Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  “It’s okay; you don’t have to do that for me.”

  He shuffled through the door ahead of me, turning back and casting a spell on me with his grin, the one that used to make my knees go weak. “Don’t be silly; it’s no big deal. I’m dying to hear what you’ve been up to since we…parted. I heard you left LA. Why?”

  He’s angry. He’s angry. He’s angry.

  That’s all I can think. And cold, hard terror is all I can feel. He doesn’t look angry; he never does. But I know what’s under the surface. He’s seething with fury at my betrayal.

  And I don’t want a scene, so I follow him, saying, “Let’s have coffee. Is there any place nearby?”

  If it’s a public place, he can’t make a scene or do anything drastic.

  “Also,” I add, “I’d like to introduce you to one of my friends.”

  “It’s better if it’s only the two of us. We don’t want anybody hearing private details, do we?” He winks at me, but no part of my body responds to his flirtation.

  I realize that while I’ve been ahead of him, he’s been leading me with soft presses of his hand on my back to indicate a turn in direction. A year later, I still fall into his trap so easily. I can’t believe it. He’s so sly.

  “My friend knows about us.” Gathering courage, I stand my ground. “So you should really meet him.”

  “Him? Now that’s interesting…” Ripping away the necklace from my throat, he hurls it into a dustbin we pass.

  Just like that.

  Nobody hears. Or notices.

  The thing I hate about him is that he’s figured out these ways to abuse me in broad daylight.

  “Did your friend give you that?” he asks, his tone deceptively polite, as he casts a glance at the now-broken necklace.

  I hiccup, sliding back into that shell where I am nothing but a mute spectator to everything that happens. It’s my defense mechanism. I don’t know what to do. Anger and furious words are boiling inside me, but I can’t seem to speak them.

  Be calm, I remind myself. Or you’ll accomplish nothing.

  “Actually, that was a gift from my brother,” I say. “And you had no right to destroy it.”

  For a moment, I feel power grow inside me, before it’s dampened by thoughts of what he will do to me. Retaliation never helped me previously.

  At this point, even though there are people around us, Rob squeezes my wrist tightly, until there’s a red mark where his fingers are digging into my skin. “And what about what you did? Leaving me without so much as a word. Did you have the right to disappoint me? Did you have the right to call things off selfishly? Do you know how humiliated I am, every time someone asks me where you are? I don’t fuckin’ know where you are,” he spits.

  He’s pissed, which means I’m going to get hurt badly.

  “I-I left you a letter. Also s-sent you an email,” I remind him.

  Before I left LA for good a year ago, I wrote Rob a letter and email breaking up with him, detailing the reasons why I couldn’t carry on, and hoping that he moves on. I tried not to mention the abuse, because I didn’t want to make him angry (I know, perverse).

  “Stupid words. ‘I’m breaking up.’ They mean nothing.”

  “No, they mean something.” Defiance. Wow, it’s a new feeling. “They mean I’m through with you, Rob. They mean I was through with you a year ago.”

  His knuckles crack against his sides. Shit. He’s going to hit me.

  I immediately close my eyes and flinch in anticipation.

  “Were you cheating on me? Is that why you left? Talk, you slut!” His voice isn’t even raised, but I know all he’s capable of, so he doesn’t have to yell to drive home his point. Right off the top of my head, I can list all the ways he could harm me here, even with so many people here.

  “N-no.” How am I supposed to talk when I can barely breathe? “I didn’t cheat. But this right here”—I point to his hand around my wrist—“is why I left. I couldn’t tolerate being abused by you any longer.”

  “You knew who I was when we met.” My wrist starts to ache, unnerving me. I could shrug out of his grip, but I’m scared it’ll trigger something worse. “You even enjoyed the roughness, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t!” Where in the world did he get that idea from?

  His fingers twist around the base of my head, twisting it painfully. “Don’t run your mouth on me.”

