Page 121 of The Pansy Paradox
“Do you think so little of me, Gwyneth?”
No one does righteous indignation like her brother. The steel in his gaze hardens into titanium, his jaw clenched so tight he’s going to snap a tooth if he isn’t careful.
“No. Of course not. Henry, you’re twisting this all around.”
The gaslighting’s not going to help, honey.
“Will you get me that?” Henry frees his hands from hers and points a commanding finger toward the Tupperware.
While she does, he tugs the T-shirt far enough up his chest to expose the wound. When Gwyneth turns around, the container slips from her hands, her mouth drops open, and for a long moment, she says nothing at all.
“Henry?” She rushes toward him, only grabbing the Tupperware again when he points to remind her.
Ophelia hovers close. She worries that the source of the wound will be obvious, that it will somehow give Henry away, weaken his position.
But no, the wound now resembles a lopsided doughnut; no trace of the small, circular band remains. Bruises bloom across his skin in a riot of deep purples and reds, sickly greens, and angry, aggressive yellows. Ophelia doubts there are enough, or any, cases of agents being punched in the chest with their own betrothal ring for it to be an actual diagnosis. And all Gwyneth does is gape.
“That should have—” she begins.
“Killed me. Yes, I’m well aware of that.”
“Maybe we do need to airlift you?—”
Ophelia feels her pulse kick up a notch. Henry in Seattle can’t be anything but bad. Already, the Sight is weaving a new scenario, insidious and sour, full of degradation and shame. Because Gwyneth isn’t the only one who knows of this so-called little flirtation.
“No,” he says. “That won’t be necessary.”
Gwyneth arches an icy brow. “And you’re the doctor now?”
For the first time during their conversation, Henry’s lips twitch in amusement. “Agent Little was precise and quick in her response. She did use the epi-pens, but she also employed an array of nineteenth-century cures that saved my life. You might consider being kinder to her.”
Henry lets out an exhausted sigh, and after an awkward moment, Gwyneth manages a terse nod. Then she leans closer, the scientist in her overcoming her shame, or what passes for shame when it comes to a Worthington-Wells.
She sits on the coffee table with a thump that rattles the tea service. “Is it actually healing better than it should?”
“I believe it is.” He reaches for the Tupperware container. “I would like it to continue to heal, and I would like to rest. This conversation has exhausted me.”
To be fair, Gwyneth is never not exhausting.
“Do you want me to?” Gwyneth gestures at his chest.
Do the honors? Sorry, honey, someone beat you to it.
“I can manage on my own.” Henry tilts his head, and his voice softens. “There’s plenty of space in the kitchen. You can set up your equipment there for when Agents Little and Connolly return.”
And there we go, children. Class dismissed.
“Besides,” he adds. “It’s going to reek in here.”
Gwyneth stands and leaves the room without a backward glance. With a hand hovering over the container’s lid, Henry waits, ear turned toward the door, tracking those kitten heels down the hallway and into the kitchen. Only then does he open the Tupperware.
He tips his head back, half grimace, half smile on his face. “That is foul.”
But the Henry Darnelle finesse is back in full force. He coats the wound without the goop sticking to everything and then carefully wipes his fingers with a napkin from the tea tray. Ophelia thinks he’ll sleep then. Instead, her brother tugs his laptop, or rather, his second laptop, from beneath the couch cushions.
She marches over, leans forward, and gets right in his face, despite the stench.
You big faker.
