Page 69 of If You Could See the Sun
“It probably helped that I was doing so well at school, and that I already showed interest in running the company. But I also imagine that he simply hadn’t realized there were alternative ways of effective parenting.Hisfather had been even stricter with him about his studies, and so when he got into Harvard and founded SYS and became successful—”
“The results seemed to validate the process,” I finish for him, remembering our earlier conversation.
“Exactly.”
Henry rubs his eyes, and for one bizarre moment, I think he’s crying. But then he lets his hands fall back down in his lap, the lantern light from the shops around us throwing his features into sharp relief, and the truth dawns on me, so simple I almost laugh—he’stired.
He had been lying today, when Chanel asked him if he’d slept well. Neither of us had slept at all on the train; we’d stayed up finalizing our plans, then the backup plans, and then one of us—I can’t remember who—got sidetracked and we just...talked. About school, about his brief time in England, about the games his sister used to invent when they were kids, the Shanghainese dishes his mother made him whenever he was sick. About everything and nothing all at once, laughter and half-coherent thoughts spilling out of my lips before I could stop them. I don’t think either of us had been expecting the night to go as it did.
“You can sleep now, you know,” I tell Henry.
“What?” Bemusement draws his eyebrows together, and he juts his chin out—a familiar movement I’d once mistaken for arrogance, but have come to recognize as only a trick to mask his confusion.
“I mean it—you should get some rest,” I say. “You’re obviously exhausted, and who knows when we’ll be able to sleep at the hotel?”If we can fall asleep at all, I add silently, a bolt of guilt striking through me.
Henry searches my face for a beat, his eyes narrowed. “You’re being too nice,” he says finally. “It’s suspicious.”
“I’m being practical. I need you alert and awake for the job tonight.”
Still, he hesitates. “You’re absolutely certain this is not part of some elaborate scheme to take unflattering photos of me sleeping and blackmail me with them?”
“If I wanted to do that,” I point out, “I could literally just sneak into your bedroom when I’m invisible and snap as many photos of you as I want.”
“That’s very comforting.”
But he does close his eyes, though his head remains propped up in such an uncomfortable position I offer him my shoulder as a pillow. Within only a few minutes, his breathing slows. The muscles in his body relax.
I smile and look up. Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below.
Then there’s Henry.
Henry, whose head is resting against my shoulder, the soft curls of his hair brushing my cheek, his features smooth and unguarded in sleep. And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.
If not for the kidnapping, I think to myself,today might’ve been a perfect day.
15
We reach the hotel by 10:30 p.m.
By 10:48 p.m., I’ve unpacked all my luggage and told Chanel I’ll be going over to Henry’s. She winks at me and makes a not-so-subtle remark about protection. I let her believe what she likes; besides, in the worst-case scenario, at least I’ll have a decent alibi.
By 11:00 p.m., I’ve visited both the twentieth and ninth floor, taking the stairs to double-check for any hidden security cameras and measuring precisely how long it takes to get from one place to the other.
By 11:15 p.m., I’ve sought out Henry’s room, still fully visible, and slipped through the door when no one’s around.
By 11:21 p.m., I’ve officially started panicking.
“Am I invisible yet?” I demand as I pace in front of Henry, even though I know it’s unlikely. I haven’t suffered through that telltale rush of cold yet, and if anything, I feel too hot, my skin burning, the room stuffy and suffocating despite its vast size.
“You are most decidedly not,” Henry says, crossing his legs over the plush bedside sofa, the gesture so casual I want to scream. How does he manage to maintain suchcalmin a time like this?
“What about now?”
“No.”
“Now?”
“No.”