  Nothing comes from me in response. Again, I’m reduced to feeling helpless and scared. My skin feels prickly where he touches me. There’s not even a remote sense of sexual arousal here. It’s only fear pouring down like a waterfall.

  My insides are in turmoil. I try to find one thread of calmness, anything I can latch onto. But there’s nothing.

  Eventually words find their way out of my muddled conscience. “B-but why me? There are so many women.”

  “Because you’re rare. It’s impossible to find someone like you in my world.” Two fingers spear the soft area under my chin. Another shot of pain. “Out here, everybody is broken by their struggles. But you’re always smiling. Nothing can bring you down. You’re perfect for me. The only one who can take all my darkness.”

  “That’s twisted,” I say, wishing desperately for Henry to come and rescue me. For someone to come and rescue me. I can’t seem to make him stop. He doesn’t listen to anything I say.

  But this is my battle. And nobody can fight it for me. Rob will have to listen to me. I will make him listen to me.

  “Rob, stop using your strength to intimidate me. I’m not the cowering kitten I once was. And I no longer wish to be anywhere near you. We’re over and that’s definitive.” I kick his hand, forcing him to release his hold on me. “You’re not the only one who can be violent.”

  I hope my eyes are radiating all the anger I feel inside, because I’m really mad.

  He bares his teeth. “I told you to shut your trap, stupid bitch.” He tries to reach for my hand again, but I dodge. “You’re mine. You do as I say.”

  Anger boils inside me. How dare he call me ‘his?’ I’m nobody’s. I can’t believe I let him keep me so subdued for so long.

  “You’re so full of shit.” I lean into him, taking up his personal space. I hate confrontations, but if somebody pushes me over the edge they’d better be prepared for my wrath. “The only reason you’re not in prison is because I didn’t call the police on you. And if you dare lay another finger on me, that’ll change. Think carefully. Prison’s not a pretty place.”

  He bares his teeth, but doesn’t attempt to touch me. Relieved at his lack of aggression, I continue in a raised voice, spitting out the words like bullets, aiming them at his thick skull.

  “Get this in your head because I’ll only say it once: I’m not yours. I was never yours. And we’re not together. We’ve broken up and don’t you ever try to talk to me again.”

  For the first time in my life, I see Rob cower in fear.

  Because of me.

  Wow, I must be a really good actress. Or maybe I’m just super angry.

  “I have been…mistaken about you,” he finally says, in a voice unlike his previous bellow.

  “Yeah, you were. I may have been a victim once, but I will not be treated that way again. By you or anyone else. That’s why I left you, and that’s why I’ll leave anyone who treats me that way.”

  “Bitch! Don’t know what I saw in you,” he growls, and whirls back and marches away.

  Instantly my legs give out and with a thud, I crash to the ground.

  “I can’t believe I did that.” My lips tremble.

  I palm my face, checking for sweat or blood from injuries. Old habits die hard, I guess. When I find nothing, I waddle back to the car, where Henry’s waiting for me, reading a book on catalysts. In contrast to what happened, it’s peaceful and sunny inside the car, and Henry’s presence only makes it better.

  As he drags his eyes over me, worry grows on his features. What I went through must be visible on my face because Henry asks, �
�Max, what happened?”

  I shake my head. “I said goodbye to Rob, that’s all.”

  “Well done.” Something akin to respect glimmers in Henry’s eyes as he throws an arm over my shoulder.

  A light feeling circles my chest. Renewed hope. It feels like I emerged from a storm onto a sunny beach.

  “Sorry to have involved you in my messy breakup,” I mumble to Henry.

  He rolls back his shoulders. “I involved myself.”

  “Still. I made you come all this way for nothing.” I sniff. “Rob will make sure I never get this role, so that’s one day wasted.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “You don’t know him like I do. Gee, I feel so bummed out about this.”

  When we make it out of the building, it’s only been an hour.

  Can’t believe it was over so quickly.

