"Wow," I exclaim. "You were playing with their food. If you ask me, I think you had it coming."
Henry stops in his tracks and turns to face me, the playful disbelief on his face illuminated by the silvery moon lightingup the sky. "I can't believe you would dismiss my feelings just like that."
"Believe it, baby," I respond without thinking. My face heats up, and I quickly step ahead, praying the endearment will come off as nothing more than a joke.
Thankfully, he plays along and retorts, "Fine then, baby. What are you afraid of?"
I paused, caught off guard. That was a loaded question. My therapist and I had spent hours unpacking my fears and how they ruled my life, but that conversation was too heavy to interrupt our fun banter.
I clamp my lips together as I think of something to say that won't make him feel too bad about his chicken story. When I finally glance back at him, I notice his curious, patient expression and an idea hits me. "Priests."
"Very funny," he mocks. "I thought the idea was pretty clever. A priest is someone you're supposed to be able to trust no matter what. I think that's the perfect kind of person to be a serial killer."
A person you can trust no matter what. Few people in my life held that role and let me down. I was terrified of letting that happen again.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't think of a good follow-up to your chicken story," I deadpan, with a hint of humor layered underneath.
Henry stops walking again, his expression softening as he looks at me. "You're lucky you're cute."
"I thought I was beautiful?" I ask with a sly smirk, trying to cover up the butterflies fluttering inside me.
His lips twitch into a smile, but his eyes don't waver from mine. "You're that too." His voice is quiet and intimate, catering to the heat that's been unfurling inside of me all night. Then he steps closer.
His hand brushes mine, and I take a deep breath, willinghim to kiss me again. My heart pounds in my chest, begging him to make contact. His body seems to oblige when he leans in slowly. I close my eyes in anticipation.
But then my phone buzzes loudly in my pocket, shattering the moment. I snap my eyes open, and Henry's face is an inch away from mine. I inwardly wince when I step away from him.
"Sorry, I have to—" I pull out my phone and see Colt's name on the screen. Normally, I wouldn't think anything of it, but it's late, and my mind pictures the worst-case scenario.
Henry nods in understanding, and I answer the call. Colt's panicked tone causes my chest to tighten. "Emma, it's Milo. We're at the ER. He fell off Dad's tractor, and they think he might've broken his arm."
"What?" My voice wavers, my free hand clutching the strap of my bag for stability. "Is he okay? Is he in pain? Never mind, I'm coming right now."
As I end the call, I feel Henry's hand on my arm. "What happened? Do you need a ride? I can?—"
"It's Milo," I interrupt, my voice trembling but calm. "He hurt his arm. I need to get to the hospital."
Henry doesn't flinch at my clipped tone. "Let me drive you."
I hesitate, my keys heavy in my hand as I look at him. "Yes. Would you come with me?"
The words are barely above a whisper, my muscles twitching each moment I think of how much pain Milo must be in.
"Of course," he says without missing a beat.
We hurry to his car, which is parked a few feet away from mine. I hop into the passenger seat, and he slides into the driver's side, looking at me with quiet reassurance.
When he started the engine, the tight knot in my chest started to loosen a little. I looked down at my trembling hands and was thankful he had offered to drive.
I keep staring at my hands, willing them to calm down, willing my entire body to calm down. My commands are useless, but when Henry slides his hand over mine, it makes me feel like I'm holding onto something steady.
CHAPTER 17
The emergency room's automatic doors fling open, flooding us with harsh fluorescent lighting and the sharp tang of antiseptic. The smell makes my stomach churn and my heart pound as I scan the waiting room.
I spot Colt immediately. The pounding in my chest starts to fade into a slow hum when I see him pacing near the reception desk. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and his head is bowed, but I mainly notice the tension in his shoulders. My chest tightens.
“Where is he?” I stammer out, rushing toward him. My voice pulls Colt’s attention to me. Relief washes over his face when our eyes connect.
