Page 8 of The Heartbreak Hotel

Seven

By the time Henry shows up, Mei’s gone back downtown to meet Andy and I’ve set the entire kitchen island with the spoils of our morning together: a platter of my crumbly muffins, little glass jars of yogurt with granola on top, buttered toast piled with scrambled eggs, plain pancakes burned only on one side (stacked burned-side-down), a giant bowl of glistening berries, and two fresh mugs of coffee.

I’m expecting Henry in his vet clothes: dark slacks, a checkered button-down, the white coat with his name stitched over his heart.

But it’s a Sunday, and when I open the front door he’s on my porch in worn-looking Levi’s and a CSU Rams T-shirt.

He’s holding a thin stack of papers. When I offer him one of the coffee cups, he extends the papers toward me.

At the exact same moment, we both say, “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” I tell him, as he says, “The Estes Park Vacation Home Regulations.”

I riffle through the pages, clocking the edge-to-edge fine print. “Ah.”

Henry lifts the mug at me. “Thanks.”

Behind him, across the street, I see Martina step outside with Custard the St. Bernard. She waves at me, and when I return it, Henry glances over one shoulder and lifts his own hand. Martina looks startled to see him, her smile wide and surprised, and when he points to his watch she nods.

I wait for Henry to explain, but he only turns his eyes back on me and stands, frozen, with the coffee cup.

Well. I step backward into the entryway. “Do you want to come in?”

Henry tips his head, eyes casting over mine. His gaze flicks to the hall behind me and he swallows, like he’s bracing himself, before he finally says, “Okay.”

Inside he stands perfectly still and keeps his gaze trained to his coffee, like he needs to be invited to take up space here.

“We can get the permit by the end of the month,” he tells me.

The stubble traced along his jaw is dark and rough.

When I dip past him to shut the door, he smells like soap—bright, unexpected citrus.

“But there’s a lot in there you’ll need to take note of.

Occupancy restrictions, and quiet hours, and rules about vehicles. ”

“Absolutely,” I say. I meant what I told him in that exam room: he can trust me.

“I’ll give it a read. Is that—” I hesitate, and he finally looks up from his coffee to meet my eyes.

In the afternoon light the hallway is bright and warm.

“All you needed? Because I was hoping to show you what I’ve been working on. ”

I want Henry to be excited about this. I want him to understand how seriously I’m taking it. I also, admittedly, want to see if I can get him to crack a smile.

“Oh.” He glances back at the coffee, which he still hasn’t taken one sip of, and then down the hallway into the kitchen. When he swallows again, I watch it move through the long column of his throat. “No, I didn’t have anything else.”

“Great.” I smile, and he doesn’t return it.

Instead, his eyes cast over the house: taking in the photos I’ve framed on the walls, the turtle-shaped lamp on the side table, the maple-scented candle crackling from the dining room.

I hardly use it and it’s more of a library, these days: a long table framed on all sides in bookshelves, stacked high with my favorite poetry collections and mythology retellings.

With Nate on the road, I always had time to read.

“Well,” I say. “I’ve been working on the breakfast menu.

” When I start down the hall, Henry follows me quietly.

“Muffins and eggs and granola and fruit. If we’re still going next summer, we can do Palisade peaches.

And coffee.” I turn back to raise my mug at him, but he’s staring across the living room at my gallery wall.

It frames the fireplace, extending like scattered seedlings on either side: a photo of Goldie and me when I was in high school, bundled like mummies in a snowstorm; a pencil sketch of the Flatirons Mei drew for an art credit during our senior year of college; every little painting and memory and talisman I’ve added to my collection since moving in here at twenty-two.

I sniff a little and wave a hand over the spread on the counter. Henry’s eyes flick across it in silence.

“Any input on the menu?”

He swallows, and it looks effortful—like he’s choking. His voice, when it finally comes, is quiet. “No.”

I paste on a smile. “Well, I’m open to feedback. Or I can show you the guest rooms—I’m working on installing individual locks, and I’ve got little nameplates for each one, like, ‘The Aspen Room’ and ‘The Juniper Room,’ that sort of thing.”

Henry steps past me, his bare forearm brushing my own as he sets his mug next to my platter of secretly burned pancakes.

He clears his throat, a tic I recognize from his office.

“Look, Louisa.” He backs away from me, toward the front door, his eyes finally coming to mine.

“I think it’s best if you run with this. If I’m not involved.”

