They Wish They Were Us(41)
But I stayed quiet, turning over what I had just revealed about my own shortcomings, and, inadvertently, Shaila’s. She would have her own meeting like this, too. Everyone would. What would she say about me? Would it be by accident or on purpose? Had I said too much?
I tried to push the guilt down into the pit of my stomach, to convince myself that I hadn’t betrayed Shaila’s trust. But I knew, somehow, that I had just given the Players ammo. And they would use it. I just didn’t know when. Or that it would somehow lead back to Shaila’s last night alive.
* * *
—
I’m sluggish and tired all week, my thoughts scattered. Marla was probably right about pretending everything’s fine, but I’m still thinking about Rachel’s text, the one I left unanswered, and about the look in Nikki’s eyes as she grew more vicious during the Show. When Henry texts me on Friday night, it’s exactly what I need to take my mind off things.
Date night? My place? he asks.
A few moments pass.
The parentals are gone.
I bite down on my lip and smile. Henry has been extra sweet since the other night at Nikki’s, finding the easiest pops for Jared to complete and looking after him at the all-boys nights. He’s the only one of us who refuses to talk about college acceptances—or rejections—which come in next week. Says it’s too stressful and we should all just freakin’ chill. Seeing him would be such a welcome distraction from Rachel and Graham and Shaila, too. They’re all characters in my nightmares these days. I could use a night without them.
Plus, Henry’s so obvious in a way that’s easy, comfortable, reliable. He can so quickly shift between newsboy prodigy and all-American boy. His only real fault is the never-ending need to please his parents. That’s what he used the Files for, to get those math study guides. It’s his weakest subject, but he knew he needed A’s in calc, stat, and econ to get into Wharton. And even though he sneers at the idea of working for “the man,” just like his father, we all know he will.
Sometimes I look at him and I think I can see his entire future: a business degree, a fancy internship, a spacious apartment in the city. He would be riddled with what ifs, consumed by the fact that he gave up on his dream of reporting on the front lines to work until midnight worrying about spreadsheets. But he’d still have it all: the wife with big tits and impeccable taste, the mansion in Gold Coast and a place out east. Sometimes I wonder if that wife will be me and if we will stay together forever simply because of Shaila. How could I be with someone who had not known her? How could you make a life with someone who never knew a whole chunk of you?
But then again, the thought of that life, of having everything pre-prescribed, makes my stomach spasm. I push the idea of grown-up, unfulfilled Henry out of my mind and read his texts again. I only have to think about the right now, that’s all. My mouth twitches into a smile.
Tonight, when everything else seems to be a question mark, hanging at Henry’s for a while isn’t my worst option. At least I won’t have to think about the freshmen, or Graham, or Rachel, or whose blood stained an ugly shirt three years ago.
Be over at 7, I respond.
Yes! he writes. I’ll order sushi.
Henry lives in the new part of town, close to the water, where families have their own private boat slips, where backyards are basically football fields, and where the pool houses have full kitchens and clawfoot bathtubs. I arrive at the mouth of his driveway and punch a few numbers into the code box, triggering the wrought-iron gate to open. When I get to the front door, a quarter-mile later, Henry is waiting outside, wearing his CNN hoodie and holding a plastic bag of takeout.
“Hey, babe,” he says. He envelops me in a hug and plants a wet, hungry kiss on my mouth. I follow him into the house and through the marble foyer into the wide, airy kitchen.
Henry rummages through the bag and pulls out an enormous amount of food—maki rolls and shiny pieces of bright sashimi nestled inside plastic containers, little cartons of seaweed salad and salted edamame pods. My stomach grumbles at the sight.
“Someone went ham,” I say.
Henry blushes and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. “I couldn’t remember what you liked, so I just got a little of everything.” He hands me a pair of wooden chopsticks and looks at me with those big, sincere eyes.
I pop piece of a spicy salmon roll into my mouth. “It’s perfect,” I say, without bothering to chew.
“Good.” He leans his arms on the marble counter in front of him and his forearms look like tree trunks descending from his button-down, rolled up to his elbows. “Wanna go upstairs?” he asks, a glint in his eye. Hopeful. Confident.
My insides tingle, like I’ve had too much seltzer, but I need to get Graham and Shaila out of my head. “Definitely.”
Henry grabs my hand and we take the stairs two at a time. When he opens his bedroom door, it’s clear he has a vision for tonight. Soft music floats from his speakers and Christmas lights twinkle over his perfectly made bed. They bounce off the framed newspapers on his wall, front pages from the day he was born. Even a candle burns on his windowsill, right next to the photo of him shaking Anderson Cooper’s hand. It’s all so . . . sweet.
“Dork,” I say, hiding my pleasure that he did all this for me.
Henry’s cheeks turn a little bit red. “C’mere.”