31. “When You’re Gone” - Shawn Mendes
“When You’re Gone” - Shawn Mendes
As I’m getting ready for bed after my failed date with Beck, strains of music float from Henry’s room. I haven’t heard him playing since that horrible night he threw me out.
The sound is mesmerizing, as is the knowledge that he’s on the other side of the connecting door, and I walk over and rest my head against it to hear better.
I picture him sitting there, completely immersed in the sounds echoing around him, losing himself in the melody.
What I wouldn’t give to watch him play again.
After a while, the notes die away, and all is quiet again.
The only sound is the crazy pounding of my heart, knowing Henry’s so close and wanting to see him more than anything.
I should at least thank him for setting up such a beautiful evening, right?
He doesn’t need to know it was the catalyst for the end of Beck’s and my already-fragile relationship.
Knowing I’ll talk myself out of it if I wait any longer, I knock on the door.
What if he doesn’t answer? Or worse, what if he tells me to go away?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Regret is already creeping in.
I should’ve just gone to bed. What am I doing?
The man clearly doesn’t want to see me, but like the addict I am, I can’t stay away.
I’ve given up and am heading back to my bedroom when he finally opens the door. Surprised and slightly horrified, I turn around. Cotton pajama pants hang from his hips, and he’s tugging a Harvard T-shirt down over his washboard abdomen. “You knocked?”
“I heard you playing,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “It was beautiful.”
He crosses his arms and leans against the door jamb. The movement causes the muscles in his shoulders to ripple. I drag my reluctant eyes away.
“I thought you had a date tonight,” he says.
“I did. The setup was gorgeous.” I take a few steps closer. “Thank you.”
His broad forehead crinkles. “For what?”
“For all of it. The red velvet was exceptional.”
He studies me for a few moments, then drops his gaze to the floor, rubbing his bare toe back and forth on the carpet. “How’d you know it was me?”
“For starters, Beck greeted me with a dozen roses.”
“He doesn’t know you hate roses?”
“I’ve never had the heart to tell him. He loves to give them.” I say, shrugging.
“Hydrangeas suit you better.”
“The boat was covered in them.” I smirk, then whisper, “You may have shown your hand a little.” I should be sad, but all I can think is that this must be what it feels like to be on cocaine. Euphoria surges through my blood, all from being this close to him.
Henry shoves his hands into the pockets of his blue pajama pants. “How was I supposed to know he thought you liked roses? Hydrangeas have always been your favorite. I thought this was common knowledge.”
“I thought it was you at the beginning, when they brought them to my office with the card. But then he texted me, and I assumed . . .” I bite my lip. “Or maybe I just was hoping.”
“I just wanted you to have a good time.”
“It was incredible.” I should tell him about Beck, but the words lodge in my throat, thick as peanut butter. If I tell him, he might think it had something to do with him, and I can’t let him know it did. “I should’ve known as soon as you made that comment in the hall about my dress.”
“You look like a goddess in that dress,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening.
His voice, his look, his nearness . . . We’re heading into the danger zone.
Henry must sense it too, because he clears his throat and glances away. “You were welcome to one of the state rooms. The boat was yours for the whole night.”
I cough in surprise. “I didn’t feel like sleeping on the water.”
He nods as though it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “Well, I’m glad you were happy. That’s all I wanted. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I inhale sharply. His eyes are piercing mine again, stealing all coherent thoughts from my mind. How does he do that? I swallow and nod like an idiot.
“Hey, now that you’re here, there’s something I want to show you.” He leaves me at the door and comes back a minute later with a big black book in his hands.
“Is that what I think it is?” I say.
“If you think it’s the employment records from 1837, then yes.” A starburst of wrinkles spreads from the corners of his eyes as he smiles. Flipping the book open, he moves so I can see over his arm. He points to an entry dated 18 May, 1837.
Mary Hopkins, kitchen maid
Walter McManus, footman
Regina Campbell, housemaid
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“I took pictures of the logbook back at the Historical Society. Walter McManus was one of the passengers on board The Caledonia with Philip Anderson.”
“And you think . . . ?”
He closes the book and sets it down on the table nearby. “I think Walter McManus was the man who actually died. Philip saw the opportunity and slipped his own watch into the man’s pocket, then came ashore with a new name: Walter McManus, footman at the palace.”
“It’s still just a theory.”
“I know. But a plausible one.”
I look past Henry and notice a suitcase open on the sofa in his sitting room. “You’re leaving?”
“I have some business in England.”
Clearing the emotion from my voice, I say, “When do you go?”
“Tomorrow morning. My plane leaves at nine.”
“Have a safe trip.”
He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Instead, he pulls me into a hug. “Thank you,” he says into my hair, his arms wrapped tightly around my back.
I wrap my own around his torso, relishing the feeling of his firm chest under my cheek. The beat of his heart is steady and solid, unwavering. Has he always had the power to shatter me and put me back together more beautiful than he found me?
We stand that way for . . . a minute? Five? I don’t know. Time seems to halt. Now that Henry’s agreed to let me go, it takes everything in me to let him go.
“Goodbye, C.” I miss him as soon as he steps back. Why does it feel like he’s saying goodbye forever?
“When will you be back?”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “It depends on how things go. I should know within a few days.” His smile causes a muscle near my hip bone to ping. “Don’t miss me too much.”
If only that were possible. As he closes the door, I get a scary sense of foreboding. He’s up to something, and this time I don’t think I’m going to like it.