Henry Franks(29)

He shifted his head a little to the side in order to close the short distance between his lips and her neck and, before he could change his mind, kissed her.

Her hands froze and her breathing stopped. Fingertips flexed against his back, catching his shirt up in her fist as she stretched against him.

He kissed her throat again, right where the blood pulsed beneath her skin.

“Henry,” she said, the words spoken into his hair, her lips moving against his scalp.

Outside his window, the sun dipped far enough beneath the tree line to darken the room.

“Walk me home?”

He turned his neck enough to look up at her. “You live next door, you know?”

She smiled, then pushed herself up until she was standing in front of him. He grabbed her hand and stood, then spread his arms and she melted into him.

He tilted his head and looked down at her.

She tilted her head and looked up at him, her honey eyes barely open.

“Justine—” he said.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t asked anything yet.”

“Sorry,” she said, and the heat of her breath brushed against his lips. “You talk too much.”

Just as they were about to touch, she smiled.

He closed his eyes and kissed her smile.



Justine held his hand as he walked her home. Crickets and frogs, loud in the marshes surrounding the street, accompanied them. The moon had yet to rise and the scattered streetlights fought to penetrate the trees, leaving dappled shadows on the ground. The sun had taken most of the heat with it when it had fallen beneath the horizon.

Justine’s mother poked her head out the door and looked down to where her daughter held Henry’s hand.

“Almost feels as though we’re being watched,” Justine said, releasing his hand.

“You must be Henry,” her mother said.

“Hello, Mrs. Edwards.” He reached out a hand but she didn’t move. After too long a time, she shook his offered hand.

“Just friends?” she asked her daughter, then sighed. “Nice to meet you, Henry.”

“Good night,” Justine said before closing the door, flashing him a quick grin before she disappeared from view with her mother.

Henry stood there, staring at her door after she went inside. He turned around with a smile across his face. The memory of their kiss was still fresh and her lip-gloss was a faint sweetness when he licked his lips. In the distance, heat lightning flashed, casting shadows up and down the street. Thunder rolled and left silence in its wake, the crickets and frogs deathly quiet. The slight breeze that had carried the scent of the Atlantic across the island calmed, leaving the air empty and still. The porch stairs of her house creaked with each step.

A cat screeched down the street and a dog barked in reply. Ozone tickled his nose as another flash of lightning stabbed into the ground somewhere nearby. Thunder hit bass notes deep in the pit of his stomach and he picked up his pace.

A dry branch broke in the shadows as the moon forced its way through the clouds. The back of his neck tingled and he whipped around, thinking Justine had run after him, but there was no one there. Hissing, too close for comfort, floated on the still air and he ran the rest of the way home. He tripped on the porch steps, scrabbling on his hands and knees up the rough wood, scraping his palms, though he didn’t feel anything.

Lightning ripped across the sky, the thunder chasing right behind. Still, it felt as though he was being watched. The storm seemed to follow him up the stairs to the door. His heart heaved against his ribs with each pulse, his breathing labored as he slammed the door shut behind him.

He flipped the switch but the dead bulb gave no light in the hallway. Moonlit shadows through the high windows did nothing to dispel the gloom.

The wind picked up with the rain, slamming the branches against the roof. His breathing began to calm as the thunder rattled harmlessly outside.

“Henry?” his father asked from behind him.

He jumped almost high enough to reach the ceiling and his heart took flight again, pounding with the shock. His hand rested on his rib cage, feeling the beating heart racing within.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

“It’s just a storm,” his father said with a half-hearted laugh. “You’re a little too old to be afraid of thunder, don’t you think?” He turned and went back down the hall to his room.

Henry took the steps upstairs two at a time. How old am I? But like most of the other questions, it remained unasked.





seventeen




In his room, Henry ripped the photo of the birthday party out of his scrapbook. Green trees, against a high blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds. The flash caught him just in the act of blowing out the candles on his birthday cake. A tear landed on the picture as he studied it.

The photograph trembled in his grasp, his fingers shaking, tensing around the edges and he dropped it to keep from crushing it into a ball. It fluttered to the ground and landed face-up, staring at him from the floor. Head in his hands, he stared back, unable to close his eyes and too scared to move.

“Breathe.”

A pushpin stuck out of the wall in front of him and he rested his finger on it, trying to feel the hard plastic edge. He let his hand fall, landing on the desk next to the scrapbook, the empty page with his own handwriting on it: Birthday Party: November 19.