Henry starts to move towards the small two-story house, and I follow. “We checked, and it doesn’t have a collar, but it’s friendly, so it might’ve run away. I figured you could take it to the shelter and see if anyone is missing their dog.”
“Of course,” George says while crouching down to scratch behind the stray’s ears. Our new furry friend instantly likes Mr. Cooke, leaning against his body as it enjoys the extra attention.
When George stands up, the dog lets out a huff of frustration and gallops back toward where Henry and I are standing, a few feet away from the porch.What an attention whore.
“Crystal just made some lemonade. Do you two want to stay for a glass?”
I look over at Henry, waiting for him to reply. He hesitates, his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. “We don’t want to intrude,” he says, the edge in his voice betraying the calm front he’s trying to maintain.
George waves off the objection with a lighthearted chuckle. “It’s just lemonade, Henry. Not exactly a banquet.”
I glance back at Henry, sensing the battle waging behind his frames. He looks over at me, and I try to curl my lips into a comforting smile. My hand bounces at my side, wanting to grab hold of him.
Finally, something clicks, and he exhales sharply before shifting his focus back to his dad. “Sure. We can stay for a glass.”
“Perfect. Come on, boy! Let’s go inside.”
“Uh, Dad, its paws are still pretty muddy,” Henry warns.
“A little dirt never killed anyone, Son.” Henry’s fist remains curled at his side, and I pray that this visit doesn’t last long. I hate seeing him this way.
George steps aside, holding the door open, and Henrywalks in, his shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for something. I follow, offering George a polite smile as I pass. Inside, the house is warm and inviting, embodying everything I feel around my upstairs neighbor. But now, in this house, he drifts against the current like he doesn’t belong.
“Crystal made cookies earlier,” George says, leading us into the small dining area. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to share.”
I continue to watch Henry closely as his eyes scan the room. The Cooke residence reminded me a lot of Colt’s parent’s house. Every wall was covered in family photos that spanned generations. I always yearned to earn my place on that wall, but there was always a piece of me that didn’t fit. I can see that feeling radiating from Henry’s back when he looks at the photos.
His gaze briefly lands on a framed set of photos decorating a wall we pass. My chest tightens at the sight when I realize what he’s looking at. The first photo is George and Crystal laughing together in front of what looks like a local park. The second shows the two of them with a boy, maybe seven or eight at the time, grinning with a missing front tooth. I assume it’s Knox—Henry’s brother, who I met at the bar that first night.
Henry’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t look away. It’s not anger I see in his face. This is something different. Something much deeper and quieter. Almost like grief.
“Cookies sound good,” Henry says suddenly, his voice hollow, like he’s swimming in the thoughts coursing through his mind.
George frowned slightly as if he had heard the same inflection I had. It’s good to know that his son isn’t a total stranger. “She’ll be out in a second,” he says, forcing the curve of his lips into a thin line.
Crystal bustles in from the kitchen, her apron streaked with flour and her smile as bright as the sun streaming through the windows. She tucks a strand of light strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear before saying, “Henry!” She moves toward him with open arms, like watching a slow car crash.
Henry awkwardly stretches out his arms, forcing a fake smile onto his perfect lips. She embraces him in a brief hug, his hands hovering discreetly before falling back to his sides. “Hi, Crystal.”
“And who is this,” she says warmly before turning to me.
“This is Emma, Hun. Remember, I told you about her. She’s the one renting the bottom half of the duplex Henry is staying in this summer.”
Crystal’s eyes immediately flash with recognition like she’s known me her entire life. “Of course! It’s so nice to meet you. George has mentioned how sweet you and Milo are.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” I respond, attempting to match her warmth but failing miserably. This woman was a literal bag of sunshine.
“Sit, sit,” Crystal urges, motioning to the table where a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies I know she made from scratch wait. “George tells me that you found a stray.”
Henry pulls out a chair but doesn’t sit immediately. “We figured Dad could help,” he says flatly.
George’s laugh fills the space. “Well, I’m glad you thought of me. It’s nice to know you still think I’m good for something.”
The sentiment is lighthearted, but the undercurrent in his tone makes me glance at Henry to make sure he’s okay. His lips press into a thin line, and I can physically see the walls reappearing. He finally sits, but his posture remains rigid, his hands pressed into his thighs for comfort.
Unable to sit still while he suffers in silence, I throw my plan out the window and stealthily place my right hand on top of Henry’s below the table. When my hand connects with his, the rigid shape of his lips trembles like they might bounce back into the smile that I love. They don’t, but I know mysimple gesture is enough to make his shoulders relax, even for a moment.
Crystal sits next to George, her eyes growing tender as she looks at Henry. “It’s been nice having you here this summer, Henry,” she says gently. “How is your book coming along?”
