Still, it’s hard to ignore the disappointment that washes over Henry’s features. He only lets the feeling settle for a moment before forcing his features back into a tight mask accessorized with a smile.
I clear my throat, desperate to shift the conversation but eager for him to stick around. “Do you want some coffee?”
Henry nods and follows me into the kitchen. At first, I expect him to reject my invitation and return to his apartment with his tail tucked between his legs. But he doesn’t. He stays.
As I move around the space, pulling out mugs and starting the coffee maker, I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. The air feels charged, much like last night, but I dismiss that feeling and try to break up the static as I hand Henry his cup.
“So, you’re a mom?” he asks, settling across from me with a fresh cup of coffee. I offer him cream and sugar, but I was right when I pinned him as a black coffee kind of man. I hold up my head in triumph.
“Yes.” I smile. “Milo is my son. He is turning two in a few months. He’s been hell on wheels since he learned to walk.”
“He’s cute,” he observes, and my heart soars. “I’m guessing he is with his dad now.” The statement comes out more like a question as he looks around the apartment for more clues.
“Yep. My ex gets him almost every weekend. It’s been a difficult two days without him,” I answer truthfully. This moment with Henry in the kitchen is a rare time when I’m not missing my baby. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I guess so,” he answers, shifting in his seat. “Go easy on me though.”
“If you’re Mr. Cooke’s son, why don’t I know you? I’ve lived in this town for most of my life, and I feel like I should remember you.”
“Maybe I’m easy to forget,” he jokes with his hands tightly grasping his mug. “But my dad moved back here after he split with mymamá. I stayed in Pittsburgh with her and didn’t visit Honey Grove often except for a few summers here and there. This will be the longest I’ve ever spent here. I’m on a short sabbatical from my job teaching at a university in the city, and I plan on staying until the end of summer.”
“Fancy,” I instantly respond without thinking. I try to recover and say, “What do you teach?”
“I’m an English professor,” he says without skipping a beat. Wren was dead on about the hot professor vibe. I could now add that to the long list of things I found attractive about my new neighbor and new friend.
“Really? I’ve heard you use Spanish a few times, so I wouldn’t have guessed that.” I laugh, instantly cringing at my own words.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Myabuelamoved to the U.S. from Puerto Rico when she was a kid so she taught me everything I know. I mainly speak in Spanish around mymamá, but I still use it for small things like curse words and words of endearment.”
A cold chill runs up my neck, recalling last night. I immediately pivot. “Oh, okay. That’s cool that you’re an English professor. I’m actually taking an English class this summer.”
“You’re in school?”
Now, I’m the one who shifts in my chair uncomfortably. “Yes. I started taking classes a while ago, but I—umm—never finished. You know life and all.”
I give him the short and easy answer, but there’s so much more to say. I decide not to burden him with the roller-coaster that was my early twenties.
“I think it’s great you’re going back to school,” he says with a genuine smile. “What are you studying?”
“I was a psychology major, but I’m thinking about switching to something else.”
“Yeah, it’s tough to choose,” he observes. “I changed my major three times when I was a freshman. I didn’t even decide I wanted to pursue academia until I was twenty-seven.”
It was hard to say, but Henry had a calming presence. I usually felt awkward talking about my decision to go back to school. I already felt so out of place in my class, being the only twenty-five-year-old. Everyone else was so young. They looked like they should be freshmen in high school, not college.
“Twenty-seven? How old are you?” I ask plainly before mentally smacking myself on the forehead.
“Twenty-nine,” he says confidently while leaning back in the chair. “I know I don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
I laugh at his attempt at a joke. He didn’t look old, but I could tell by the way he carried himself that he was older. He seemed like a guy who had his shit together.
“That’s so crazy. I was just about to guess twenty-one,” I jest.
His dimples peek out as his smile stretches across his face. Silence hovers between us, but this time it’s comfortable.
Unfortunately, our new friendship session is cut short when I hear a small click before the front door opens. I jump to my feet when my ex-husband comes bouncing through the door with Milo in his arms.
“Hey, Em. Sorry for barging in, but Mi,” he pauses, and his eyes snap to Henry, who is also on his feet now. “Who is this?”
