CHAPTER FOUR
ELLE
I have received seven texts from Henry since yesterday, which is mighty peculiar considering how things ended after his practice last Friday. But I put the blame on myself, of course. I never should have gone to see him, and clearly I wasn’t welcome.
Oh, but now you need to talk, Henry? And it’s important? I can’t imagine what his issue is. Maybe he’s lost his jockstrap and his tiny brain needs help finding it. Or maybe they’re out of Bud Light for his Thanksgiving feast and he’s hoping I know how to make more. I don’t know, and I don’t care, so I block his number. I don’t have time for his juvenile games right now, because from the moment I walked through the front door of my parents’ house last Saturday, my worst nightmares came true. My older sister, Lana—who looks like me with blonde hair and brown eyes—was in the living room, consoling Aunt Debbie, my mother’s sister. Uncle Frank was nowhere to be found—coward. My father was in the garage, crying over Christmas ornaments. Cousin Keri was keeping my mother company with a box of tissues and her own tears while my mother mustered a smile from her bed and tried to assure her that come what may, it will all be fine.
“Hi, I’m home,” I said, peeking into the doorway of my parents’ bedroom. “Can I get you anything?”
“Elle.” My mother smiled, the circles under her brown eyes darker than the last time I saw her a week ago. “I’m so glad you’re home. Maybe you and Keri can make the shopping list for Thursday while I take my nap?” My mother’s eyes made a little flicker toward my cousin in a silent plea to get her out of there.
“Sure. Come on, Keri. We’ll take inventory of the pantry first.”
Keri, who has short black hair and dark eyes and looks more like her dad, Uncle Frank, made a little sniffle. “Okay. But if you need me, just call,” she said to my mom.
I wanted to kick her. Yeah, just what my mom needs, you crying all over her like it’s her funeral. Not that I didn’t want to bawl my eyes out, too, trust me, but our jobs were to put on smiling faces and give that woman a happy fucking Thanksgiving.
Anyway, after that, I’d gone up to my room to unpack, taking extra care to hang my T-shirts and plan out which ones I’d wear throughout the week. I know how ridiculous some people think the pooping glittery unicorns or historical figures riding dinosaurs look, but they help remind me to smile once in a while. Even the late Mr. Nucleus’s sweet little furry face reminds me of better times—the way he used to chase after my laser pointer was pure comedy.
Unlike today. Which will forever be cemented in my mind as the last turkey I’ll ever share with my mother. Fucking, fuck you, cancer.
My chin quivering and cheeks wet, I check my messages as a distraction. Tass went home last weekend, too, and we haven’t had a chance to talk. Apparently, from what I gathered from her texts, the moment she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she had some sort of run-in with Hunter, whose parents live next door. “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” Tass had messaged without any further detail despite my inquiries. Then the next morning I got another text saying, “I love him! I love him! I love him!” I seriously hope it means those two have worked out their shit because they’re obviously not keen to live without one another despite Hunter being a serious football player and her being a super-nerd, like me.
Yes, I see the parallels to Henry and myself, but those comparative lines are razor thin. Henry and I have only known each other for a few months. He’s also rich, hot, and completely closed off. Or self-absorbed.
Ugh. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?
Anyway, no new texts from Tass, and it’s time for me to get on with my day and help in the kitchen.
I get up from my bed that has my favorite psychedelic cats comforter and go to my old white vanity. It still has pictures of Spock and Princess Leia superglued to it from when I was in high school—at thirteen. I should clean it all off, but I just don’t care about any of it.
I look at my puffy face. “Jesus, Elle. You look like crap.” My brown eyes are bloodshot, my pale face is ruddy, and my hair looks like it’s in dire need of life support. I know I’ve showered this week, but I can’t remember conditioning my hair.
I pick up my brush from my vanity and get to work, making myself presentable for my mother. She needs to see me happy. She needs to see I’m okay.
But I’m not okay. I’m fucking just not.
HENRY
Elle never told me where she lives, but I had no problem finding her address on the Internet. Her house is about an hour away in Bellville—a small town somewhere between Houston and Austin.
