"Very funny," he says. "But seriously, I know you agreeing to this is a big deal. I know it's hard to make time for this."
There's something vulnerable in his tone, and it takes me a second to find the words. "You make it sound like I'm doing you a favor," I say, quiet but sincere. "But the truth is I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be."
His eyes sharpen, making everything else fade to the background. "Good," he nods, a calm smile breaking through, "because I've wanted to do this for a while."
His confession chips away at the imaginary wall I'm still attempting to hold up. I reach for my water to steady myself. The calm surface of the glass refreshes my mind.
"So, how is your book going?"
Henry's lips twitch and there's a flicker of unease behind his expression. "It's complicated," he confesses, his handssmoothing out the fabric of his slacks pressed against his thighs.
"Complicated how?" I press.
He hesitates, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. "I don't know. This will sound silly, but I'm experiencing major writer's block, and it's not because the material isn't there. I have a ton of research and details mapped out—I just need to sit down and write."
"Writer's block doesn't sound silly. It sounds like a nightmare," I observe while the waiter sets down two glasses of white wine in front of us. I smile and pull my glass in for a small sip.
Henry's gaze follows my lips, and there's heat behind his stare. The usual warmth in my chest sinks lower, pooling in my stomach.
He lets out a hesitant, nervous laugh. "It is. It's like I know exactly what needs to happen, but it's not coming together. There's also the fact that I find myself stuck in my own story. Like I can't move forward because the passion and the excitement aren't there. I knew there would be roadblocks trying to write in a completely new genre, but I thought it would be more uncomfortable than impossible."
I look at him sitting across the table. There's something in his expression now, a vulnerability that wasn't there before. It's not just the writer's block. It's something else, something unspoken. But I don't push.
"What if you can't finish it?" I ask. The words tumble out before I think about how blunt the question might be.
His eyes flickered with a sadness I'd never quite experienced. The man across the table knew what it was like to be successful in his field and to feel that success slipping away for a second time had to be heartbreaking.
Henry takes a deep breath and grips the edge of the table. "If I'm being honest, my agent might drop me. She's the one who pushed me into this project—recommending that I stickto what's safe and what's commercial. She's never led me astray, and I don't want to let her down again, but…" He pauses, biting his lip.
I watch him, his eyes avoiding mine for a moment, trying to gauge how much he wants to reveal about his own insecurities. There's something more to this, I can tell. I don't know whether it's guilt, the fear of disappointing someone he respects, or the shadow of someone he's trying to please, but again, I don't push. Not yet.
"What are you really afraid of?" I ask, immediately ignoring my own advice.
He meets my gaze again, his eyes dark and troubled. This has been weighing on him for longer than I've realized.
"I'm afraid that she'll think I'm not the same person she believed in," he says, the words coming slowly like they're bitter on his tongue. "That I've failed her somehow. And if that happens, I don't know what comes next. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's all been a mistake."
I reach out. This was the first time I'd tried to touch him the entire evening. He leans forward into my touch, taking my hand into his.
He holds onto me like I'm the only thing that can anchor him, stirring something deep inside me. His hand is warm against mine, a quiet connection that feels like it's saying everything we haven't dared to speak aloud yet.
"You haven't failed anyone," I say, my voice sure and steady.
He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at me like he's searching for something in my eyes—something that can help lighten the weight on his shoulders.
Finally, he exhales, releasing the tension he's been trying to conceal. "I know," he murmurs, but I can see he doesn't believe the words coming out of his mouth, even if he's trying to pretend.
I pull my hand away slowly, a little reluctantly, but beforeI can say anything else, he leans back in his chair, his usual warmth starting to stir inside his body. "Okay, enough about my issues. Let's talk about you. How are your classes going? How did you do on that last assignment?"
I smile, relieved by the change in topic, but I can't shake the feeling that the conversation has ended. Henry is holding onto something—more than just the book—and I know deep down I won't let him keep it all locked up. I know more than anyone how painful that can be.
"I can't believe you're afraid of chickens," I gasp, trying to regain my breath after laughing for ten straight minutes. It was hard to drive when you were laughing hysterically.
"Seriously? First of all, they remind me of mini velociraptors. Have you seen Jurassic Park? Second, they have scary little beaks that can peck your eyes out when you least expect it. Maybe I should write a horror novel about chickens so people take it more seriously."
I muffle a laugh threatening to unleash at any moment. "There must be a story behind this phobia."
"Oh, there is," Henry says, adjusting his glasses. "When I was about eight or nine, my dad took me to one of his friend's farms, and they let those little beasts roam wherever they pleased. I was simply minding my business when I saw one of those furry caterpillars. I bent down to get a closer look, and out of nowhere, a flock of deranged chickens started charging for my talons first. It was traumatic."