I think of my conversation with Joss last week— grouchy . But Henry doesn’t strike me as grouchy; he strikes me as a trapped animal. I can see the tense line of his shoulders through his shirt.

“Okay,” I say, pulling my lip between my teeth. Henry’s eyes flick to my mouth. “I just want you to feel good about it.”

I’ve always craved validation but been horrified to ask for it.

Growing up in Goldie’s shadow was a study in second place: she was good at everything, entirely self-sufficient.

And then came Nate, who packed stadiums with roiling oceans of fans screaming his name.

I’m so used to the background, the passenger seat, supporting actress.

I don’t want to need the praise—but swallowing the need feels like drowning.

“I do,” Henry says, though it comes out a bit like a question. “It seems that you have everything perfectly under control.”

I think of Mei, fixing my wet eggs, and manage a frozen smile. “Thanks.”

Henry glances toward the dining room and adjusts his watch, a thick leather strap with a gold face. Ropy veins race up from his wrist to his elbow.

“You should keep some of the money that comes in.” He casts a hand over the kitchen island without looking at it. “Whatever you need to pay for this. And compensation for your time, of course. Just—” His eyes flick to me, then toward the front door. “Just give me the numbers when you have them.”

It’s generous—and surprising, considering his tone. But Henry doesn’t even give me time to respond before saying, “I’ll let you know when the permit comes through.”

He turns, then, heading for the front door.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He’s the first man in the house since Nate, and as he’s framed by the hallway I’m struck by the differences between them: Nate’s jangliness, the looseness of his limbs as he careened through the house with pent-up energy and an echoing laugh.

Henry is stoic, zipped into himself. He moves so carefully, like he’s afraid to touch anything.

When he reaches the door he turns back to me, sun from outside lighting his blue eyes so they look snow-bleached and frigid. “Don’t forget to look over the regulations.”

“I won’t,” I say, and his eyes flicker to something behind me. When I turn to look, there’s nothing there.

“Henry!”

We both whip around at the sound of Martina’s voice, reedy and high from across the street. She’s still in the yard with Custard—she’s sitting in a folding chair now, with his heavy snout in her lap. She waves, beckoning.

“I need to be going,” Henry says, ducking his head like an apology.

I glance from Martina to Henry one more time. “To Bill and Martina’s house?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat again, twisting his body toward the driveway, his car, away from me. A flush, pink and warm, rises from the neckline of his T-shirt. “Once a month, I—”

“Bring Lou with you!” Martina shouts, cutting him off.

Henry swallows as he turns back to me. He’s tall—taller than Nate and Mei and my sister. In the afternoon sun, he casts a shadow over my face.

“Um,” I say. I think it’s best if I’m not involved. “I don’t want to—”

“You don’t have to—”

Our mouths snap shut in unison. Henry takes a step backward; he moves like there’s a magnet pulling him from the house. “I guess we should—”

Custard starts barking, watching us now from the fence. His tail whirs like a wind sock.

“Okay.” I yank the door shut behind me. Flap my hands at Henry, who can’t seem to get rid of me. “Let’s just go.”

It’s not my fault Martina invited me over, but as I wait for Henry to pull a zippered leather bag from the back seat of his SUV I feel distinctly burdensome—like I’m a burr he’s spent the last ten minutes frantically trying to shake off and I’m still clinging, stubbornly, to his pant leg.

“Hello!” Martina calls, standing from her chair as we cross the street.

My flip-flops thwack the asphalt, my shoulders burning around the straps of my tank top.

Late afternoon is the hottest time of day in the mountains—at two thirty, early September, the sun feels like it’s cast through a magnifying glass.

Henry opens Martina’s gate like he’s done it a hundred times.

Her yard is a postage stamp of verdant grass on the flat, brown envelope of our street; lawns are rare in Estes Park, but Bill’s outside watering theirs every morning.

Custard promptly shoves his nose into Henry’s hand, and all five of Henry’s fingers disappear into his fur.

“Hello, my friend,” Henry says. His voice is soft, none of the uneasy edge he had at the house. “How are you feeling today?”

“He’s so good,” Martina says, reaching us and dropping her own palm onto Custard’s head.

“Well,” Henry says, more to the dog than Martina, “we knew that.” He lowers into a squat, dropping his bag to take Custard’s face in both hands. Custard drags his tongue over Henry’s cheek and he laughs. “Any more vomiting?”