My plan is to show up, give her a dozen white roses to call a truce, grovel a little over our last encounter, and then spring my plan on her. I’m hoping she won’t yell at me or do that little thing with her lips where she puckers them tightly. A pissed Elle is a scary Elle. She looks like a woman on the verge of a felony, secretly planning your demise. Yes, be afraid of smart women. Be very afraid.
Anyway, I don’t need to be at my parents’ house today because Thanksgiving is always leftovers, hangovers, thank-you calls, counting donations, and—if you’re my mother—gossip with your friend about your other friends day. So after this, I’m heading over to Michelle’s to hang out with her, Georgie, Claire, and Michelle’s new husband, Chukwuemeka-something. I can’t remember how to pronounce his name properly, but luckily he goes by Chewy. Michelle met him while on a business trip to Nigeria, and next week they’re leaving to spend the holidays with his parents, who are schoolteachers from a small village. I’m fairly sure the trip is because my sister is not on good terms with my parents, who weren’t happy about the “scandalous” elopement. Not because they’re racist, but because they think any event in our lives should be their opportunity to impress their friends. Especially my mom, who comes from a long line of Coppolas, who are, according to her, Texan royalty because her great-grandfather was one of the first to strike black gold in 1903. Really, they’re Italian immigrants who got lucky, not royalty. Anyway, she married my dad, Chester Walton—the son of a banker—and now my dad runs the oil show. He might act like a big important man, but like the old saying goes, “Behind every great man is a powerful woman with a huge inheritance.” In any case, I’m definitely eloping, too, if that day ever comes.
I park my car—a black Cadillac SUV because I’m a big guy who likes his comfort and needs his space—in front of the blue, two-story ranch-style house. A jungle of weeds covers the front yard, the windows are dirty, and the roof is mossy.
If it wasn’t for Elle’s white Nissan Cube in the driveway, I would’ve thought this run-down place belonged to someone else. She comes across as being from an educated, upper-middle-class family—okay, what I mean to say is she can be a little snobby. Well, now she’s your ticket to success. Go get ’em, tiger!
I hop from my car, grab my flowers, check myself in the side mirror and smile. I give my blond hair a tousle. It’s a mess, just the way I like it. With my jeans and snug black sweater, I pass for presentable. Not too casual. Formal enough to show up at someone’s door on Thanksgiving.
I push the weathered, cracking doorbell and straighten my shoulders. With my luck, her dad’s going to answer, so I don’t want to look like some fuckwad perv stalking his daughter. Besides, if anyone’s the perv, it’s Elle. Also, just the way I like it.
Dirty, dirty nerd girl…The things she did to me.
Dude, stop. She doesn’t like you anymore. This will be purely an arrangement.
One minute goes by. Then another.
Crap. Did I mess up? Are they even home? I wait another moment and then ring one more time. I’d call Elle on her cell, but she’s blocked me. I know this because she hasn’t answered one call or text. I hate that she’s done that. It makes me feel like she thinks I’m shit, not even worth talking to.
“Hello?” A young woman answers the door, and I immediately suspect she’s Elle’s sister. They have the same color blonde hair, same brown eyes, and same pouty little lips.
“Is Elle here?” I ask, catching a whiff of delicious roasting turkey and spices wafting from inside, making my stomach grumble. I love to eat, but I’m on a strict diet during the season. That means no pie, no mashed potatoes. Just lean meat and whole grains. Okay, and beer once a week. Gotta live.
The woman’s eyes nearly pop from her head. “Uhhh…who should I say is looking for her?”
“I’m Henry, a friend. I was just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by,” I lie. “You must be her sister. I’d recognize that smile anywhere.” After all, it comes with a gap between the two front teeth, kind of like a cute bunny.
Her eyes wash over me—up down, up down, up down. I’m guessing she’s wondering what a big handsome man like me is doing on her porch, looking for her little sister.
She gives me a hesitant nod. “I think Elle is up in her room, reading. But come in.” She steps aside and lets me in.
I immediately hear lots of voices coming from what looks like the kitchen, through the doorway on the other side of the living room. I also notice how the inside doesn’t match the outside. The white tile floor is spotless, and there’s zero clutter or dust on the antique furniture in the living room. The couches are covered with white sheets and there are several air purifiers running.
