If You Could See the Sun (65)
I panic and blurt out the first thing I can think of: “Your dad.”
He pulls back with a frown. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your dad,” I repeat slowly. Too late to go back now. “Um...you never finished your story. On the train. About how things turned out with him.”
Even as I’m saying the words, I want to kick myself. What kind of person ruins a potentially romantic moment by bringing up childhood trauma?
But Henry looks more surprised than offended. “You really want to know?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, and even though this isn’t the conversation I expected to have with him tonight, I mean it.
He doesn’t reply at first. His gaze travels to a rowboat gliding out from under the bridge, a family of four huddled together on the seats, the youngest child squealing every time they bounce over a small wave. Then he sighs. Says, “I told you about how things were when I was around five. But shortly after I turned ten, during another long study session, I sort of...” He tilts his head, like he’s recalling vocabulary from a foreign language. “What’s that term again? When your emotions overpower rational thought and all regard for etiquette?”
“Exploded?” I offer, struggling to picture Henry doing such a thing. “Snapped? Totally lost your shit?”
He gives me a small, sheepish smile that makes my heartbeat spike. “Well, yes. Something to that effect. My father was shocked, of course, but he actually ended up apologizing. Promised he would never use such...extreme measures again.” He glances back down at the family in the boat, their faces bright with moonshine and laughter. “And he never did.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “Just like that?”
“It probably helped that I was doing so well at school, and that I already showed interest in running the company. But I also imagine that he simply hadn’t realized there were alternative ways of effective parenting. His father had been even stricter with him about his studies, and so when he got into Harvard and founded SYS and became successful—”
“The results seemed to validate the process,” I finish for him, remembering our earlier conversation.
“Exactly.”
Henry rubs his eyes, and for one bizarre moment, I think he’s crying. But then he lets his hands fall back down in his lap, the lantern light from the shops around us throwing his features into sharp relief, and the truth dawns on me, so simple I almost laugh—he’s tired.
He had been lying today, when Chanel asked him if he’d slept well. Neither of us had slept at all on the train; we’d stayed up finalizing our plans, then the backup plans, and then one of us—I can’t remember who—got sidetracked and we just...talked. About school, about his brief time in England, about the games his sister used to invent when they were kids, the Shanghainese dishes his mother made him whenever he was sick. About everything and nothing all at once, laughter and half-coherent thoughts spilling out of my lips before I could stop them. I don’t think either of us had been expecting the night to go as it did.
“You can sleep now, you know,” I tell Henry.
“What?” Bemusement draws his eyebrows together, and he juts his chin out—a familiar movement I’d once mistaken for arrogance, but have come to recognize as only a trick to mask his confusion.
“I mean it—you should get some rest,” I say. “You’re obviously exhausted, and who knows when we’ll be able to sleep at the hotel?” If we can fall asleep at all, I add silently, a bolt of guilt striking through me.
Henry searches my face for a beat, his eyes narrowed. “You’re being too nice,” he says finally. “It’s suspicious.”
“I’m being practical. I need you alert and awake for the job tonight.”
Still, he hesitates. “You’re absolutely certain this is not part of some elaborate scheme to take unflattering photos of me sleeping and blackmail me with them?”
“If I wanted to do that,” I point out, “I could literally just sneak into your bedroom when I’m invisible and snap as many photos of you as I want.”
“That’s very comforting.”
But he does close his eyes, though his head remains propped up in such an uncomfortable position I offer him my shoulder as a pillow. Within only a few minutes, his breathing slows. The muscles in his body relax.
I smile and look up. Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below.
Then there’s Henry.
Henry, whose head is resting against my shoulder, the soft curls of his hair brushing my cheek, his features smooth and unguarded in sleep. And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.
If not for the kidnapping, I think to myself, today might’ve been a perfect day.
15
We reach the hotel by 10:30 p.m.
By 10:48 p.m., I’ve unpacked all my luggage and told Chanel I’ll be going over to Henry’s. She winks at me and makes a not-so-subtle remark about protection. I let her believe what she likes; besides, in the worst-case scenario, at least I’ll have a decent alibi.