I head through the mudroom door, closing it behind me. My boots clack against the wooden boards, and then mush down overgrown grass.
“I apologize,” Henry says once I reach him. “I know you wanted me to stay close, but I did not want your mother to find me.”
“Yeah, good thinking,” I admit. I check the porch and kitchen windows over my shoulder, but Mom isn’t watching me. “Okay, let’s go.”
*
The night is thick and warm with the day’s fading heat. There are no stars, no moon, just heavy black clouds that block out their light. The bonfire is already raging. My classmates dance to the music pulsating out of Brian’s parents’ outdoor surround system. They undulate in front of the fire like pagan worshippers, red Solo cups sloshing beer onto the grass. I know from Meredith’s text that our school won the game 59–0, and that most of the people here were already drunk before they came, passing water bottles filled with vodka between them in the stands.
Henry pulls back at the sight of them all. I slide my palm across his, interlacing our fingers. He looks down at my hand as if it is a magical thing, as if he’s afraid to look away and find it was never real to begin with.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You’re going to be fine. Just let me do the talking.”
His gaze meets mine. The orange light of the flames is just close enough to spark against his eyes, like gemstones. “In my time,” he says quietly, “we would not hold hands in public like this unless we were engaged.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable?”
He shakes his head, a small smile tilting his lips. “Quite the contrary.”
“Well, then,” I say, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“Of course not,” he replies. “We will be in enough trouble as it is if anyone discovers what we’ve done without adding this to our list of transgressions.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I don’t know how he managed to keep Mom from seeing him. It was a close call, too close for comfort. I may be forced to tell her whether I want to or not, but that’s for future Winter to worry about. Present Winter has managed to sneak a boy out of her room for the night, keeping her mother oblivious, and therefore, safe.
Meredith is surrounded by boys, although Johnny the wide receiver is nowhere to be found. None of the football players are. They must still be showering or performing Maori war dances in the locker room, or whatever it is football players do after winning a big game. She spots us and raises her cup. “Win! You made it!”
She starts toward us, and I pull Henry back.
“Okay, here’s the thing about Meredith,” I quickly whisper. “She’s probably going to come across as rude by your time’s standards—heck, she can be rude by my time’s standards, but she means well, so—”
“Winter,” he says, stopping me, and I don’t know why, but my name sounds so amazing on his lips in that moment. Exotic and full and rich, like chocolate melting on his tongue. It sends electric pulses through my veins. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
Meredith lunges for me, wrapping me in a tight hug. “Win, it was amazing! You should have been there. Johnny caught three touchdown passes, and I ran onto the field after the game and he bent me back and kissed me just like in that World War Two picture you like so much.” She notices Henry and gives him a big smile. “Hi! You must be Win’s friend. I’m Meredith.”
Henry takes Meredith’s hand and turns it to kiss her knuckles. “Henry Durant,” he says. “Enchanté.”
Her eyes widen. “Whoa. You’re hot.” She leans toward me and whisper-shouts, “He’s hot, Win.”
“Oh no,” Henry says. “I’m quite comfortable, actually.”
Mer giggles. “Win says you’re visiting from out of town?”
Henry stands rigid, his hands behind his back. It’s a pose he seems accustomed to; one I imagine he’s used in countless ballrooms throughout his life. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“So, where are you from?” she asks. “Somewhere close, I hope.”
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “New York.”
Henry and Meredith both stare at me.
“He’s from New York,” I say again.
Mer scrunches up her face. “You don’t sound like you’re from New York.” Her eyes brighten, like she’s just realized something. “You’re from England, aren’t you?”
Henry glances at me, uncertain. I nod, and he replies, “Yes, from Brightonshire.”
“When did you move to New York?”
“I, uh, well … that is to say…” Henry stumbles over his response, but thankfully more cars arrive, honking as they pull into the front yard and tearing Mer’s attention away from him. Boys wearing letterman jackets lean out the windows, shouting our school’s fight song. I haven’t seen Brian anywhere yet. His parents must be out of town—that’s the only way this could be happening. I wince as one of the cars runs over his mom’s prize hydrangea bushes.
The football players have arrived.
XXIV
Henry and I fade into the background, watching, listening. For the most part, the party stays centralized around the bonfire and outdoor surround system pumping out a litany of rap music. At one point, a group of friends decide to play a drunk version of hide-and-seek, making my adrenaline spike, but they stick close to Brian’s house, never straying too far from the keg. Even the couples who disappear into the trees on the edge of Brian’s property aren’t a threat. As long as they don’t enter the wood through the threshold, they’ll stay in this world, where the only monsters they’ll have to fear are spiders, poison ivy, and their own surging hormones.
I sneak glances at Henry every few seconds. His jaw is tense and his arms are crossed over his chest—defensive to the max. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him, an eighteenth-century aristocrat surrounded by guys doing keg stands and scantily clad girls air-humping to the music, but he doesn’t complain or ask to leave. He understands the importance of us being here.
“Hey, Parish!”
Trevor finds me in the crowd and makes his way over.
I exhale. “Crap.”
“Is something the matter?” Henry asks.