Allergies much?
“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Elle’s sister says and goes for the stairs.
“Who are you?” asks a man appearing in the hallway ahead. He’s got silver, thinning hair, and is wearing thick glasses. He also has on a T-shirt of a turkey dressed like a cowboy that says “Make my Gobble-Gobble Day.” This has to be Elle’s dad; I can see the resemblance in the eyes and fashion sense.
“I’m Henry. Just stopping by to see Elle for a sec. Happy Thanksgiving, sir.”
His eyes set on the flowers in my hand. “Those for Elle?”
I’m instantly happy that I didn’t bring red roses, which would only make this moment more awkward. Because nothing says “I want to bang your daughter” like red roses.
“Yeah, I, uh…I sort of insulted her last week and just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
He lifts a silvery brow. “You one of her pupils?”
More like she was my pupil of hot orgasms and—fuck. What’s wrong with me? So wrong to think that.
“Yes. She’s my tutor,” I lie.
“Wait! I know you. You’re, you’re…” He shakes his finger at me.
“Henry Walton.”
“Booya!” Her dad claps his hands. “I knew I recognized you. Best defense in the last decade to come out of the college draft.”
Hey now. Don’t you mean best defense ever? “Yeah. That’s me.”
“Wow. Just wow.” He shakes his head and then goes all Bambi-eyed on me. “You have to meet my wife. She’ll be speechless. Darla! Darla!” he calls out over his shoulder. “You’ll never guess who’s standing in our living room.”
Oh no. This is not what I wanted. My plan was to be covert and slip under the radar, just like the spies in those novels that Elle loves to read.
“Oh, uh…I can’t stay,” I say. “Really, I just stopped by to give this to—”
“Nonsense. You’re not leaving here until you say hi to my wife. She can use something cheery.” He grabs my arm and pulls me down the hallway. “Honey, meet Henry Walton! The defensive end for the Pirates.”
I step through the bedroom doorway, and what I see makes my heart drop right to the floor. Fuck, Elle. Why didn’t you tell me?
ELLE
After a long, gloomy morning helping my sister and aunt get started with tonight’s dinner, I’ve retreated to my room to regenerate. I’m knee-deep in the pages of a hot love scene between a Mr. Rook and a guest on his secret sexy island when my sister taps on the door.
Dammit! He was just about to put it in.
“What?” I bark.
The door cracks open, and Lana’s blonde bob pops through. She’s smiling, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s the smile she shows when she’s gleefully about to watch me suffer—kind of like when your older sibling dangles a loogie over your face while pinning you to the floor.
“Someone’s downstairs to see you.” She teasingly sings her words.
“Who?” I don’t have that many friends, mostly because I was four to five years younger than everyone I went to school with. While they were busy trying to get laid, smoking pot, and thinking about escaping their parents, I was getting braces, figuring out how to use tampons, and studying neutrino oscillation.
Lana wiggles her golden brows. “Never seen the guy before, but he’s hot. Like, melts your womanly ice-cream cone from a mile away hot. Or makes you want to climb him like sexual monkey bars and ride his tire swing all day kinda hot.”
I can swear she’s just gone into full ovulation mode, busting out an egg. Maybe two. It’s no wonder she’s still single. Desperation is not an aphrodisiac.
She goes on, “Oh, and I just heard dad flip out. So I think they know each other.”
Weird. Maybe it’s someone from my parents’ church. I haven’t gone for years, but my dad still attends every blue moon, and there are a few guys my parents have tried to hook me up with.
“I’m busy,” I say, but really I just gotta know if Mr. Rook pounds the heroine into the next hemisphere. God, this book is so naughty. “And tell Dad I’m not interested in meeting one of his bible buddy’s nerdy sons.” Unless they’re repressed billionaire monks.
“Well, this guy is no nerd. And I think he said his name is Henry. But hey, if you don’t want him, I’m more than happy to take him off your hands.”
Henry?
I spring from my bed. “What! Why is he here?”
