by Tillie Cole
Harry tossed the headless flowers into the trash near his car. I caught up with him. I sighed sadly at the deceased flowers. “What is it with you blue-blood Henrys and decapitations?”
“An English rite of passage it would seem.” He opened the passenger-side door for me. As I passed, he said, “Although this time I think we can put the blame in your corner, and your bizarre insistence that you are not a lady of the night.”
Harry shut the door and I took in my fill as he rounded the hood of the car. He was dressed in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a gray blazer. As always, his top two buttons were undone and a handkerchief sat proudly in his now-ripped pocket. This one was purple. His dark-brown hair fell in soft and effortless waves.
He was beautiful.
Harry ducked into the car. “Sorry about the jacket and the flowers,” I said. “They are not the first victims of my klutziness. Pretty sure they won’t be my last.”
“Not a problem,” he said. Then, “Have you had a good weekend?”
Blood drained from my face. Well, I have, thank you, Harry. Last night I had things done to me with laundry sundries that frankly would make your bleached white sheets pale.
“It was adequate,” I said, once again in my English accent. I winced, wondering why the hell I was ever permitted to open my mouth. It was nerves, I realized. Before, when I was around Harry, I gave zero shits how he perceived me. Now everything was different.
“Faith, I must tell you something that might not be pleasant,” he said, seriousness lacing each word.
“What is it?” I clasped my hand over his, which rested on his knee. I saw his nose flare at my touch.
Clearing his throat, he flicked his eyes from the road to me and said, “You have the worst English accent I have ever heard in my entire life.”
As his words filtered into my moonstruck brain, I finally dropped open my mouth and shouted, “Harry! You dick! I thought something was actually wrong!”
“There was,” he said plainly. “Your god-awful accent. Do you realize Shakespeare and Chaucer are rising from their graves, hands clasped over their ears, highly offended at that sorry attempt at what is arguably the best accent in the world?”
“The best in the world?” I asked, choking on a laugh. “Like hell! The best accent in the world wouldn’t say zebra so funny.”
“We say it correctly,” Harry said. Why did he argue so smoothly? He wasn’t even raising his voice. Who the hell argued this way?
“Well, don’t even get me started on how you all say aluminum.”
“Ah, you mean in the proper fashion? We champion the use of vowels, is that was has you so offended?”
“Herbs,” I shot back.
“Begin with prominent H.”
“Vase,” I said, smugly.
“Vase.” Harry pronounced it varze. “The item we could have used had you not destroyed the roses that went in it.”
“Eggplant.”
“Aubergine.”
“Zucchini.”
“Courgette.”
Harry smirked at me, looking like the cat who’d gotten the cream. Well, asshole, not on my watch! “Well, fanny is your ass, not your pussy. What do you say to that?”
“Pussy, dear Faith,” Harry said, sounding as condescending as ever, “is a cat. Not a lady garden.”
That was it. That was what broke me. I roared with laughter, tears spilling from my eyes. “Lady garden? What the hell is that!” As the car came to a stop, I realized my hand was still on his knee. As I laughed, Harry squeezed it harder. “That is literally the worst slang word I have ever heard.” I scrunched up my nose. “All I can see in my head is a miniature gardener in a straw hat, mowing up and down a hairy lawn. That is not the visual one should be having on a Sunday afternoon.”
As my laughter died off, my attention became fixated on my hand on his. Harry’s hand had flipped over and his fingers now linked through mine. I wiped my eyes, and then the car suddenly became quiet.
“Are you ready?” Harry asked, breaking the silence. His voice sounded so relaxed and smooth. He was so often uptight and as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I used to believe that to be condescension to those below his elevated social status. Now I believed I knew better. He had just needed someone to see through the hard shell he wore like a repellant.
“I’m ready,” I said. “And I should be asking you that question. You’re about to have Sunday dinner at the Parisi household.” I reluctantly moved my hand from his and patted his shoulder. “Godspeed, young sir.”
