Page 28 of Say You Will

I shake my head. “I haven’t watched a movie in”—I grimace—“I can’t remember. A lot of years and only then because my mother asked me to.”

Her smile grows until it seems to encompass her entire body.

I lift an eyebrow. “Why does that amuse you?”

“It doesn’t amuse me. It makes me happy. This sounds terrible, but my mother is so famous for her movies that whenever I meet anyone new, it pretty much ends up the only thing anyone wants to talk about. That’s especially true with guys. I couldn’t begin to tally up the number of men who have called me my mother’s name.”

Like those assholes in the lobby. She was afraid of them. That much was clear. I don’t make threats in anger, but something hot had roared to life inside me. They were moving too close to her, telegraphing aggression in every word and step. In that moment, kerosene poured onto embers of emotions I’d thought were nothing but cold ash and lit me with fury. Then I’d turned back to Franki and seenkindness.

“Women see me, and they see status and money. I’d like to believe it’s the least interesting thing about me. Your parentage is certainly the least interesting thing about you.”

Her lips twist. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Always assume I’m complimenting you.”

She shakes her head with a little smile.

I smile back. Not the kind where I move my lips because I know I’m in a situation where it’s expected, but because there’s some light thing inside me that’s insisting on exiting my body. Through my face.

“What’s your favorite dinner?” she asks.

“Croque Madame and tomato bisque.”

She leans toward me. “That’s still your favorite?”

“I’m a creature of habit. My favorites don’t change. Once I love something, I always do.”

“Have you tried pumpkin bisque?”

“I have not.”

“It’s really good. We should do that. Have pumpkin soup. Us. At the same time.” She straightens her spine and nods as if in resolution. “Together.”

“We will,” I promise, even though the idea of eating soup that reminds me of pie isn’t something I’d normally do.

I’m making headway with her, and I haven’t even begun my campaign.

Franki reclines back, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

“For pumpkin bisque soup?”

Her next words are so quiet, I almost miss them. “For still being my Henry.”

I keep my eyes on the road, unsure how to respond. I’m not the nice kid she used to know. When I finally glance over, Franki’s eyes are closed, her features relaxed in slumber. Her oversized cardigan bunches around her; the thin material of her black pants creasing around the outline of her knee brace.

As she shifts in her sleep, a lock of hair slides out of her cap and drops to cover her face on the right side. Reaching out, I smooth it back, unsurprised to find Franki’s hair is as soft as her skin. She’s turned toward me, weight resting on one hip, long lashes fanning beneath her glasses.

When Franki was eight, she tried to trim them with scissors because she hated the way they bump against her lenses.

She says we don’t know each other after all this time.

I can’t imagine any woman, let alone someone as sweet as Franki, would want any part of me if she really knew me.“I enjoy long days at my desk and longer nights in Interceptor Body Armor. Oh, by the way, I know hundreds of ways to kill someone. If you need an assassin, I’m your man.”

She has only the vaguest idea of the things I’ve done. If she ever truly understands, she’ll call me a monster too.

eight

Henry

---