No, no, no. He can’t be here. He can’t be inside the bubble. Physics tells us that within the dimensions of space and time exists alternate planes. I have two. Here and school. The worlds must never touch. Their separation keeps me sane. I only allow sunlight and air and things that keep me afloat to permeate the membrane separating my cosmoses. Tass, for example, who I have grown to love like a sister in a few short months, has never passed the barrier physically. She’s only passed mentally. Meaning, I have told her about my mother, but she’s never been invited inside my other bubble. But now Henry is here, and he’s about as welcome as a three-headed Martian with syphilis. Okay, yeah. I watch too much sci-fi. So what?
My heart starts pounding and I don’t know whether to panic or be furious or what.
Furious! Definitely furious!
I sidestep Lana, jerk open my bedroom door, and march downstairs. Laughter fills the air the moment my bare feet hit the landing. The sound is coming from the hallway.
“Whatthehell?” He’s in my mom’s room?
Involuntarily, my hands ball into tight fists. “I’m going to kill him.”
I stomp my way toward the sound of their little party, and though I have no clue what I’m going to say, I know it will sound something like “Hey! You two-dimensional, freakishly tall ogre. Get out of my house and go back to your stank pond!” But the moment I turn the corner, all thoughts vaporize from my cranium.
My mother is sitting up in her bed, her cheeks are rosy, and she’s got the biggest smile on her face. My father is laughing, and Henry’s standing there waving his arms around.
“And then,” Henry says, “the guy just looks at me and falls over!”
The three of them bust up, and from the corner of his eye, Henry notices me standing there.
“Elle. Hey!” Henry greets me like we’re best buds.
“What are you doing here?” I say with a level tone, desperate not to ruin the mood. My mother, for a few short moments, has forgotten her pain.
“Oh, uh,” Henry holds out a bundle of white roses, “I came to give you these. Was just in the neighborhood.”
Liar. Liar. Jockstrap on fire. “Really now?”
“Well, yeah. And I also feel like I owe you an apology for the way I behaved last Friday.” He gives the flowers a little jiggle, urging me to take them.
What’s he up to? He’s acting all kiss up.
I slowly reach for his offering, my eyes locked on his. “Can we talk outside for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“Henry,” says my dad, glowing with a full-on man crush, “I know you said you have plans for dinner tonight, but we’d love for you to come back in a few days for our famous turkey potpies. We make them every year.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d love that,” Henry flashes one of his panty-dropper, dimply smiles, and I’m fairly sure my father’s tightie whities are at serious risk of hitting the floor.
Snarl. “Henry? Now?” I set the flowers at the foot of my mom’s bed and then turn to leave, beelining for the front door.
I hear Henry’s large thumping footsteps trail behind me across the hardwood floor.
It’s chilly and overcast outside for once, so I grab a white sweater from the hook by the front door to go over my “Who you callin’ turkey?” T-shirt. I then head out and go straight to Henry’s black SUV parked curbside, stopping at the driver’s side door. Because that is exactly where he’s going—in his car and away from here.
I turn and cross my arms over my chest, getting ready to tear him a new one.
Henry’s smile evaporates into the atmosphere. “Elle, before you say anything—”
“How. Dare. You,” I seethe. “How dare you show up here uninvited and come into my home and invade my—”
“Wait right there.” He cuts me off with a tone somewhere between concerned and pious. “Why did you hide your mother’s illness?”
“Excuuuuse me? Did you just chastise me for not telling you about my personal business?”
He folds his bulky arms over his chest, mirroring my pose, and lifts his chin. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
I open my mouth, snap it shut, and then flap it a few more times. “I—you—how can you—” I fumble my words. “We were sleeping together. I had no obligation to tell you anything.”
His despicably gorgeous face turns tomato red. “I thought we were at least friends.”
“Wrong.”
His lips part like he’s about to speak, but he ends up dishing out a long, nice glare.
Finally, he takes a breath and bobs his head. “Well, isn’t that nice? I seem to remember you getting all pissed off because I said I wasn’t ready to get serious. Only, all the while, you were using me. I was nothing more than a piece of meat to you.”