  *

  After that incident with Rob, I was pissed off as hell, so Henry decided to drive me around the city to cool me down. He drove all the way to Beverly Hills. Lined with luxurious mansions, this postcode is glamorous even after sundown, when the lights inside the toy-like houses have been switched on, and I can catch peeks of expensive furniture and décor entombed within the walls.

  Henry turns right, so we can circle back to where we started from.

  “Why didn’t you leave him?” His voice echoes loudly in the quiet car.

  “Who? Rob?”

  “Yeah. You could have called the cops, yet you didn’t.” Pale skin strains against his taut knuckles, which clutch the steering wheel tighter.

  “Is that judgment I hear in your voice?” Crossing one leg over the other, I open and close the glove box.

  “I’m trying to understand you.”

  The car decelerates, but doesn’t stop.

  “Well…it was a long time ago. I cared about my career then. Also, I was scared of confrontation. I didn’t want things to get ugly, even though they were not pretty.” The tip of one finger reaches my chin. “But mostly, I hoped it would get better in time. I hoped he’d stop. I hoped last time would be the last time. I hoped he would change. I hoped for too much. And when I left him I lost all hope. For everything.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I’m sure I imagined that sound from Henry. His face is stoic.

  “Abuse overshadows everything else in your life. I was drained from constantly fighting. I wanted to run away from everything. It was too much for me.”

  Henry caresses my hair. “It’s okay.”

  I swallow conspicuously.

  “I’m fine now.” A lovely, clear groan from my stomach cuts through the dark car. “And ravenous.”

  “Let’s eat, then.” Henry swivels the car around, his gaze briefly brushing my body in the process. “You know, after all this, you had better mention me in your Oscars victory speech.”

  “Definitely. That speech needs a lot of updating.”

  I also have to add Ji-ae’s name to it. She’s been a pillar of support for me. And Lucien’s— because I’ve never met a more interesting kid.

  And this time, it’ll be perfect.

  *

  Henry and I dine at a cheap place, since I’m paying for it, and I can’t afford expensive places on a housekeeper’s salary. The food is filling and homely, and on an empty stomach, that equals heaven.

  By the time we make it back to the hotel, though, I’m hungry again. I’ll never understand my stomach for as long as I live.

  I tap my shoes impatiently in the elevator, which is a little too crowded. One by one, the people who are with us get off. Henry’s and my room is on the fifteenth floor. Did I mention we are staying in the same room (my fault, not his, since I dragged him here last minute and there was no other choice)?

  I unlock the door of our room and step in first. The lights blink on when Henry deposits the card key in its slot.

  At least the room has twin beds, not a double bed. I’m gonna be content with that. Arbitrarily deciding on the bed on the left, I fling my shoes and then sink into the downy goodness of it. Locating the remote, I flip on the TV.

  There’s a romantic movie playing on it that I’ve seen before, but I don’t mind seeing again. After today’s confrontation, I could use some easy entertainment.

  “Mind if I watch TV?” I ask him.

  He’s settled under the covers, like he’s going to sleep.

  “Go ahead. I’m just lying down.”

  The movie runs on, and I watch it almost wordlessly. Henry’s eyes also stay open, and he’s watching it. I can’t tell whether he likes this kind of stuff or not, because he doesn’t show any expression.

  “So hot.” I swoon at the male lead.

  Henry’s head emerges above the cocoon of bedsheets and pillows. “So far all he’s done is be a jerk to her.”

  “He’s a control freak and a bad boy; that’s his appeal. Nobody wants to watch boring nice guys on TV. They’re not interesting.”

  “I see.” He looks quite offended by this. “You like guys like that?” he asks finally, with a note of derision in his voice.

  “I used to,” I admit. “Not anymore. I think a young girl’s version of love is very different from a woman’s. In school, I always longed to have dramatic romance, filled with over-the-top gestures and a guy who would obsessively want me. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with jealous or possessive guys. But now, I have more practical concerns. I’d like to find someone who can do some housework, and I’d like him to be someone who can tolerate my craziness.”

  “What else?”

