20. Camila

Chapter twenty

Camila

I come back to our tiny table with extra napkins and coffee creamer, only to find a huge bite taken out of my black-and-white cookie. I send Henry a playful glare when I sit down.

"Nuh uh! You did not just take a bite out of my cookie after talking shit all the way here!" He smiles sheepishly, blotting the chocolate smudge and crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

"You were taking too long," he whines, stealing yet another piece of my cookie before I can swat him away.

"Stop it!"

He breaks out in a laugh and I nearly swoon. He should be careful with that mouth of his. It's lethal.

"If you leave me with nothing but cannolis," I warn, "we're gonna fight." He laughs again at my empty threat, and I steal the sfogliatelle from his plate in retribution.

Last night was memorable, and today is already shaping up to be unforgettable. Since the weekend bus schedule is hit-or-miss and we didn't want to bug Murray, we took an Uber to Artuso Pastry Shop. Henry complained I was trying to kill him by making us go anywhere without getting caffeine first, then proceeded to put his head in my lap "for a quick nap". I didn't buy it for a second, especially when his nose nuzzled a little too close to the hem of my skirt as he "slept". Goosebumps spread across my skin and I pushed him off before the driver could scold us. He feigned drowsiness as he sat up, and it was clear from the look on his face that he had no regrets about copping a feel.

Henry takes another bite of stolen pastry and closes his eyes.

"I told you they were amazing," I say, not bothering to hide the smugness in my voice. He rolls his eyes, but still finishes my cookie, plus his own triple chocolate chip biscotti.

"So," he asks, a Cheshire Cat smile spreading across his face, "Where to next?"

"I chose breakfast. You can choose what's next."

Henry wiggles his fingers like a cartoon villain.

"Oooh! My choice?" He thinks for a moment while I finish the last of my cannoli.

"How about MoMa?"

I sink into my chair.

"Ugh. On a Saturday? That place is going to be packed, Henry." He tugs me out of my chair and throws our trash in the bin as he shepherds us towards the exit.

"C'mon, party pooper. It'll be fun."

I poke out my lip like a sullen child forced to eat my vegetables when I really want cake, but his enthusiasm is contagious and I'm grinning by the time a cab pulls up.

"Every Sunday. Not exceptions," he says, putting his hand on the small of my back to guide me around an influencer too oblivious to notice she's blocking the flow of traffic. It's crowded, as I expected, but Henry pulled his donor card out, smirking when the ushers let us skip the line. His constant touches and looks as we walk through the 1880s-1940s collection have me practically buzzing.

"That's impressive. Rory and Gabe and I try to get together regularly, but it's not every week. Rory and I sometimes walk the High Line when she's not on location.

"I feel like it's so easy for family—even close family—to drift apart when life gets hectic. Mom was really the glue of the family, and I tried to become that glue as much as I could when she died."

We're both silent, and Henry squeezes my hand. He doesn't offer empty condolences years too late. He just listens, letting the memories settle between us. We move from the Six Sculptures installation into an exhibit featuring Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon .

"Oh," I sigh. "I love Picasso. It's amazing how he could create entire figures from broken planes and shards of color. His style is completely unique and instantly recognizable."

Henry nods and leans close to whisper in my ear.

"I love how radical it was for the time. Did you know these women are based on sex workers in Barcelona's red-light district?" My eyes widen and he grins. "Yeah. It was so shocking Picasso didn't display it until nine years after it was completed."

Of course Henry's an art buff. As we move on to A Cubist Salon , I'm struck again by what a shame it is that no one at BBS it's delicious!—but it moves quickly, and when we walk a few more blocks to Bryant Park, we luck out when a couple leaves their table right as we arrive.

"Jackpot," I say, and Henry helps me spread out our food on the small, iron table.

After our late afternoon lunch, we wander around Manhattan, laughing and people-watching until the sun gets low. Under the Climate Clock in Union Square, Henry turns and gives me a kiss, right in the middle of the sidewalk. Passersby grumble about the inconvenience, but I barely hear them over the pounding in my chest. The kiss is sweet, almost chaste, but his hands snake around my back, squeezing me tight against him, communicating more than words can. He wants me.

He steps back and sighs, looking resigned.

"What's wrong?" Henry kisses me again, and then pulls me across the crosswalk to sit on the Union Square steps.

"I don't want to go, but I have to get back to Westchester. Prep for the week, you know?"

I do know, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping he'd stay over again. I run my thumbs across the back of his hand.

"It's totally cool. I have to study tomorrow, anyway."

We lean into each other and watch the breakdancers take turns defying gravity in the chaos surrounding them. Even though it's mostly for the tourists, there's always magic in Union Square. Like you're in the best part of a romantic comedy, about to kiss the man of your dreams.

When Murray pulls up, I feel a strange sensation in my chest that I try to ignore. Something warm and fluttery. On paper, nothing's changed between us, but I can't help but notice how right it's felt, just talking and… being with Henry all day. He's tender, he's decent, he's funny, he's fiercely devoted to his family.

And I'm fucked.