Page 50 of XOXO

Well, I’ll be here with my bowl of popcorn.

Jealous. And thanks.

“You’re smiling,” Mom said when she sat back down. “Who were you texting?”

“Henners. That’s Henry’s nickname.”

“Cute. I like it.” She studied me. “Did you want to go meet—”

“Nope, I’m happy right where I am.”

20

HENRY

I was heading to my parents’for dinner, but I woke up clammy and with a killer headache, and not from partying last night. I’d made an appearance in Flash’s room but retired early, not really feeling it. In fact, everything felt out of sorts lately. I wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with Lark coming back into my life and the idea that I couldn’t be honest about who I really was with anyone but him.

And that was something I had come to crave. Texting him, seeing him, being able to touch him even though I didn’t know how long it would last. Lark would likely tire of all the secrecy soon enough, and I couldn’t blame him.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I told Spencer on my way out the door. After getting in my SUV, the same one I’d owned since my sixteenth birthday despite my parents’ advice to trade it in for a shiny new one, I drove to my parents’ house in Flemington, which was about forty minutes away.

I pulled up to the gated community and punched in the code.

My parents weren’t at my game yesterday because it was away. I knew that my parents and teammates saw me as a star quarterback in tip-top shape and with few worries, but nothing could’ve been further from the truth. Lark was wrong about one thing during our conversation last night: if he were in the stands, I would feel supported in a different way. The kind of way I needed right then.

I parked in the driveway, walked up to the front door, and let myself inside.

“We’re in here, honey,” Mom said from the kitchen. I walked through the house, looking at it from Lark’s perspective. The ornate decorations, the expensive paintings and furniture. It was all I knew, but now it felt almost like overkill. Why did they need all this stuff anyway? Mom hosted plenty of dinner parties and charity events here, so that was one explanation.

I rounded the corner to find Mom standing at the kitchen island making a salad and Dad sitting on a stool with paperwork in front of him. Always working. They were known as a real-estate powerhouse and had hoped I’d take to the industry like they had. But I’d always been interested in math and science, so engineering seemed the right path.

I felt underdressed in my jeans and Sentinels sweatshirt. Mom wore heels with her tailored pants and blouse, and Dad looked professional in his slacks and button-down shirt. Professional, even in their own home. But that was them, ready for the day. I realized right then that I’d rarely seen my parents in comfortable clothing unless it was bedtime or Dad was heading to the gym.

Dad smiled at me as I walked around the island to kiss Mom on the cheek. They were never big huggers, but I could’ve used one right then. In fact, now I questioned if that was why I was so addicted to spending time with Lark. He provided me with the kind of touch I craved from people. But then, if that were true, I would’ve been fine with affection from women too.

“Can you set the table?” Mom asked as she checked on the roast in the oven.

“Sure thing.” I moved toward the cupboard—and the room started spinning. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I’d taken one more aspirin before I left.

“Feeling okay?” Mom asked in a worried tone. She likely wouldn’t admit it in front of Dad, but my childhood illness had traumatized her too. Don’t get me wrong, my parents were there for me, and some nights I could see the fear in my dad’s eyes too, but they were action-oriented people, and asking for the best care and top doctors was how they thrived.

Dad glanced up from his paperwork as the dizzy spell broke, and I started gathering the plates.

“Just a headache,” I replied, setting the dishes on the table.

“Up late last night?” Dad asked with a knowing gleam in his eye.

“Something like that.” It wasn’t true, but it was as if he was living vicariously through me, so I’d continue to play the part.

I didn’t want to tell them how many nights I lay awake, afraid that every little sniffle or stomachache was a sign that my cancer was returning. Even if it wasn’t logical after this long, it was still possible, and that was enough to keep me on my toes.

Once we sat down and began loading our plates with food, Dad said, “Tough loss yesterday.” He’d probably watched the game on the local channel.

“Yeah, that dropped pass in the end zone killed us in the fourth quarter.” Flash had beaten himself up about it too. But if I was being honest, my throw hadn’t been perfect, and I told him that after the game. We were a team, and I didn’t want anyone to be haunted by mistakes, not even me.

But right on cue, Dad brought it up. “Your throw was a bit high.”

“It was,” I admitted.

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