I got out of the car, and Harry reached into his back seat, pulling out a bouquet of flowers, a wine bag, and something in a bigger gift bag. I raised an eyebrow. “Trying to make a good impression?”
But Harry didn’t smile or laugh at my joke. He simply said, “Yes.” My heart flipped in my chest, did a split-leap, a back handspring, a somersault, and an expert finish. Harry held out his arm for me. “Shall we?”
I linked my arm through his and, shaking my head, said, “Pussy is a cat.” I laughed at that sentence, still replaying our argument in the car.
“Or a kitten,” he said as we stopped at the door and I took my key from my pocket. I looked up at Harry. “A little kitten. I could see you as that,” he said nonchalantly, and goosebumps broke out all over my body.
Mon petit chaton…my little kitten.
I felt my heartbeat in my throat and heard it echoing like a dance drumbeat in my ears. Harry couldn’t know that was what Maître called me. But why would he say that? Out of everything he could have said, why would that be it?
I was ripped from my thoughts when Mom opened the door with her usual dramatic flair. “Faith! Harry! Why are you standing out here sweating your pants off? I saw you pull up and you took so long I thought you’d been mugged or something.”
“No, as you can see we’re in one piece,” I said, and Mom ushered Harry inside first. He glanced back at me with a furrowed brow, clearly noticing something was up. As they disappeared into our apartment, I took a deep breath. “All these orgasms of late are fucking my brain as well as my…” I trailed off, laughing again over Harry saying lady garden. It was the worst damn thing I’d ever heard. But trust a viscount to use the name of something so floral and innocent for a vagina. “Lady garden,” I huffed, just as my mother came to the door.
“Why are you still out here, alone, talking to yourself about vaginas, Faith?” She shuddered. “And never say it in that way again. Your granny McIntyre used to say that to me when she came to visit from Scotland. It never sounds right. Ever.”
I followed Mom into the apartment. “I got these for you, Mrs. Parisi.” Harry handed her the flowers. Mom positively melted.
“Thomasena, please,” she said.
“And Mr. Parisi. Faith told me you came from Italy.” Harry handed over the wine bag.
When Papa pulled it out, his eyes widened. “The Bella Collina Merlot from Savona Wines.” He was speechless. That didn’t happen often. “It is too much. It is so rare. I could not accept it.”
“Please,” Harry insisted. “I had this at home. I thought a man from Italy would enjoy it more than I would.” I swore there were tears in Papa’s eyes.
“Grazie mille,” he whispered, holding the bottle like it was the most precious gold.
“And Thomasena…Faith, of course, told me of your Scottish heritage.” He handed her the bigger gift bag. Mom looked inside it and gasped. I leaned over to see what was inside. I laughed, seeing cans of Irn-Bru, haggis, and oatcakes.
“Harry,” Mom said, eyes shining now. Oh, Jesus Christ! My vision shimmered at the kindness Harry had bestowed on my parents when all they had been dealt of late was bad luck and sadness. Seeing them this touched was like witnessing a rainbow after a storm.
As I looked at Harry, something inside me shifted. Like a tectonic plate moving under land, forever shifting the earth above, my heart seemed to switch to a new kind of beat. One that finally heard Harry’s.
&
nbsp; “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
“Fuck, Harry,” Mom said, shattering the heavy moment. “You can move in if you keep us in this kind of supply!”
“Harry,” Papa said, patting Harry’s blazer, which was looking all kinds of shabby with a half-ripped pocket and an incredibly limp pocket square. “Your jacket. I’ll fix this for you.”
“No, thank you. I will have a tailor attend to it tomorrow.” Harry flashed me an amused glance. “Someone fell into me and somehow managed to rip it.”
Mom shook her head. “Some people.”
As she walked away to put away her presents, I leaned close to Harry. “Are you sure it didn’t just buckle under the weight of all those pocket squares?”
“I’ll have you know those squares are the epitome of gentry fashion.”
I patted his chest, trying to linger longer than necessary when I felt the hard muscle underneath. “I’m sure it is, Harry. Keep telling yourself that.”
