Page 22 of Shades of Henry
“How’d Mal take that?”
“I don’t know. I took my walking papers the next day and… disappeared from his life. But he must have said something, told my sister something. Because I showed up at my parents’ house to tell them… I don’t know. I was gay. Something. And Dad was there. With his fists, I guess. Mom sat and cried and said, ‘Not another one!’”
“Oh, dear God.”
Henry shrugged and wiped his face on his shirt again. “But you saw that. I lived.” He wasn’t a complete pussy.
“I’m not so sure,” Lance said with a little laugh. “When was the last time you took a day off?”
Henry snorted, sputtered tears, and tried to get his shit together. “Jesus, Lance, when was the last time Iworked?”
“You call how you spent your day not working? You did nothing but run errands for twelve hours—and trust me, if you weren’t here, John would have tapped another porn kid and paid him a fair wage, just like he’s paying you.”
Henry shook his head again and tried to still his breathing. “Just… just enough. Is there something on television? ’Cause God, it’s been a—”
Lance stood up and moved over to Henry’s side of the couch. “Scoot over,” he murmured.
Henry rolled to his side wordlessly, giving Lance enough room to lie down. Lance did, his body warm and smelling spicy and a little sweaty, but safe. Henry laid his head on Lance’s arm and said, “Why are we doing this?”
“C’mon, Henry. Haven’t you ever needed a hug?”
“Yeah,” Henry whispered, laying his cheek against Lance’s chest. “Yeah.”
The apartment was so quiet, so peaceful, and for this moment, Henry was too weary to think of being anywhere else.
It’s Not What It Looks Like
LANCE DIDN’Tget many opportunities to sleep in—and that morning was no exception. He remembered Henry rolling off the couch, and then that subtle relaxation that came when the other body with you gave you some space.
There was a blanket, though, Lance thought, snuggling. And someone had taken his cargo shorts off, leaving him in his boxers and T-shirt. He snuggled deeper into the blankets as the morning apartment ritual started, with coffee and banter and “Hey, do we have any bacon, I might try keto.” He dimly remembered Henry asking if he could help with the shorts.
“Sure, but don’t go,” Lance had mumbled, and Henry had crawled in next to him, on the outside this time, and they’d slept, cuddled, safe.
A persistent buzzing interrupted Lance’s rosy glow, and someone—Cotton?—poked his arm. “Lance, man, wake up. Your phone’s buzzing.”
“What time is it?” he mumbled.
“Almost eight. You said you wanted the shower after Henry, remember?”
Oh yeah. Shit. Lance sat up and checked his phone, unsurprised when he saw six texts from Reg, asking if he was up yet.
Gotta shower. Will be out in five.
Okay. We’re almost there.
Lance took that to mean “Hurry!” and grabbed his shorts and sneakers and headed to get his stuff from the bedroom.
“Where’s Henry?” he called before ducking in to start the shower.
“Taking out the trash. Every morning. Like clockwork!” Cotton replied, and Lance nodded before jumping in.
Unless there was something special going on, like there had been the day before, Henry woke up at eight, took out the trash, did basic chores around the house, and then buzzed John and Dex to see what they needed him to do. Bobby had told Reg they might need someone to work construction a couple of days a week starting next week, but Henry really had been filling in his time—driving people around, buying supplies, doing odd jobs at the set. Not while there were models, of course, but Henry had gone in and fixed the plumbing in the girls’ shower and on more than one occasion repaired furniture broken in the scene rooms. In general, he’d made himself useful, Johnnies own little handyman, guy Friday to the hormonally insane in the flophouse.
None of which could explain the swelling in Lance’s chest as he remembered the night before.
Vulnerability didn’t come easily to Henry Worrall. Watching him come undone as he’d told that painful story…. Lance’s throat ached thinking about it. Henry had limitations—that was obvious. He didn’t roll his eyes anymore when the guys talked about scenes or boyfriends or scoring a hookup—but that sense of solid Midwestern farm-boy disapproval was never far from the surface.
But he kept his mouth shut about it, and Lance could respect that. Lance got the sense Henry was trying to reserve judgment about things he didn’t understand—and even when he did understand, to not be like his father about things that weren’t necessarily in his life experience.
