Page 87 of Say You Will

The two of us aren’t touching in that picture. It was taken in the McRae kitchen over my spring break from school. Henry has a pencil in his hand, my algebra textbook laid out on the counter, and he’s explaining an equation. Henry is focused on the page before him. I, of course, am looking at Henry.

The fact that I was convinced he was the most wonderful person I’d ever known is written all over my face. If it werethe photo, alone, I could forgive it, but there’s a caption:How could he have known one day this sweet girl would grow into a beautiful woman and win his heart?

It’s a deliberate dig, and it’s perfectly executed because no one else will see the insult behind it. I don’t know if his point is to punish me for ruining his plans or to attempt to wriggle his way back into Henry’s seemingly good graces by showing him that Jonny wasn’t wrong to call me an ugly duckling. Either way, I want to sink into the upholstery and never come back out.

I like seeing photos of Henry and me together from our past, but seeing it from this perspective makes me look exactly like the pathetic fool my mother called me. A dumb girl fantasizing over a man so far out of her league that other people saw it and laughed at her.

I don’t even consider clicking on the comments. There’s no way the internet isn’t having a field day making fun of me in this photo. I know Henry never saw me as ugly. I truly believe that he isn’t acting any differently with me now than if I’d never had surgery. To him, my smile is the same. He wasn’t lying, so why does this photo and caption hurt so damn much?

I breathe in deeply through my nose to try to work past it. This isn’t important. I have a great job that I love. I have friends. I have Henry who cares about me, and a precious dog who thinks I hung the moon.

I click out to the main part of the post. Jonny has strongly implied that Henry is working on a “very special partnership” with Jonny Lennox decor, something I know Henry would never do. He despises my father.

I close the app, then I check Jonny’s other accounts. He’s done the same with his others, but one post is different. In this one, he’s written a deep, supposedly heartfelt post with a photo of the two of us with his arm draped around my waist. It was taken fourteen months ago, which was the last timeI saw him in person.You don’t have social media, so I can’t tag you, but I had to take a moment to express my feelings . . . .I couldn’t be prouder of the amazing young woman you’ve grown into . . . .Overcoming your physical challenges . . . .I’ll always be here for you.There’s no need for me to read the rest, so I don’t.

“Franki? Franki, are you still there? Did you hear me?”

“I’m here.”

“I know you hate being in the public eye, but you’re going to have to make a statement renouncing that stupidity or you’re going to end up in the middle of the slander lawsuit Henry McRae brings against your father. You probably still will.”

I make a sound, neither confirmation nor denial.

“How does Jonny plan to explain the fact that you and Henry aren’t even dating, let alone engaged? What does he think will come out of this prank? You’ll have to resign your position. You can’t work for him under these circumstances.”

I freeze, unsure of what to say. Henry taps my thigh and when I glance at him, he winks and mouths, “Own it.”

He turns back, his eyes on the road, and I look at him. His beautiful, beloved face. Those scarred, elegant hands. The scattered freckles on his muscular forearms. I have been in love with this man since before I even knew what love was. I’ve pined for him and missed him and yearned for him all of my adult life. This time we’ve spent together has been better than any fantasy I’d ever had.

Henry started this rumor to get my father to back off. I shouldn’t have gone along with it then. I shouldn’t do it now. He wants me to confirm it with my mother, and telling my parents two different versions of things will only blow up in my face.

Most of all, though, I don’t want to say it isn’t true. I can’tbearto do it. “Henry and I are getting married.”

After a brief shocked silence, Mom wails loudly enough that I turn the volume down on the phone. “No, no, no. You did not do this. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Tell me this is a joke.”

I stiffen my spine and try to sound cheerful. “Not a joke. Incredible, right?”

“Do you know how bad this looks for me? I’ve already made a statement saying it isn’t true. You haven’t been back on the East Coast long enough for this to happen.” She’s bordering on hysterical, pausing her cries of grief just long enough to deliver her lines with devastating clarity “You break up with that man right now.”

We’re on a country road, but Henry pulls over and puts the SUV in Park as I huff in frustration. “I’m not breaking up with Henry. I’m sure you can find a way to spin this that won’t look bad for you. Ask your publicity people for help. You should be happy for me. You’re the one who said I couldn’t pull a man like Henry.”

Henry scowls at me, and I shrug sheepishly. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s the last thing that will calm her down, but some part of me couldn’t resist.

She howls, and I try to talk over her. “Mom, you’re going to make yourself sick. Please stop crying.”

“He ignored you. He let you leave with me. He never cared about you while you made a fool of yourself waiting around for him to notice you existed. You can have anyone now, Franki. I’ll help you. Instead, you go to New York and pick the coldest”—hiccuping sob—“most dangerous man in New York to marry? I didn’t fix you so you could leave me.”

A shocked laugh punches out of me. “I wasn’t broken. You didn’t fix me, and Henry has never been anything but kind to me.”

“How can you be with someone who fantasizes about your mother while he’s with you? He didn’t want you before, but he does now? It’s not a coincidence.”

Beside me, Henry makes a low sound of disgust, and I finally force myself to look his way. He’s facing forward with the flattest expression I’ve ever seen. His eyes appear almost shark-like.

People refer to Guinevere Jones as the most beautiful woman in the world. Five years ago, a band won a Grammy for a song with her name in it as a metaphor for unattainable female perfection, but Henry saw straight through her. She’s ugly where it matters.

“You need to book a flight to Los Angeles now. Tomorrow morning. I thought you were in danger before from random fans, but this is different. There are rumors about him,” she says desperately.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Henry would never hurt me.”

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