swimming in the thoughts coursing through his mind.
George frowned slightly as if he had heard the same inflection I had. It’s good to know that his son isn’t a total stranger. “She’ll be out in a second,” he says, forcing the curve of his lips into a thin line.