Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Alex

WHEN I LEFT MY parents' house today, I was a little desperate. Okay, a lot desperate.

"Have you met anyone out there? I hear those San Francisco girls are all looking for rich tech guys."

My mother started in on my least favorite line of questioning the moment she found me in the kitchen. I didn't get a chance to do more than clear out my inbox before she wanted to know why I hadn't produced any grandchildren for her.

"Can we not?" I pleaded. "I have work to do."

"Oh, well, excuse me for trying to speak with my son. You never visit, and when you do you won't even let me ask a simple question."

"I have a lot of stuff to catch up on," I said. "I just want to get through some emails and then we can talk, okay?"

"Your mother doesn't rank above emails. That's incredible, Alexander. Truly incredible."

"Mom."

"It was a simple question, and suddenly you're acting like you're in the middle of an inquisition. I can't be curious about my own son's happiness without being snapped at."

It went on from there. From her tone, you'd think I hadn't been cleaning and cooking for them for the past week. My refusal to answer one specific question was so grievous an insult that nothing I could say would alleviate it.

I let her finish before I packed up my stuff and left for the café. It was the only safe place I could think of, the only place where I might be left alone. Alone with Henry, a guy I very recently and confusingly kissed, but alone nonetheless.

Except even the café is busy today.

My heart sinks when I spot the yoga class starting at the back of the café. Henry intercepts me when I'm on my way inside, and he doesn't have good news. This place will be packed and noisy for the next hour, at least. I can't possibly work here.

Then he offers his place.

"If you needed somewhere to work," Henry says sheepishly.

Why the slight hesitation? Is he thinking about Saturday? I sure am. Going to his house would be a no-brainer if it weren't for that kiss. With the kiss, it's weirdly intimate. I'm getting into his space. His space where he lives alone. If Henry was a girl this would feel like taking things to the next level, a way of following up on the kiss and seeing if there's anything more between us. Of course, that's not what this is. Because Henry's not a girl. He's a dude.

Either way, what choice do I have at this point? I can accept the awkwardness but maybe get some peace and quiet, or I can run away, right back to my mother's probing questions and snide accusations.

"That sounds good, actually," I say. "If you don't mind."

He doesn't, and we leave the café together. I was mad enough to walk here when I fled my parents' place. It's only a mile or so. Henry lives even closer to the café than my parents, however. We travel hardly a block, turning onto the street behind Main Street, where a row of residential homes sit spaced out on generous lawns lush with trees.

"It's this one," Henry says, leading me to a cute little ranch house squatting low to the ground.

A driveway sweeps up to a garage. A fence blocks my view of the backyard, but I get the sense it's spacious. When Henry leads me inside, the sliding glass doors at the back of the home confirm my suspicions. The yard doubles the size of the lot, at least, an unheard of amount of open space after living in an apartment in San Francisco.

Inside is pretty open as well. We're standing in an entryway beside a kitchen only separated from a carpeted living room by one waist-high wall. I notice a hall off to one side that must conceal the bedrooms and bathroom.

"This place is nice," I say. "You have it to yourself?"

Henry heaves a sigh. "For now. I had a roommate but he … he moved out recently."

There's something more there, but my day has been long enough that I don't relish digging into it. Instead, I let Henry show me an outlet near the couch so I can plug in my laptop.

"Sorry I don't have a kitchen table for you to work at," he says. "We usually ate on the couch or in our rooms."

"It's not a problem. I'm just happy to be somewhere quiet."

"Things tough at your parents' place?"

He's being nice, inviting me to vent if I need it, but I decline the invitation like I have every other time he's offered. "Yeah," I say, and don't elaborate.

Henry doesn't push. He offers water and food, but I decline that as well. Then he wanders away, leaving me in his living room.

It might be awkward, considering what happened on the hike and the way we haven't spoken since, but I find once I start working that Henry's space lulls me into a sense of easy comfort. I get through my emails, then start reading through briefings and drafting notes. I might be more productive while I'm on this couch than I am at my actual desk. It's weird. This place is so comfortable. Maybe it's the blankets scattered on the couch, as though Henry can't bear for a guest to be cold for even a moment. Maybe it's the quiet suffusing the little ranch home. Maybe it's those big Pacific Northwest trees outside the sliding glass doors. It's almost too easy to be in this space and not worry about anything outside of it.

