Chapter 22: Chapter 22

I SIP coffee at our little table, trying to be quiet and not wake Carly, who’s sleeping in her little curtained-off area with Smuckers.

“It never would’ve lasted anyway,” I whisper.

Across the room, Buddy the parrot jerks his head, watches me with a shiny black eye.

I drop my head into my hands. Henry wanted to talk. What would he have said? But it doesn’t matter.

Henry builds bridges from metal and stone, but trust is harder to build. Trust means crossing an invisible bridge made out of something you believe in. He wasn’t ready to do that. Not for me. And why should he?

Why should he believe me when I said I’d make things right? But god, it felt good when he seemed to.

It felt like the world was new.

Nice fairy tale while it lasted. But he’s just like everyone else. And maybe it was too much to ask.

Not like we could ever have a real relationship. He’d find out I’m Vonda and hate me. And if he let it slip, that would endanger Carly. Mom would find her.

I’ll give him back his stupid company and that’s it. That’s all it ever could have been.

Carly comes out with her iPad, Smuckers at her heels.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I chide.

“I sort of was.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says.

“What?” I press.

Her gaze goes to the black screen.

I grab it and tap it to wake it up and there’s Henry, looking dazzling in a tuxedo. A beautiful woman on his arm. In another shot he’s got her down in a dip, and they’re both laughing.

I swallow. “What is this? Is this last night?” I look at the date. Yes. Last night.

Carly’s behind me. “It means nothing. Rich guys have to go to a lot of those things,” she says. “It’s part of being rich.”

I scrub my face, telling myself it’s good. I told him to screw off in every way possible.

“I don’t know how to feel about you knowing so much about the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It’s a useless thing to study.” I shut the thing off, but the image of Henry dancing with a gorgeous redhead is burned into my mind.

“That girl got a dance,” Carly points out unhelpfully. “You got a company.”

“Is it stupid-amount-of-candy-in-ice-cream time yet?” I ask.

She grins. “For breakfast? Don’t bluff, I might take you up on it.”

I get up and start her eggs. “Tonight.”

On the way out, we discover the box in the lobby, addressed to me. It’s the size of a coffee mug, but perfectly square, wrapped in Locke-blue paper.

“Uh,” I say, shoving my key into the lock.

“Aren’t you going to open it? Don’t you want to see?”

“I already know what’s in it. It’s whatever rich guys think they can use to buy anything and anyone. I don’t want it.”

“Maybe it’s something nice.”

“I don’t want it.”

She grabs it. “Can I open it?” She shakes it. “Light as air.”

“You need to toss that package.”

“Without even looking inside?”

“Without even looking inside,” I say, heading out.

Rich jackass, rich jackass, rich jackass, I tell myself, all the way to Carly’s school. But it doesn’t sink in. I need to get deprogrammed off Henry. There needs to be a service like that. I need to be strapped to a chair, and every time I see a picture of Henry I get shocked or doused with cold water.

But that just makes me think of that thing Henry said—If I wanted to wear my hair in a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a dominatrix to make it happen.

I smile.

I go to the makers space and of course everyone is asking where Henry is. Apparently he showed up looking for me. A few people have questions on the commission work. I give them April’s number. April has instructions that I’m on vacation. She’ll alert me to anything important.

It’s on the third day that I turn officially pathetic. We were together for more than two weeks straight and I miss seeing his face. I miss the careful way he explained every last thing about his company. His dorky mnemonic devices for memorizing everyone’s names. I miss the way we got to be finishing each other’s sentences.

I won’t see him. Can’t.

Then comes the phase of jonesing so much for him that I start making jonesing bargains. I tell myself if I don’t open the package, I might go online and look for new pictures of him, and that would be even worse. Right?

So it’s entirely preventative.

Must. Open. Package!

I go find Carly. “You can open it.”

She frowns. “You asked me to throw it away.”

“Go get it.”

She furrows her brows. “I’m sure the trash man’s hauled it off by now.”

“Yeah. Go get it.”

Carly springs up and goes behind her little curtain. She comes back and sets it on the kitchenette table between us, practically rubbing her hands.

I slide it over to her. “You do it.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She starts opening it, carefully. She was never a rip-open-the-present type. “A box,” she teases, turning the box that was inside. “A really, really nice box of tag board. I wonder why he got you a box.”

“Stop it! Stop screwing around.”

She pulls up the lid, peers in. Her grin dissolves. She looks…stunned. Or is it a look of horror? For once I can’t read my little sister’s expression.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh my god.” And then, as if that wasn’t clear enough, “Oh. My. God!”

“What?”

“Wait. Close your eyes,” she commands.

I sigh and comply.

“Now open them.” I open my eyes.

My heart skips a beat.

There on the table between us stands a tiny, beautifully carved balsawood griffin. It’s a perfect replica Brave Protector Friend, the griffin that guards our favorite building. Our adopted friend and champion.

“He’s beautiful,” Carly says.

I pick it up and inspect it, turning it around and around, admiring how he captured the bold and grippy claws. The ornate detail of the wings.

“He got somebody to make our griffin friend.”

“He made it himself,” I say. “He got up there somehow and got some photos, and he carved it. This is all Henry—this vision. The passion of it. The way he knew.”

“You’re quite the expert.”

Yeah, I think sadly.

“There’s a card.” She slides a tiny blue envelope across the table.

I take it and open it.

I should’ve trusted you. Let me fight for us.