  “Secure. Even-tempered. Obviously not somebody who gets angry or is abusive. It’d be good if he has a stable job, but he doesn’t have to be rich or anything. Not a spendthrift. A problem-solver. Good with kids. Open-minded and willing to compromise. Responsible. Steadfast. Unselfish.”

  “Whoa, that’s a long list.”

  “It’s not a list,” I respond. “It’s my assessment of the qualities guys in happy marriages tend to have. But I know that not every man will have every quality. Coop isn’t good with kids, but he doesn’t have kids, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Henry chews over this, falling silent. We continue watching the movie, which is nearing its climax.

  Actually it’s not as bad as I thought, being with Henry in the same room. Even on normal days, Henry and I spend time in each other’s proximity in the house. If I think of it like that, it’s not such a big deal.

  Halfway through the climax, Henry gets off the bed. Tears glisten at the rim of his eyes.

  “I think I’ll go and have a shower…” His voice is shaky. “Unless you want to go first?”

  I guess the over-the-top romance proved too much for him to handle and he’s probably not the kind of guy who likes to cry in front of people. Unlike me; I like to cry in front of people and draw their sympathy and attention all the time.

  “It’s okay; I can wait,” I say cheerfully. “I want to finish watching the movie.”

  The bathroom door clicks shut. I hear the spray of water from the shower. It grows more intense, then stops momentarily, before starting back again. Moments later, I realize I’ve abandoned the movie and am listening to the sounds from the bathroom. It’s silly, if you consider I don’t even have to clean this bathroom later (the perks of vacation J).

  Forcibly, I turn my attention back to the television and cry at the heart-tugging final scene. I’m still wiping my tears and reveling in the sadness of the fictional heroine’s death when Henry finishes with his shower and comes out.

  Seeing me cry makes him panic. “What happened? Did something—”

  “It’s the movie,” I explain.

  “Yeah, it was emotional,” he admits, nearing me and dipping his face to mine. “You can use the bathroom now.”

  The flecks of gold in his eyes appear so much brighter up close. My heart thuds. Thud. Thud.

  My blood’s growing warm. It’s whooshing in my ears. After seeing so many on-screen kisses in the last hour and a half
, I’m longing for an off-screen one.

  The scent of soap drifting from him stirs me into action. In a paroxysm of desire, I tip my face up to his. Our mouths fuse together, hot and ready. The slide of his lips over mine makes me moan, and I bite down on his lip to keep from making a noise. As a consequence of being lost in the movie, my mind is tired and quiet, which allows me to deepen the kiss. Henry responds with fervor, drawing me close and licking my tongue teasingly.

  Before long his hands have strayed to my body, invading spaces that feel too vulnerable, despite being clothed. The familiar, claustrophobic, too-close-for-comfort sensation snakes up my body.

  I push him away, break the kiss abruptly, trying to stop the feeling from eating me up.

  “I’m sorry…I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” He squints, confused as fuck (I’d be, too, if I were him).

  He might think I keep blowing hot and cold, but that’s not true. There’s a logic to this thing. When I’m inundated by desire, I feel an overwhelming sense of hope. I think, I can do this. This time will be different. I won’t fail this time. But by the time I’m halfway into it, I realize that this time won’t be different. That hope can’t carry me through something like this. That’s when I go cold.

  “Intimacy issues, remember?”

  “But you did it before.”

  “You mean the time when I started crying?”

  His shoulders draw together. “Guess you didn’t like it even then.”

  He’s inching away from me now, but I don’t want to let him get away.

  “That’s not true! I liked it. I did.”

  “But you didn’t even come.”

  “So what? I enjoyed the experience of being intimate with someone again. But…I freaked out when you touched me.”

  “Like this?”

  I flinch like I’ve been shot.

  Our voices fade away into a tight ball of tension.

  “Talk to me, Max. Explain your problem. What is it that you feel when someone touches you?”

  Shudders work their way under my skin. “Afraid. I feel afraid. I’m scared they’ll do something I don’t want them to do. And I feel helpless, because I can’t control what happens.”