“Oh, get over it. We used each other. And where do you get off making this about you?” He has no idea the damage he’s just done to my life. There’s a reason I never told him about my mother or anything having to do with my past. I need two worlds, and the happier world needs a happier Elle. The real Elle can’t survive in the college universe with normal people talking about normal things and planning out their happy normal lives. I’m not normal. I’m so different that I might be my own species, but that’s my burden and my business. Not his.
“Wrong, princess. This is definitely not about me. It’s about you. You and your obvious biases. You think because I’m into football that I’m incapable of being a good friend or understanding you or what you’re going through.”
Damned straight. Henry grew up fitting in and being handsome, rich, and athletic. He possesses zero ability to comprehend me or my situation or my struggles. I literally had to run away after high school, at the age of thirteen, in order to save myself from grown-ups who just wanted to bend me to their will. I have had to fight every step of the way for the right to live my life in my own way. He’s had everything handed to him. Everything.
“You know what?” I say. “I can’t do this right now. I have real-world issues, something you wouldn’t understand, so time for you to go.”
“You have no clue what issues I’ve faced. But you’ve proved my point, Miss Judgy.”
I glare into those pretty green eyes, wondering if I punched one of them, how purple I could make it. My hand is pretty small, so with the right amount of exertion, I could give him a shiner to remember.
That’ll teach him never to come here again. Wait. Now that I think about it…
“Henry, why are you here?”
His red face turns sort of pale and then he shrugs and looks at the ground.
“Henry,” I warn, but it does no good. I’m left standing there for almost a full awkward minute.
“Fine,” I say, “but don’t ever come here again. This is my life, and I get to decide who’s in it. You’re not welcome. You never were.”
His head snaps up, and his eyes narrow. “How can you be so cruel, Elle?”
“That’s life. What, hasn’t anyone told you? Oh, I forgot. You’re Henry Walton. Mr. Awesome Football Star.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he snarls. “First you get all upset because I wanted to let our relationship progress naturally, and I was honest about it. Then you dump me and say I’m not serious enough for you, that I’m not a man. But now I realize you were never going to give me a chance. You wrote me off from the moment we met. And now you don’t want to ever see me again? Because I’ve found out about your mother? You’ve been nothing but dishonest with me, Elle. But I’ve been honest with you and completely open-minded. So if anyone should be pissed off, it’s me. Not you!”
How dare he yell at me? Where does he get off?
“You want to know why I never told you about my mother?” I say. “Because she’s dying, Henry. Fucking dying. A slow, painful, excruciating process, and I don’t want your pity. But most of all, I don’t want to have to think about it. I don’t want to have to look at your stupid beautiful face and see you feeling all sorry for me when what I need is a place where I can pretend that none of this exists. Because here in this world, there is no hope. There is no math equation to save her. There’s just my fucking misery and my father’s fucking misery and everyone standing around waiting for her to die, and I can’t fucking stand it one more fucking goddamned minute!”
“Elle?” My father’s voice hits me from a few feet away, and I instantly know that I’ve just shared some horrible things that I shouldn’t have said out loud. Maybe I meant some of them; maybe I didn’t. The only thing I know is that I’m angry and hurting, and saying these words has only made it worse, especially because my dad is looking at me with tears in his big brown eyes.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there and—”
His face turns from a teary-eyed shock to enraged. “Don’t you ever,” my dad shakes his finger at me, “say that there is no hope. There is always hope, Elle. Always.” I can tell by his tone that I have wounded him in the deepest, profoundest of ways. But can’t he see what’s happening here? We’re all pretending, too. No one is facing the truth about this situation, and we’re all bottling it up, feeling like we’re all slowly dying with her.
“No, Dad,” I say with the quietest of breaths. “There isn’t any hope. I’ve looked at the data a thousand times. The math isn’t on her side.” He has to face the truth because she doesn’t have much time and it’s going to kill him when she leaves us if he’s not prepared.
“Go,” he growls. “And don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize and change your mind. God forbid your mother—who’s fighting for her goddamned life—ever hears you talk like that.” He points to my car in the driveway. “Now, go!”
