“Yes,” he says, but neither of us moves.
My heart skips a beat as Henry’s gaze flickers to my mouth. Only for a second—I blink and he’s looking me in the eyes again. Then he glances past me to the bed, and oh, God, I want that so much. I don’t want to go to sleep alone. It’s not fair to him, but maybe that’s the part I miss the most since Noah and I broke up. Those fleeting moments as you’re falling asleep, when you come around again and sense that there really is somebody there.
“I could...” Henry begins, and I nod before he’s even finished his sentence.
I’m so weak.
He takes my hand, and what is it about warm skin? What? I don’t understand it, but when I feel it, I don’t care about anything else. Henry gives me a hug, and all I can think about is how long it’s been since anyone did that.
“Tell me what I can do,” he whispers, and my throat tightens a little.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He lets go of me, and when I look up at him, there’s that tiny smile again.
“What?” I ask.
“I think you might be homesick,” he says.
I want to deny it, but then I remember Mum’s voice and her hugs, and suddenly the tears well in my eyes.
I’m not sure if Henry’s noticed I’m crying. Until suddenly his hand is on the back of my head, pressing me to him. That’s the moment when a hoarse sound fights free of my throat. I can’t stop it, and the more annoyed I am with myself, the worse it gets.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “This is so stupid, I—”
“Stop that,” Henry whispers. “It’s OK, Em.”
God, how can he call me that?
How can he do that? Henry’s intelligent. I know that. Not just in a doing-mental-arithmetic-and-joining-the-dots kind of way. He’s smart when it comes to words and reading faces, the times when I say one thing and actually mean another. He gets all that, and because he does, I’m sure that he also understands what all this means, here and now. That we’re too close to eachother. That from now on, I’ll always know the smell of him. That I really like this blend of cinnamony shower gel, warm vanilla, and black tea. That his fingers are so warm and gentle, and that he’s just the perfect height to rest his chin on my hair parting while I cry helpless, hot tears into his jumper.
It’s like there’d been a plug holding in everything that had built up since I got the taxi to the airport on my own and had to act like I was coping, and now Henry’s pulled it out. I played the part so well, I even convinced myself. But the truth is, I’m not coping. Not at all. I’m asking myself what I’m doing here and why my life’s been such a mess since I left home. If the whole thing was a mistake.
But then there’s Henry’s warm body against mine, and deep within me, I sense it wasn’t. That there’s some kind of connection between us that I’ve never felt with any other person in my life. Not this intensely, and not after such a short time. That it can’t just be chance that he’s standing in my room right now, holding me like this. No, it’s his own conscious decision. He could be anywhere, but he’s here, with me.
I rarely cry in front of other people, but I know what it feels like when I’ve overloaded them. It’s different with Henry. He’s just standing there, holding me and waiting for just as long as it takes, for the moment when I’m all cried out. When it eventually comes, he lets go of me slightly. I shut my eyes because I can’t believe this is really happening. That Henry’s laying one hand on my chin and lifting it gently so that he can wipe away my tears before pushing me over to my bed.
I feel the mattress at the backs of my knees and that urgentfeeling in my belly. I hope he’ll stay. Even if we both know that he shouldn’t.
Outside, the clock strikes midnight. Henry nods to me to scoot over.
Boarding-school beds are narrow. I’m lying so close to the wall that the tip of my nose is almost touching it. My heart beats faster. We don’t say a word as Henry switches off the lamp. I feel him slide up behind me. When he puts an arm around me and pulls me to him, my heart stands still.
I stare at the wall and don’t dare to breathe. Henry doesn’t take his arm away. My back is against his chest, which is slowly rising and falling.
I don’t know what it is, maybe just his presence, but somehow everything’s a little more bearable. Maybe it really is just his warm body against mine that means my mind can no longer believe so firmly that everything totally sucks. Maybe it’s his fingers, which are gently stroking my arm, ever more slowly, until his hand eventually comes to a stop.
When Henry falls asleep, he sinks into me. His arm grows heavier, but it’s not unpleasant, not at all. It’s the exact opposite, as I feel his breath against my shoulder.
I wait a while until I dare to move. The duvet rustles, Henry twitches, but his eyes stay shut. When I turn onto my back, his face sinks onto my shoulder.
He looks way younger when he’s sleeping, and I can’t help it, I have to run my fingertips over his cheek. His skin is as soft as I thought it would be. His arm weighs heavily on my belly, hisbreathing is slow and even, and tiny waves of peace wash from his body over mine.
My eyes are still stinging, and my throat is dry. I’d like to get up, have a drink, blow my nose, but Henry’s sleeping and that means I can’t move now. I can only roll back onto my side as cautiously as possible and curl up, because that’s the only position in which I can fall asleep. And which puts at least a hand’s breadth of distance between our bodies.
My curtains aren’t completely shut, and a little light is falling into my room. Normally, at this time of night, everything’s quiet, but now there’s Henry’s quiet breathing, and with every breath, it’s harder not just to shut my eyes.
I must have done so, because when Henry moves, I open them, blinking and startled. He slides a little closer behind me—I’m the little spoon—pulls me closer, and then his hands relax again.
