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1.
The first time you almost kiss Henry Winter, it’s on purpose. You sit side by side on the front steps of his large red brick house, the short brown dress you wore to your Brownies meeting still perfectly wrinkle free. You slouch anyway, itching at your ankle over the uniform standard high black socks. A bee drunkenly stumbles through the flower garden, bumping into flower after flower. Beside you, Henry is incredibly disinterested in every facet of the outdoors. He grips a yellow hardcover between his hands, all attention turned toward it. It’s your book, a gift from your troop leader as you’ll finally graduate to Junior Girl Scout at the end of the summer, but you’ve endeavored to let him read it first.
At seven, he reads faster than you. Oftentimes, he prefers more advanced books than you can stomach, but will read anything if he’s desperate enough- and being made to play outside does, in fact, qualify as desperate. At least, in Henry’s mind. You reach up and toy with your earring, which is still slightly sore. A gift for your ninth birthday- gold heart shaped studs, real rather than clip on, given to you along with the matching holes in your earlobes. You twist them between your fingers. A little brown chickadee hops along the grass.
“Stop that.” Henry grumbles, not bothering to look up from his place in Harriet The Spy.
You unintentionally ignore him, too busy thinking about a conversation you can’t seem to shake. Another girl, cheeks flushed pink, had gushed in low tones about a kiss as you waited to be picked up. One stolen from her between tea and a game of croquet at her mother’s garden party only the day before. You don’t understand, really, the appeal of pressing your lips to someone else’s. Even if that someone isn’t necessarily bad to look at. You think the only person you might like to kiss someday is Henry, solely by virtue of how well you know each other. A pragmatic approach to romance, perhaps, but you haven't been overtaken by inexplicable emotion yet.
A hand grips your wrist, firm but gentle, and tugs your fingers away from your ears. It only startles you until you recognize it as Henry. He’s big for his age, strong as an unfortunate result, and he’s taken to physically stopping you from fidgeting in his presence now that he knows he can. You tug your hand away, which only serves to spread the small prick of an ache through it- despite the fact that he lets go at once. You look over at him, eyes narrowed. His gaze is still trained on his book, usually neat hair blowing in the hot summer wind.
“You’re not supposed to do that anymore.” Your voice comes out haughty.
“I asked first,” Henry turns a page, “Your moving about so much is disturbing.”
“That’s my book you’re reading. You’d really better be nicer to me.”
He sighs and shuts the book, your name slipping from his lips as though he’s grown sick of your childish antics. You resent this. You are a child, after all. Acting like one ought to be allowed, especially in the presence of someone younger. But Henry's never behaved his age, as long as you've known him.
“What’s bothering you? You’re being unusually difficult.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, a carbon copy of his father after a long day.
You cross your arms and lean forward to rest your elbows on your knees. You love sitting this way, shoulders and back rounded forward almost boyishly, but your mother hates it. She tries constantly to break you of the habit. You're far too stubborn.
“I’m not bothered, I’m considering.”
He waits for you to continue. A warm breeze brushes through your hair, tugging at the bobby pins that hold it back neatly. It takes you a while to find the right words, but he doesn’t mind. He’s one of the only people you know with whom silence is seldom uncomfortable.
“Sherry was just talking, today, about how Allen Martin kissed her. She seemed pleased, but I fail to see the appeal.”
Henry considers this, lying the book on the steps beside him.
“I don’t think you’re really meant to, yet,” He says after a moment, “I’m sure you will at some point.”
“It’s weird. And slimy, I’d imagine.”
“I don’t think people’s lips tend to be slimy.”
You brush your fingertips against your lips softly. They're smooth, dry- though, not too dry.
“I guess not.”
Henry looks around, expression solemn.
“If you’d like, you can kiss me.” His suggestion widens your eyes to the size of saucers.
“Why would I like to?” You turn to face him, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of pink.
“So you stop thinking about it and I can read.” He shrugs and adjusts his glasses.
You pinch your ear between two fingers again. Annoyance flashes across his face like lighting, but he doesn’t correct you again. His hands twitch like it physically pains him not to. You nod once, sharply, and sit up straight again. Decision made.
“May as well.” You fold your hands in your lap.
He shifts down a step, then over, to sit beside you. You cross your ankles and turn to face him. His eyes look owlish and frigid as he studies you. His brow furrows like he’s making his mind up, and he reaches to rest a soft, large hand on your warming cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait. You feel him move ever so slightly closer. The seconds stretch long, anticipation rising, until the tension is finally popped by the front door opening. You jump apart as if burned.
