“I do?” His vulnerability catches me off guard, although it’s a welcome change from his self-assuredness.
“Yes.” He smiles, revealing a crooked tooth I didn’t notice before beneath his cocky grins. Somehow, that imperfection puts me more at ease. “Word of Saint Bonnelyn and her flirty sidekick have gotten ’round.”
“You think Blanche is my sidekick?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Oh, is that her name? I only cared ’bout finding out yours.”
The back of my neck prickles with heat. Non-Roy nudges my chin up. Hotter. “Would you like to know my name?” he asks, his voice teasing.
I want to say no. He’s Non-Roy. Not someone with a real name. Not someone who could or should go beyond the boy with that hungry look in his eye. My body betrays me. I nod again, and a burn creeps into my cheeks, no doubt turning my skin red. I study a piece of lint on my pantsuit.
“Henry,” he says.
The sound of Henry pulls my attention back to Non-Roy in a heartbeat. “That was my daddy’s name.”
He smiles, showing that perfect, imperfect tooth. “Did you know it means ‘ruler of the home’?”
“No,” I whisper. I think of my daddy and how providing for us was all he focused on.
“I’d make a great king,” Henry says, his confidence seeming playful instead of arrogant.
“Why is that?”
“Well, there’re my dashing good looks. But I’m also fair and honest and swell. Maybe you’ll give me the chance to show you.”
I take a deep breath, finding it hard to meet his eyes. Finally, I do, and even in the darkness, they sparkle. “Maybe.”
*
From our hiding spot beneath the table, we wait, left with only questions and prayers.
A door is opened and closed, and I can’t help inching closer to Henry. My head cocks when I think I hear my name. But I can’t be sure. I ain’t ’bout to check, to answer. Henry holds a finger to his mouth—as if I need a reminder not to give us away.
Eventually, all is quiet. I let out a breath, even lightly chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, but the rapid beating of my heart continues long after. Henry’s gaze is equally unsettling.
Though he unravels my unease as the night lingers on, as we fill it with soft-voiced questions, responses, and muted laughter, ’specially ’bout how he lost all his clothes in a poker game.
I fall asleep on the hard floor, tiredness and the unknown state of Doc’s keeping me here. When I wake, my breath catches in my lungs, stays there. My back is pressed against Henry’s hard chest; his arm is slung carelessly over me. With a hand pressed to my forehead, I curse myself for being here with him, like this. I untangle from his arm and practically dive out from under the table, throwing caution to the wind.
Standing in the quiet back room of Doc’s, I rub my face, a flurry of unknowns hitting me at once—ones ’bout the raid and what this means for Doc’s, ’bout Blanche and if she’s safe, ’bout Roy and if … if it’s truly possible I let another boy capture my attention all night long. And why? ’Cause he put himself at risk for me? ’Cause he looked at me in a way that made me feel wanted? In a way that boys only ever gawk at Blanche? In a way that Roy hasn’t yet?
A sliver of Henry shows beyond the curtain, and I groan, knowing the answer to all those questions is a pathetic yes.
Busying myself, I study the back room, the door into the main room, the office, the sink, the cabinets, the closet where Mary hid. I tiptoe toward it, whispering her name. Laughter whips my attention toward the exit. The door is flung open.
“There you are!” Mary comes in from the main room, her voice loud. Raymond is on her heels.
Guiltily, instinctively, protectively—I don’t know which—I glance at my hiding spot, at the blue of Henry’s shirt, slightly visible. I step to my left, blocking Mary’s and Raymond’s views of him, and paw at my sleep-ridden hair.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, confused by their lightheartedness.
Mary waves a hand. “Yup.”
“The raid?” I ask.
“Never happened,” she says flippantly.
I raise a brow.
“False alarm. Buck’s brother came by, said how he heard talk of the police. One of the patrons overheard and started yapping.” She sounds exasperated by the end of her explanation.
“Damn drunk started a stampede,” Raymond adds. “Caused quite the scene out on Elm Street, but nothin’ came of it. Thank God.”
“Where’s Blanche?” I ask, my mind still trying to catch up.
“She went back to bed,” Raymond says with a smooth smile.
Typical.
“So everything is fine?”
“Eh,” Mary says, “my uncle wants to shut down for a few nights, to be sure. Timing is good, though. We need to make that alcohol run. So get yourself ready.”
My stomach grows hot. I knew this day was coming.
“Mary…” Raymond says, a warning in his voice.
“What?”
He talks more softly, as if that helps, with me standing only a few feet away. “Your uncle said not to involve Bonnelyn.”
She rolls her eyes, and part of me wonders why Dr. Peterson said this. Before, he was happy to have me make the run.
“Saint Bonnelyn will be fine,” Mary says.
“But he said—”
“She’ll be fine,” Mary says, her voice stern. Raymond opens his mouth again and she cuts him off. “We need her.”
“Don’t you think Blanche would be better at it?” I suggest.
Mary shakes her head sharply. “No. We need your virginal look, as not to attract attention. Even with this shorter bob of yours. But hey, if you’re going to look like a flapper, perhaps you should start acting like one.” She steps closer, pats my cheek. “So we’re good here, right?”
“Mary, I—”
Behind me, there’s rustling.
Henry.
“I can do it,” I say urgently, even as I regret the words. I walk toward them, coaxing ’em out of the back room. “When do we leave?”
“Not we,” Mary corrects. “You and Buck are going. Tonight.”
“Buck?”
We enter the main room, my eyes widening. Chairs are overturned; glass covers the floor; tables lie on their sides.
Mary doesn’t look pleased, with the room, with me, with anything. “Is there a problem, Bonnelyn?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Good. I already got enough on my plate. This is going to take all day to clean up.”
Raymond kicks a bottle. “First, food. Want to come?” he asks me.
“Um, thanks, but I should get home and face my ma.”
Mary shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
With each step toward the exit, my mind races and my mouth becomes drier. All I can think ’bout is Henry under that table and how I’m going to get him out unnoticed.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, slapping my hands against my legs. “I … forgot something.”
I fidget, but Mary and Raymond don’t seem to notice. Mary acknowledges me, barely, and is more than satisfied to keep on going without me.
The door closes behind them and I retrace my steps to the back room, coming to an instant stop. Henry is sitting on the table, legs swinging.