Page 70 of Now That We Don’t Talk

We scoot around the store, absolutely not sticking to the grocery list. Eventually, Henry points out that we fly back tomorrow, and then we attempt to put back all our off-book choices—mirin and sambal oelek, the base for a pork udon noodle dish that I make him promise to cook for me once we’re home; a case of water that I grabbed because it was labeled as “organic” and we couldn’t for the life of us figure out what that meant.

After checking out, we load the bags into the trunk, and I get in the car as Henry returns the cart to one of those racks. As he slips into the driver’s seat, Henry kisses me on the forehead like this is a normal part of our routine, something we could do every week for the rest of our lives, and then he throws the car into drive, taking us home.

* * *

It’s the last night of Hanukkah, Henry’s and my last night home, and one of the last nights I’ll ever spend in this house. There are no special traditions for the eighth night of Hanukkah, but seeing my family’s Tree of Life menorah fully illuminated makes my heart feel whole.

I think about that first night, my fuming hatred of Henry Cole, and how many iterations of ourselves he and I have been in these last eight nights. He’s setting the table as Mom roasts a whole chicken, and I snake my arms around his body from behind. Henry’s eyes dip over his shoulder toward me, heavy-lidded, lovely, and mine.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask quietly. The silverware clatters on the table as he places it down, spinning around to face me. “I did switch the wine that first night.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Knew it. And for what it’s worth, I could have easily dried those dishes without touching you.”

“You chose chaos!” I exclaim, hands on his firm stomach, feeling the curves of muscle through his Henley.

“I chose to test the waters. Plus, the way it made you so mad was kind of irresistible.”

I roll my eyes at him and scoop up the rest of the utensils, finishing his task.

This dinner is our most civil meal yet. Mom and Kristine talk about moving, and wanting to take their time planning the wedding, and I feel much calmer about the whole discussion. Maybe it’s because Henry is finding every excuse in the books to touch me in between bites. A hand on my knee under the table. Fingers briefly intertwined. His arm across the back of my chair. He’s not subtle, and the magnetic draw to him is impossible to ignore. I can’t stop stealing glances at the beautiful man next to me.

As much as I want to put all of the condoms I stole from Planned Parenthood to use, we decide to spend this final night in our own homes. I stay up way too late with Hannah, snuggled on the couch, debating what to watch. I suggest putting on this new indie film that absolutely blew up last year, but my sister tries to impale me with the remote in response.

“I was in freshman sem with Brooks Harper,” she says, drawing out the name of the guy who wrote, directed, and starred in the indie darling in disgust. “His real name is Barry Himmelfarb, and he’s an absolute tool bag. So no, I will not give him a single cent of mine, understood?”

I bite my tongue regarding that fact that it would actually be Mom’s money, and instead pivot to back-to-back Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks features. This suggestion is met with much less threat of physical violence. Hannah falls asleep partway through You’ve Got Mail, but I keep watching as Joe Fox discovers that his nemesis, Kathleen Kelly, is Shopgirl. This movie held so much hurt for me for so long because it used to be part of Henry’s and my New York fantasy when we were kids, and I’d avoided it for years. It’s nice to watch it again—it always was one of my favorites. My phone buzzes and I quickly silence it, glancing down at the screen. A text from Henry, with that cheesy red heart. I open the message.

Henry

Are you up?

Norah

Is this really your first text to me?

I hit send with an incredulous smile on my face.

Henry