“What are you two doing out here?” Your mother sounds disapproving, even through the cheer she tries to force through her tone.
Henry's hand disappears beside him, then holds up your book.
“Reading.” His cheeks are ruddier than yours.
“Well, there’s cookies in the kitchen. I’m sure you’d both like those better.” She holds the door open wide.
And with the promise of cookies, kissing is completely forgotten.
2.
The second time you almost kiss him, you’re both drunk. Lying on the deck of a boat in the waning late August heat, the thick black of the sky pressing in like a hug. You’re laughing about something, a half drank bottle of Mortlach sitting between you. You wear a white cotton tee tucked and belted into shorts- it's supposed to be tucked in, anyway. Over the course of the evening it has wrinkled and ridden up. A pair of pristine white Keds lies somewhere in the dark, waiting patiently to be slipped back on. The stars glow phosphorescent above you, as though someone long ago violently thrust a paintbrush soaked in white paint against the sky. A helpless smattering of tattooed pictures. The sailboat rocks back and forth gently, reminding you of an old nursery rhyme.
“Baby’s boat the silver moon, sailing in the sky,” You murmur to yourself, “Sailing o’er the sea of sleep, while the clouds float by.”
The waves lapping the sides of the boat sound, to you, like a metronome. You reach out for the bottle, just barely nudging it with your fingertips. Henry slides it over wordlessly with the side of his hand. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, deliciously cool against the heat of your skin. You sit up some, then, and lift the bottle to your lips, dry from the mix of sun and salt you’ve been marinating in for days. The whiskey is sweet, in comparison to the others you’ve taken from your parents bar cart over the years, yet still pricks tears into your eyes as it rolls down your throat.
“Sail, baby, sail; put upon that sea. Only don’t forget to sail back again for me.” Henry sits up, too, and holds his hand out for the bottle.
At sixteen he’s still incredibly large for his age, as well as wickedly intelligent. He keeps his hair shorter now, as advised by a friend from boarding school, and the scar down his forehead takes center stage as his defining feature as a result. He reminds you, quite a lot these days, of the villain in that new James Bond movie. With decidedly better teeth.
“Is that a song, or a poem?” You hand him the bottle, which he tips up to his lips in one unending motion. Henry drinks for a long time, almost concerningly so, before the bottle meets the ground again with a soft click. He clears his throat.
“A lullaby.”
You hum and lean back on your hands to watch the stars again. Their incandescence is dizzying, especially coupled with the rocking motion of the boat. Henry’s pinky brushes against yours. It’s tentative, questioning. Yours flexes back toward him on instinct.
“There’s Lyra.” He speaks up again, voice softer than you’ve ever heard.
You glance over at him. He has a finger pointed up toward the sky, angled in such a fashion that you have to lean closer to see where he’s pointing. Your hair brushes against his shoulder as you look. The stars wink at you cheekily.
“It looks like a tie.”
“It’s Orpheus's lyre, actually.” There’s a touch of amusement in his voice.
“Intriguing. I always forget he was supposed to be a musician.”
He huffs derisively, closer to a laugh than anything you've heard from him all summer.
“His most defining trait, you forget?”
“Isn’t Eurydice more defining than that?” You pose the question like you’re teasing, though she is, truthfully, the first (if not only) thing you think of when you consider Orpheus.
“That’s a rather reductive way of looking at him, don’t you think?” His nose brushes against the side of your forehead as he turns to look at you.
Goosebumps trail down your neck and arms, sprouting from that fleeting contact. The soothing sounds of the waves seem to fade into the background. All you can focus on now, is the sound of his breath. The electrically charged molecules of space between you. You tip your head up slightly and find yourself lost in the intensity of his gaze. His attention fully tuned in to you alone. Your eyes fall shut, breath shallow and shaky.
“Posse pati volui, nec me temptasse negabo; vicit Amor.” He whispers into the thick silence, latin curling and falling effortlessly from his tongue.
Your stomach swoops. What he’s said, you’re less than certain. Something about love that you might be able to work out, if your mind was less clouded by alcohol. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and traces the curve of your jaw with his fingers. Your puzzlement must show on your face. He looks fondly amused by this.
“I longed to be able to endure this, and I will not deny that I have endeavoured to do so. Love has proved the stronger.” He translates himself, eyes flickering across your face anxiously. A confession too big for one drunken evening.