I take a meeting. My boss wants an update on what's going on out here. I assure him I've got a handle on my caseload, even while working remote, but he's clearly not happy. I am going to have to set a date for flying back to San Francisco pretty soon if I hope to have a job when I land. That isn't going to make Mom happy. She wants me to stay until Dad is back up to one hundred percent, but the doctors say that could take months. A heart attack is hard enough; Dad went and exacerbated things by pushing himself while he should have been resting. I don't want him to hurt himself again, and I don't want my mother stressing herself out, but I can't stay here forever. We've already moved from the "nice to see you" stage to the "fighting constantly" stage. Even if I wasn't worrying about work, I would need an exit strategy — and soon.

I hold back most of that from Dave, my boss, and simply assure him that I'll keep him updated regarding my plans.

"And you'll be back soon," he says, not at all a question.

"And I'll be back soon," I say.

Maybe he believes me. He lets me end the meeting regardless, and I shut my laptop with a sigh. I set it on the table and flop back on the couch, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to rub away the stress and exhaustion. I feel like silly putty being pulled at from every direction. I can only stretch so far before I break. At some point, I won't be able to give everyone what they want anymore.

"You doing okay?"

Henry's soft voice lulls me out of my grumbling thoughts. I didn't notice the shower turn on, but it must have, because he's standing in the living room in fresh sweatpants and a T-shirt, toweling off his reddish brown hair. It's a damp mess around him, sticking to his forehead and cheeks. The sweatpants hang low on his hips, and when he reaches up to comb his hair out of his face with his fingers, his T-shirt lifts up and reveals a sliver of skin that absolutely should not catch my eye.

But it does.

It really, really does.

I don't know what's suddenly so fascinating about a dude's midriff. It's not like it's even that much skin, maybe a finger's width of smooth, bare, flat stomach with just a hint of hip bone suggesting the slender shape of Henry's body.

I jerk my eyes away. The blanket tucked over my lap is suddenly stifling, but I don't dare move it.

It's the stress. It's fucking with me. That's all this is. Just stress making me desperate.

"Alex?"

Shit, he asked me something. I scramble through my memory for his question.

"Y-yes. Yes, I'm fine," I say. "Just finished up a meeting is all."

"Oh," Henry says. "Well, do you need anything? Tea? Water? Snacks? I have plenty."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to impose. You've already been nice enough to offer your home."

Henry smiles and shrugs. "It's not like I'm using it for anything all that exciting. Now that it's just me, it's mostly empty in here."

"It's a nice place," I say. "It's comfortable."

He joins me on the couch, but fortunately sits on the far opposite end.

"Thanks," he says. "I guess I should think about decorating and stuff, but I'm trying to find a roommate to help out with rent."

"Oh." I can't think of what else to say. My tongue is suddenly heavy and clumsy, the words I should speak building up in a clump in my mouth. I swallow them down, deciding I'll sound less stupid if I say nothing at all. Considering it's my job to argue, this is feeling pretty pathetic.

Henry jumps back up to his feet, and a pang of regret tightens my chest as he makes to leave again.

"You're sure you don't need anything?" he says. "I'm pretty good at making tea thanks to working at the Boyfriend Café back in college."

I have no idea what a Boyfriend Café is, but if anyone should work at one, Henry should. He's charming, personable, outgoing, earnest, empathetic.

Cute, part of my brain supplies.

Sure, I retort, in, like, a guy way.

Does it really make that much of a difference?

I don't know how to refute the accusing voice in my head. I don't know how to lie within the confines of my own brain. All I know is that Henry is walking away, and part of me really, really doesn't want him to.

"About that kiss," I blurt out.

Henry stops dead in his tracks. He turns slowly to face me, cringing like he's expecting me to yell.

"I was surprised," I say. "Just, um, just so you know. I don't want you to feel like it's weird or something. I know I haven't said anything, but I … I wasn't sure what I should say, if I should say anything at all. So I … didn't.

"I just wanted you to know that," I add in a tiny voice.

Henry is still as a statue, except for those big baby blues of his. He blinks too much, eyes fixed on me. "I thought maybe you were mad," he says.

"No," I say quickly. "No, I wasn't. I just…"

"Regret not moving out of the way?" Henry offers.

It's an easy out, and he's all but handing it to me. I could say yes, apologize for the misunderstanding, and move on with my life without ever thinking about this unfortunate situation ever again. It would be all too easy.

But it would be a lie.

"I didn't," I say. "I didn't regret it."

I tremble when I hear myself speak those words, but they fortify me as well. Because they're true. They're real. And part of me wants Henry to know.

Kissing him was not a mistake.