Page 150 of The Pansy Paradox
“Feeling better?” The way Henry gazes at me makes my heart tender and fragile, like it might shatter. It’s more than adoration; it’s more than playacting. He sees all of me.
Even in this fantasy version, I’m very much me, who apparently couldn’t bring herself to pull on a dress for Thanksgiving. I’m in a variation of what I wore on our trip to the farmers market: same cigarette pants, now paired with ballet flats and a boat-neck shirt with long sleeves. Same perky high ponytail with the same polka dot ribbon that I lost somewhere on the green.
Henry plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. “You look fetching,” he says, reading my thoughts or perhaps the dismay on my face. Before returning to the kitchen, he gives Max a stiff nod.
Max manages to keep a straight face until Henry’s attention is focused on the double ovens. Then he bursts out laughing.
“I do wish we could play out this little fantasy,” he says, catching his breath. “How do you think he wins me over?” He raises the glass and gives the alcohol another swirl. “Perhaps with plenty of this?”
I ignore the questions and the undercurrent of malice. “What happens when his father doesn’t show up?”
“What happens when your mother doesn’t actually sneak over to Adele’s? The scene resets and the scenario plays itself out again.”
“Over and over? One endless loop?”
“Eventually, she, and he, will get bored and conjure up something new.” He gives me a side-eye. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I came barging in, but I highly approve of this G-rated fantasy.” Max places a hand on his chest. “Does a father’s heart good.”
Over in the kitchen, Henry glances up as if he knows what we’re talking about. He gives me a wink, one that’s anything but rated-G, and my cheeks flame in response.
“Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Max adds, mostly to himself.
“Pansy,” Henry calls. “Do you want to show your father the videos we made of the renovations? They’re on my phone.” He nods to the kitchen’s built-in desk and the phones that sit on their chargers. Not Enclave-issued phones, and certainly not our burner phones.
I give him a numb nod. My feet are moving me across the room before I realize what I’m doing. Max said things could get sticky, and it feels that way. I’m being pulled forward, caught in a riptide. Henry wants me to show my father the videos, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
My fingers know Henry’s passcode because, of course, he’s trusted me with it. Max comes to stand next to me, and we scroll through the videos. They are not of some dream renovation.
No, these are videos of the showcase home, ones Henry must have filmed while I slept. A thin wire of tension mars Henry’s normally calm and measured narration as the space transforms around us. He knows something’s wrong, knows he’s losing his grasp on reality, but is powerless to stop it.
I look to Max, perplexed. “What does this mean?”
“It means our boy is still in there.” He places a gentle, if tentative, hand on my shoulder. I don’t flinch. “And it means that you can bring him back.”
Chapter 64
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Mortimer commits the cardinal sin of letting Botten’s call roll to voicemail. More four-letter words, but these are desperate rather than delicious. He stares at the phone, cradling it cautiously in his palm like a man who has just realized he’s clutching a live hand grenade.
“What the hell are we going to tell him?” he says.
“I don’t know. Sounds like a problem for the response team lead.” Gwyneth presses a finger against her lips and tilts her head in mock thought. “Oh, wait. That’s you.”
“Always a team player, aren’t we, Gwennie.” He nods toward the windows and the front yard beyond. “Can you at least help with that before the neighbors wake up?”
Ophelia peers through the sheer curtains. Yes, Jack is continuing his increasingly frantic search, going as far as to wander down the center of the street, umbrella outstretched like it’s a Geiger counter.
A wash of pity melts the ice from her presumptive sister-in-law’s expression. She doesn’t bother with a nod. Instead, she heads out the door and down the street, the clip-clop, clip-clop of her heels loud in the early morning.
Maybe it’s her medical training, but Gwyneth murmurs words that have Jack reeling in his umbrella, turning around, heading back for the house. Ophelia is too far away to hear either of them, but the closer they come, the more pure outrage rolls off Jack.
He charges into the house, Gwyneth trailing him, the kitten heels no match for his sneakers and the long stride of a former track star. He barrels into Mort, eyes burning behind those horn-rimmed glasses.
“What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On.” His voice is deadly low, and each word is punctuated with a poke to the chest.