Your lips part and you sway forward ever so slightly. Your lips come so close to touching, eyes shut against the world- but your stomach swoops again, more insistently. And you find yourself slumped closer, retching. A thin stream of alcoholic bile soaks the front of his shirt. He gathers your hair in his hand, holding it out of the way, and waits for you to empty your stomach the rest of the way. You’ll hardly remember any of this in the morning, he realizes. But, then again, neither will he.
3.
The third time you almost kiss, you’re home for Thanksgiving Day- your sophomore year at Hampden.Your mother isn’t pleased with how short the duration of this trip is, but that can hardly be helped. You’ve flown in early today, and will fly out even earlier tomorrow. You’re honestly surprised Henry’s bothered to come home for Thanksgiving, himself, considering how difficult and almost pointless it feels for you. You sit on the sofa in Henry's parents parlor, thumbing through Henry’s newest translation. Anacreon’s complete odes. An ambitious undertaking for someone so young. But he's always been the ambitious sort.
You laugh softly as you pass Ode 20, eyes darting up to look at Henry. He sits in an armchair across the room from you, a glass of neat scotch in hand. To some he may look disinterested, but to you he looks incredibly nervous.
“This one reminds me of you and Bunny some.” You lower the pages and cross your ankles.
“Which of them?” He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving you.
“The rosy harbinger of joy, who, with the sunshine of the bowl, thaws the winter of our soul;” You read aloud, “He’s just so brazen and bright, from what I saw last summer. It’s good for you. It thaws you some.”
His eyes narrow, though there’s no malice behind them.
“I hardly need to be thawed.”
You shrug one shoulder and turn back to the large stack of pages, all stapled together in sections. You skim it, mostly, because although you adore poetry most of the time, all you’d like to be doing presently is drinking. And eating. It doesn’t take you very much longer to look over the rest of it this way. And so you’re very soon up from the couch, handing it back to him. It’s good. You like it very much, honestly- know you’d love it given the time to savor each poem the way you’d typically prefer.
“I know this is not your specialist subject,” Henry pinches the stack between thumb and forefinger, gently working the papers from your grasp, “That being said, I’m interested to hear your thoughts.”
His attention always feels like a spotlight. Overwhelming.
“It was enjoyable. I’ve never really read Anacreon before, but from what I can tell you’ve translated beautifully.” You answer as you make your way to the antique bar cart across the room and busy yourself with making a fresh drink.
“I’ve another copy if you’d like to really read this one.” His shoes tap lightly on the floor as he follows you.
“That’s not necessary.” The back of your neck prickles when you see that he’s set his glass down beside the one you’re working to fill. Ice, tonic water, the lightest drop of orange liqueur, and a healthy dose of gin.
“It’s no trouble.”
You pick up a fresh glass, ignoring the one he’s handed you, and begin mixing a second drink. You don’t imagine he enjoys his whiskey neat. He likes sugar in his coffee, after all. You drizzle a half shot of whiskey over top of a mountain of ice, filling the cup the rest of the way with soda water.
“I think you might find this a touch more suitable.” You turn, holding both glasses.
He’s dangerously close, you realize, as your knuckles brush his suit jacket. Your cheeks heat, unwelcome and traitorous, and you feel ever so slightly dizzy. You refuse to acknowledge this to yourself.
“You presume to know, better than I, what sort of drink I prefer?” As monotone and judgmental as he sounds, you know him well enough to read this statement as more teasing. Curious.
“I do.” You take a sip from your own drink, not daring to move.
His hand brushes against yours as he takes the glass of whiskey from you, sending spikes of liquid heat up your arm. You do your best not to move. He must know the way this is making you feel. You’re sure of it, especially with that playful- by Henry’s standards- look in his eye.
His eyes trace the outlines of your face, studying you intentionally. As though he’d very much like to memorize the way you look today. Your long lashes coated in black, the soft, natural shade you wear on your lips.
He looks as though he’s deciding something, the echo of a little boy some eleven years ago ricocheting through time. He leans closer, uncharacteristically cautious in this movement. You aren’t certain if you’re breathing anymore.
Your glass begins to sweat, cool beneath your fingers. You hardly notice. The seconds seem to crawl by, slowing more and more the closer he becomes. Electricity boils beneath your skin. You want this, you realize. You want to kiss him so badly it makes you stupid.
And with that thought, you nudge him away. If he’s surprised or disappointed, he does a masterful job at disguising it. Then again, perhaps you only think so because you wouldn’t like to see the truth, bubbling beneath the surface.
4.