“Please. Let me look at it,” Papa insisted. Harry took off the jacket and immediately folded his shirt sleeves back to his elbows. I had the sudden urge to lick the muscles on his forearms. I had no idea why his forearms had grown into a fetish for me.
Harry watched Papa disappear into his back room. “Your father is sewing my jacket?” he asked, confusion clear on his face. “I have no idea what is happening.”
“He’s a tailor. That’s what he came to America to be.” A rush of pride threatened to take me down. “He’s the best in all of Manhattan.” Harry must have detected an air of sadness around my words because he momentarily took hold of my elbow in a comforting gesture. His gaze implored me to tell him what was wrong. I shook my head. Not right now. He must have understood, because he didn’t push any further.
But as I lowered my head, he pushed back a strand of hair from my face. “I like your hair like this.” My breath trembled as he said those words. “Down. Wavy. Just like this.” In that moment, I was glad Mom chose to come back with drinks, or I was sure I would have scaled his six-foot-three frame like King Kong climbing the Empire State Building. That disturbing scene might have been difficult to explain to my parents.
“Prosecco?” Mom asked and I swiftly swiped a glass from the tray. I knocked back the bubbles in record time. “Christ, Faith!” Mom said. “Calm down. We’re not at a frat party. I know we’re not the richest of people, but I’m sure we can be civilized if we try.” Harry coughed into his glass, hiding an amused grin. I narrowed my eyes at him, promising him a painful death.
“Sorry, Harry,” Mom said. “I think I dropped her on her head one too many times when she was a baby.”
“It is what makes her unique,” Harry said, and I couldn’t help the smug grin plastered on my face.
“Well, at least someone thinks so.”
“Mom!” I shrilled.
“I’m just joking, baby. You know that.” Mom held me in a one-armed hug, but I saw her shaking her head at Harry, as though she was anything but sorry. “Dinner will be ready in five. Make yourselves comfortable, kids!”
We sat on the couch, and I watched Harry soak in the room. His eyes fixed on the many photo frames on the old wallpapered walls. Pictures of family past and present, from Scotland to Italy, and every awkward stage I’d gone through growing up.
“Pink hair?” he asked, pointing at my fourteen-year-old self, glaring menacingly at the camera.
“My expressive stage.”
“And the septum piercing?”
“Emo stage.”
“Wow.” I smiled at that word coming out of his mouth again.
“What? You didn’t have the quintessential teenage stages in high school?”
“Lord no,” he said. “My father would have disowned me.” He smiled as he said that but then took a long drink of his prosecco. “I went to Eton. The boarding school. I would have been expelled if I’d even attempted anything of the sort. That and my father would have killed me.” When he faced me again, I recognized those eyes. Those eyes that were racked with sadness. They were the same ones that had stared back at me from the picture I’d found of him as a child with his father.
He sat back against the couch, and I mirrored his movements. I found his hand by his side, resting on the couch, and held on. I heard Harry’s breathing hitch as our palms kissed. The moment was quiet, but not awkward. Just then, Papa came back into the room, carrying Harry’s blazer.
“Va bene,” he said and held out the blazer for Harry to see. Subtly releasing my hand, Harry stood and took the jacket from Papa. He brushed his hand over the pocket, which looked like new.
“Thank you,” Harry said, sounding genuinely grateful. He studied the jacket more closely. “That is excellent work, Mr. Parisi—”
“Lucio.”
“Lucio.” Harry folded the blazer over his arm. “Where is your shop? I have several suits that need attending to. I would love for you to tailor them.”
I ached at the happiness breaking out on Papa’s face. It was as bright as the sun outside. “Just down the block from here. Parisi Tailoring.”
“Shall I pop down at some point this week?”
“Perfecto,” Papa said, clasping Harry’s hand.
“Dinner’s ready!” Mom shouted from the dining room. Papa walked through first.
I held Harry back by his arm. “Thank you,” I whispered, fully aware he would see the raw emotion in my face.
“He is good, Faith. Excellent, in fact. I meant it.”