He turns and disappears inside the house, and I feel my insides crumbling. I feel my heart caving in.
Fucking hell. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Elle? You okay?” Henry asks.
I look up at him and his face instantly fills me with bitter rage. “No! I’m not okay, Henry! Look what you fucking did! And this is her last Thanksgiving. I won’t ever get another one with her. Not ever! Just leave. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“But I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t care. Go.” I head inside to grab my purse and car keys. By the time I come outside again, Henry is pulling away in his SUV.
“Happy Thanksgiving, asshole!” I yell, holding up two middle fingers. “I hope a flock of turkeys gang-rapes your skull and gives you turkey-cum stuffing in your ear!”
From the corner of my eye I see two small girls in pink frilly dresses staring at me. Their mother and father are just a few yards down the sidewalk.
Oh crap. It’s our next-door neighbors, the Rodríguezes.
I make a little awkward wave. “Sorry. Family gatherings kind of get to me.”
They head inside their house, looking not at all pleased.
“I’m sorry!” I call out as they close their front door. “Fuck,” I whisper, covering my face and blowing out a long breath. I’ve screwed up. I’ve really screwed up. And I’m talking about the things I just said about my mother. Because even someone as socially challenged as me knows that the truth isn’t always the best policy. Worst of all, I’ve hurt my poor father, who’s already in so much pain. And my mother is going to be so heartbroken that I’m not at the table to eat with them.
An image of her sickly face—with hollow cheeks and eyes—hits me and I begin to cry.
I have nowhere to go except back to the dorms. Alone. On Thanksgiving.
HENRY
“Jesus. What a fucking cluster.” If that situation at Elle’s had gone any farther south, I’d be licking penguin nuts. ’Cause you just can’t get any farther south than that.
I hit the speaker button on my car’s console and tell Sheila (aka Siri, who’s been set up as a chick with an Australian accent) to call Hunter. The call goes right into his voice mail.
“Fuck! Fuck!” I pound my hands on the steering wheel and leave a message telling him that I’m an asshole, and therefore, he should call me back simply to agree with my sorry ass.
I then try Elle but, of course, she doesn’t answer, and I opt not to leave a message. She’s still blocking my number, and I don’t know what to say anyway. Errr…sorry I showed up and ruined your last Thanksgiving with your dying mother? Oh, and by the way…wanna come hang out at my next two games so I can see if you’re the reason my playing rocked. Then sucked. Then rocked again?
I somehow think that won’t go over too well, and suddenly my own needs feel diminished. I mean, yeah, I still care about football, but there’s this part of me—and it’s big—that can’t help noticing how what happened back there has genuinely shaken my foundation. All the times I was with her, she was hiding this major thing in her life. She never let on that she felt worried or sad.
Or maybe you’re a self-centered douche and never took the time to notice?
I shake my head, shrugging off my lame insecurities, and hit the freeway. What does it matter now? Elle and I are over. And there’s no way in hell she’s going to help me. And, frankly, I’m pissed. I’m pissed she wrote me off like some…superficial douchebag.
I suddenly begin to wonder if I can honestly blame her. Did I give her a reason to think anything else? We screwed. We laughed. We clicked. But I never really treated her like more than a fling.
My mind starts churning with memories, playing them like an old game reel. I can see me and Elle sitting in my room, laughing as she tries to teach me Klingon. It was the first time I can ever remember just hanging out with a girl and not wanting to be anywhere else. Then there was the time she fell asleep in my arms when I got carried away talking about a game against Alabama. I remember just lying there, staring at her face—the little golden brown eyelashes and soft pink lips. I remember feeling lucky to have her.
I squeeze the steering wheel and grunt out a breath. Okay. Maybe there was more to us than I realized. Otherwise, why would I be so…so…fucking pissed that she only saw me as fuck material? On the other hand, I never really gave her a chance either. And now, now that I know what was holding her back, I want to. I want to know if she really means more to me than just a football vitamin.
Okay, Henry, I say to myself. You’re not afraid of a little challenge. And now the goal is clear. A do-over with Elle. Because frankly, my life hasn’t felt solid since she left.