A fuzzy white puff of soap clings to the hem of your dusty rose sweater. You don’t even notice. It swings back and forth stubbornly as you wipe dish after dish. Soap suds streak up your bare forearms like bright white bite marks, disappearing where your rolled up sleeve begins. It’s April 1983. You graduate at the end of next month, so the kids, as you so affectionately refer to them, have dragged you out to Francis’s aunt’s for the weekend. One of the few remaining weekends you’ll spend in their company.
They insist on cooking for you three times a day this trip. Roast chicken for dinner last night, a spread of cut fruit, cream cheese, jam, and toast for breakfast this-morning, cold chicken sandwiches for lunch. You’ve heard Charles and Camilla whispering about the lamb chops they intend to make for dinner tonight. It’s bittersweet. As ready as you are to be finished with your studies, you wish you could stay anyway. Continue on with showing Camilla how to iron shirts (you taught yourself when you first arrived, and found yourself overjoyed to pass the knowledge on,) and playing cards with Francis and Henry when they’ve tired of Go Fish- the only game Bunny knows.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Henry asks from beside you, where he’s drying each dish you wash.
“I’m going to miss this.” You don’t feel very much like mincing words today.
“Washing dishes?”
“You. The… everyone. I’ve grown impossibly fond of the twins and Francis- even Bunny, which surprises me to no end.” You pull the sink plug, allowing the warm water to drain out.
“We’re all just as fond.” Henry says this like it’s the most obvious fact.
Perhaps it is. Perhaps the group’s love for you shows in every moment. In the apologies you’ve received for the mere occurrences of drunken brawls, in the way Charles fills your glass with wine before anyone else's at every dinner. In the way Bunny has grown uncharacteristically respectful of women when you’re around.
It’s as though you’re only a half step or so below Julien, in their minds. An omniscient sort of goddess status being printed in copper beneath your feet.
You dry your hands on the white of your skirt.
Henry looks beautiful today. Sunlight dances across his button up, kisses the skin visible around his neck and forearms. His suit jacket has been discarded on the back of a chair, shirt sleeves neatly rolled to help clean up. It’s an incredibly domestic scene. You look away. You’d like to inch closer. To lean up and press your lips against his. You’d like his hands to clutch the waist of your skirt, strong and greedy. He looks at you as he sets the last plate in the cupboard, and you could swear he’s thinking the same thing.
It’s quiet in the kitchen. Henry’s glasses slip down his nose. You could reach up and fix them so effortlessly. What’s more, you want to.
“Henry,” A loud, nasal voice booms through the house, “I’m tired of playing croquet with Camilla, old boy.”
Henry’s mouth twitches with amusement, despite the quirk of his brow. You could almost believe it's disappointment.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Bun.” He unrolls his shirt sleeves as he answers.
“And tell your little Guardian Angel to come, too. You’ll need all the luck you can get.”
5.
The fifth and final time you almost kiss Henry falls on the Christmas Eve after you graduate. You’re both on his front steps, long coats buttoned tight over your bodies. You press two cigarettes between your deep red lips, both Lucky Strikes, and Henry obediently lights them. He takes his from your mouth directly this time, impatient. Your lipstick smudges his thumb as a result. You study the snow, glistening in the streetlights. It isn’t as deep as last year- a whopping 24 inches had fallen, then- but snow is snow. A white Christmas has always been your favorite.
“Tell me more about this Richard fellow.” You prompt, cigarette between thumb and forefinger as you exhale a cloud of smoke.
“He’s from California.” Henry says this as if it explains everything.
You nod.
“And you’ll be off to Rome with Bunny in a matter of days?”
He nods, lifting his cigarette back to his mouth. You chew your bottom lip a moment. Silence with Henry hasn’t felt awkward to you before. But this feels tense, in a way. He feels changed, almost, which alarms you.
Henry never changes. At least, he hardly ever had before now. You inhale deeply, embracing the weighty stretch of smoke in your lungs, and avoid thinking about what that might mean. You won’t worry about him, not now. It’s Christmas.
“It’s still strange,” Henry says after a moment, “being at Hampden without you.”
You find this revelation pleasing.
“You’ll get used to it.” You say brusquely.
“I won’t.” You feel his gaze on you, studious and intent. You don’t dare return the look,
You bring your cigarette back to your lips. The snow in the yard is pockmarked, lightly, from whichever tiny animals are still roaming the neighborhood, and the hedges remind you of overstuffed pillows.
Henry’s touch ghosts along your elbow, singeing your skin through your grey woolen coat. He doesn’t touch hard enough to tug, but your body turns to face him as though he has anyway. Your eyes meet. He drops his cigarette to the ground, and the orange embers fade to nothing beneath his heel.