“The best,” I said, echoing my sentiment from earlier.
“Faith Maria Parisi, get your ass in here this second! I won’t have my potatoes going cold!”
“Just so you know, she was actually shouting at us both there, but it wouldn’t be polite to rip into you when she just met you.”
“Duly noted,” Harry said and offered me his arm to walk into the dining room.
I spluttered a laugh. “It’s eight feet that way,” I said, pointing to the table.
“Bloody hell, Faith. Can you just let me be chivalrous for one damn minute without all the commentary?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, impressed by his vigor, and saw the rush of heat in his eyes.
As we walked to the table, I realized I was turned on. I was turned on at Harry’s stern words. As I sat down, I tried to pretend like everything was okay and I wasn’t about to ravish Harry over the green bean casserole in front of my parents and God.
“Why do you look like you’ve just bumped uglies, Faith?” Mom said, as direct as always. “Your cheeks are flushed, and I can see your nipples through your dress—”
“Let’s eat, shall we!” I reached over to the center of the table to fill my plate.
As I began to fill it high with all the complex carbs, Mom hit my hand. “Faith, let Harry go first. He’s the guest, and not my ill-mannered daughter, who acts like she hasn’t eaten in weeks.”
Harry’s lips twitched as he politely, and ever so cautiously, filled his plate with veggies, chicken, casserole, and gravy. I stared at him, confused at how anyone could be so controlled when all this delicious food was positively crying out to be eaten, the flavors invading the nose like tiny Viking marauders, pillaging the senses.
It occurred to me then that Harry rarely did anything that wasn’t completely perfect and somewhat measured. Not in a negative fashion, but like he’d had manners and “proper” etiquette completely hammered into him. I wanted to see that careful control shatter. I covered my salacious smirk with the back of my hand, knowing the very place I wanted to see that control break.
“So, Harry? Whereabouts in England are you from?” Mom asked, nodding her head in permission for me to get my food.
“Surrey.”
“Harry Sinclair from Surrey,” Mom mused. Then her eyes widened and she dropped her fork, the metal clattering to the plate like a thunderclap. “Not the Harry Sinclair from Surrey? The one whose father owns HCS…” I could practically see the lightbulb appear over my mother’s head.
“I didn’t realize he was the boss. One of the Sinclairs.”
Harry shifted in his seat, showing his discomfort. “My father is actually the one in charge of HCS Media right now,” he said politely.
“Would you want to take over one day?” Papa asked, and I could have kissed him for making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Unlike Mom. I was making slashing gestures across my neck to tell her cut out the Sinclair talk.
“I can’t wait,” Harry said, drawing my attention. He placed his fork down while he spoke. Shit, I felt like I should enroll in a damn finishing school or something just so I could be in his presence and not feel like a caveman. “I studied at Cambridge for my degree in journalism, then went on to Oxford to complete my master’s. It’s not just in my blood, but it’s my passion too.”
“I didn’t know this,” I said, just as enraptured by his answer as my parents.
He looked at me and I saw it. I saw the passion blazing in his eyes. “Yes,” he said and took a drink of his water. “I have lots of ideas for HCS Media. Where to take it, how to give back. Masses of journals with notes and ideas on how to truly change the media and publishing industry for the better.
“Wow,” I said and Papa nodded.
“Your father,” Papa said, “He knows you have these ideas?”
The glacial shell that Harry wore like an ice-filled jacket slowly knitted back into place, his rigid posture rearing its stiff head. “My father is very set in his ways and likes things as they are.” He gave us a tight and unhopeful smile. “Maybe one day.”
There was a slight awkward pause in the conversation, and Mom broke it. “Faith, I’ve been meaning to say, I finally read your column last week. Sound advice on the rimming question. And I agree that a pogo stick is never safe to lose one’s virginity on.” Harry suddenly began choking on his food. I slapped him on the back and was close to bending him over the table and conducting the Heimlich Maneuver when he suddenly started breathing again.
“Jesus, Harry! You okay?” I asked.
“Just went down the wrong way,” he said, his voice weak.