You sent her a kiss-off and then ghosted her. Ophelia manages to bite back the words before they can leave her mouth. Honestly, despite his intelligence, her brother can be clueless sometimes.
Henry turns the package in his hand, inspecting it, a frown deepening on his brow. Clearly, this package isn’t the right size or shape for a return.
“I can’t imagine what—” he begins.
“Then open it.”
He gives her a wan smile. “Yes, I suppose I could.”
Still, he hesitates, his grip loose and uncertain on the brown paper wrapping. Then he rallies, because Henry always does. But precisely, with a letter opener to slice through the tape. Inside is a slender box, the sort that might hold stationery, a box adorned with a pink and white polka-dotted ribbon.
Ophelia stifles a laugh. The last time she saw that, Henry was surreptitiously slipping it into his suit coat pocket.
Her brother is not pleased. When he opens the box, his displeasure only deepens, a full-on schoolmaster scowl. He slaps the box shut and leans back in the chair, aiming a frustrated breath toward the ceiling.
Ophelia holds out a hand. “May I?”
For a moment, Henry doesn’t respond. Then he shoves the box her way.
True, she doesn’t know much about cars. If you asked her what an Alfa Romeo Spider looks like, she couldn’t tell you. But undoubtedly, she’s seen one before, if only through Pansy’s eyes.
Now, it appears that Henry owns one.
Then she notices the card attached to the automobile title and the painstaking words inscribed there.
What’s past is prologue.
Now, Ophelia does laugh.
Well, brother mine, it looks like she called your bluff and then raised you.
“Henry.” Only when he glances toward her does Ophelia continue. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m—” He waves a hand at the milk crate.
“No, I mean here. In Seattle. In this house. You’ve already watched me learn how to walk once. You don’t need to stick around for the encore.”
Her father has hired an army of therapists: physical, occupational, even speech, and when she’s ready, a physical trainer. Then there are debriefers and specialists from the Enclave. All of which are necessary but exceedingly boring.
Henry shakes his head. “After everything?—”
“Especially after everything. You need to live your own life, not put it on hold for mine. Besides.” She tilts her head and gives him a sly smile. “I hear they’re opening a field office in Minneapolis, and they need a principal field agent to head it.”
“How do you?—?”
“Like I said.” She waves a hand in the air. “I hear things.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me one good reason why not. Because I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
“Don’t you? Because I can think of several reasons, the main one being that I’m still betrothed.”
The anguish in Henry’s voice startles her, each word scraped against gravel and broken glass. Hunched forward, he rests his head in his hands.
“I can’t do that to her.” These words sound like an oath. “I can’t hurt her any more than I already have.”
Emotions swirl in the air, thick and complicated. If Jack Ling were here, he could probably name them for her. But Ophelia catches the undercurrent, and their meaning washes through her. This thing between Henry and Pansy runs deeper than mere flirtation and the obvious feelings Ophelia witnessed.