“I regret worrying you, angel.” He says after a moment, fondly tapping the white and pink knit cap you’ve pulled snug over your hair.
Your brows draw together in puzzlement.
“Worrying me?” You take one last drag of your cigarette before allowing it to meet the same fate as his.
“I’ve been quite… distressing, in the past. I’ve troubled you.”
“Is this an apology? How pedestrian.” You tease, lips twisting into a wry smile.
“I thought it evident.” He gives your hat one last tug, as though checking that it’s secure, and smooths his hand down to your shoulder blade.
He’s beautiful up close, more so than you remember. It’s hard to look at his face as a result, though you find it somehow harder to look away. You lift a hand tentatively, and run it along the sharp angle of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, breath hitching.
"I am sorry and repent with all my heart for all the wrong I have done, and for the good I have failed to do." He murmurs this reflexively.
“You’re absolved.” You stroke your thumb along his cheek. Reverent. Adoring.
It’s impossible to deny, now, the feelings that have been bubbling inside of you like the soft overflow of soap in a hot bath. They’ve grown over decades, solidified in your bones. But you don’t let yourself think those three words anyway. Not yet. You don’t think you can bear it. He leans into your touch, features softening so slightly that even you almost can’t tell. You push up onto your tiptoes and curl an icy hand into his coat. An electric thrill tumbles down your spine and gathers in your stomach, filling it with the crackling, hollow ghost of butterflies.
“Remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be towards man or towards beast,” You quote from your childhood favorite book, tone soft and sweet, “It’s not for me to decide whether you’ve done right or wrong.”
“Your forgiveness is plenty, angelus custos.” He doesn’t often use the full latin form of your nickname. It comes out so fond that you ache.
You let him pull you closer still, until your noses brush. You share breath for a halting moment, lips so close to slotting together. You stay that way for a beat. And right when you think he’s finally about to kiss you, after all this time, he cups your cheeks and pulls your forehead to his mouth. He presses his lips to the space between your eyes instead. A perfect kill shot.
Before you know it, the front door is creaking open, and you’re left alone in the cold.
6
‘My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple tree.’
You read and re-read the quote that's printed on Henry's funeral program in a neat, calligraphic font. The photo above it is, you're sure, no less than two years old. In it he doesn't look all that different from how he had in the hospital, white gauze covering the bullet hole on the side of his head. He likely does now, though, as he lies inside of the mahogany box at the front of the church. You haven't seen him since the life left his body. You don't know. Your dress feels too tight around your chest, the black lace seeming to constrict impossibly tighter. You try to breathe as slowly as you can. The program creases in your clutch.
Henry’s mother sits to your right, your own mother to your left. They wear similar dresses- black, lace, well tailored- delicate faces somber as they give the proceedings their devoted attention. It feels wrong. You aren’t deluded enough to believe he wouldn’t have killed himself had you been there. You’re certain he’s been pondering his own suicide for as long as he’s known what it was. This has never shown overtly, but rather appeared in the way he used to drive. In the way he always read the last page of a book the moment he obtained it, just in case. In his vices, greetings, goodbyes said as though it were the last one he'd ever give.
You try not to think about the last time you’d seen him before the hospital while you shuffle to the front to collect communion. A dry wafer. The acrid aftertaste of dry red wine puckering the inside of your mouth. He’d almost kissed you then. You had wanted him to. Back then, it hadn’t occurred to you that you may not see him again. You thought, naively, that your lives would sprawl out before you, long and languid. Your paths would intersect again and again. They were supposed to.You always believed you’d marry, at some point. A thought that startles you to recognize. Henry Winter was always a sure thing, in your mind. A certain future. To have that future erased leaves an emptiness in your chest much darker than you’ve ever known.
The pew digs into your spine and tailbone as you sit back down. It's harsh. Grounding. The service continues on. You don’t cry- you’re too numb to. And even if you weren’t, you’ve only drank coffee and scotch the last few days. Not enough to be constantly drunk, of course. You’re very much sober, though it doesn’t feel like it with the way time pools and jumps around you. You’re simply too dehydrated to cry by now. Water is an afterthought.
Henry’s mother slips her hand into yours. It occurs to you, dimly, that she should be holding his father’s hand. That his father should be here, rather than away on business. But when had Henry ever been able to count on his father to be anything but a disappointment? You don’t see why death should change that.
This is the first mass in your entire life that you and Henry have ever attended at the same time, without sitting beside each other.
This is the last mass you will ever spend in the same church.