Daydream: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 3)
Chapter 8

THERE’S A LARGE MAN EATING my cookies again.

“You know I’ll just make them for you if you ask me to,” I tell Henry as I approach him next to the snack table in Enchanted. Inayah has her first local author event and I promised to bake some treats and help set up while she serves customers in the store downstairs. I used to do it for The Next Chapter sometimes, so I didn’t mind offering. “You don’t need to sneak in here and steal them.”

“I don’t have your number, otherwise I would have,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. “Why don’t I have your number?”

“I don’t know why you don’t have my number. Why don’t I have your number?”

“Because you haven’t asked for it. Why haven’t you asked for it?” There’s something extra cheerful about him today, playful really.

I cross my arms as he smirks up at me from his seat. “Why haven’t you gone out of your way to give it to me?”

“Excellent question.” His finger hooks through the loop of my jeans, pulling me a few steps closer so I’m standing between his legs. He’s not even touching me and I feel flustered. Henry carefully pinches the top of my cell phone peeking from my cardigan pocket and pulls it up. “What’s your passcode?”

I pluck it from his hands, swiping up when the face ID unlocks. “I’m not telling you my passcode.”

I look anywhere but him as he taps away on the screen. “That’s wise. I’d definitely do something you don’t approve of.”

When I hear his cell phone start to vibrate, I finally look at him again. “Are you here to buy more leadership books?”

He looks at me like I’ve just asked him the wildest question. “No, I was looking for you. I saw you were here on your story.”

The idea of Henry Turner looking at my page that is mostly just unhinged book reviews makes me feel perceived in a way I’ve never felt before. Changing the subject quickly, I say, “You’re in a good mood today. Is that what my baking does to you or…?” He locks the screen and pushes the phone back into my pocket.

“I’d love to say it’s just your food, but it’s actually because Thornton loved my essay.” Henry leans back in his chair to look up at me. “Well, love is extreme. I’m not sure he’s capable of an emotion that strong. I wasn’t expecting anything back so quickly, but I think maybe Coach made an inquiry about how I was doing. Anyway, he liked it. I came by to say thank you for your help and bring you something.”

He reaches beneath his chair and produces a bouquet of daisies.

“Oh my goodness.”

Standing from his seat, he tilts it in my direction, gesturing for me to take it, which I do. Henry pushes his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “I didn’t know what you like. Anastasia said sunflowers and Aurora said peonies, but I remembered you have a pink dress with tiny daisies on it so I thought they might be your favorite.” I might start crying. He senses it. “You’re giving me the look. Please don’t start crying. I deal with crying women so much more than I ever expected to and I’m still never sure how to react.”

“You’re the first person to ever buy me flowers, Henry,” I admit reluctantly. “They’re happy nearly-tears. I promise.”

He sits in his chair again, eyebrows pinched. “I’m sorry.”

I lift my nose from the bouquet. “What for?”

“For being the first person to buy you flowers.”

“That’s okay… Hey, what did we say about apologizing unnecessarily?” He pins me with a look that suggests I shouldn’t use his own words against him. It really is okay. Will thought they were pointless because they die. Which I suppose they are, really, but I still have a weird weightless feeling in my stomach. “And you were right, daisies are my favorite.”

“It isn’t okay, but I’m glad you like them.”

I’ve somehow managed to make the sweetest gesture awkward by revealing that I was in a relationship with someone who clearly wasn’t invested. Is that harsh? To assume someone isn’t invested just because they don’t take you on dates or buy you flowers? Maybe.

“I really like them. And I’m proud of you for getting on Thornton’s good side.”

“For now. He’s already given the next assignment.”

I can’t help but laugh at the unimpressed expression decorating his face. “You look enthralled already.” He huffs and sits back in his chair, reaching across to pull the one next to him closer, gesturing for me to sit. “Do you want me to help you again? No flowers required if you pass.”

I take a seat, resting the bouquet between my knees while he considers my offer. “Do you have the time?”

The honest answer is no, probably not, but I’m not going to tell him that. Especially since he’s maybe the first person to ever ask me if I have the time. Everyone else just assumes; my nana used to say it was a tale as old as time. She understood because she was also the oldest girl. She knew what it was like to be labeled the helpful one. The reliable one. The third parent. It’s the reason she was the only person who put Grayson in his place for not helping more.

This goes above that. Henry’s my friend and I do want to help him; I just need to reshuffle some of my other commitments. He looks so unabashedly happy right now. During the time we’ve spent together recently, I haven’t seen him act like that before. It might be my favorite. “Of course I have the time to help you. When do you want to start?”

“My instincts are telling me to put it off until the very last minute, but judging by that very judgmental look on your face right now that is not the right thing to do.”

“I do not have a judgmental look on my face. I am judgment-free, always.”

“If you say so. Tonight?”

“Um—”

“You are allowed to say no, Halle,” Henry insists. “You do not need to change your plans if you’re busy.”

“It’s not that. I just need to bake a cake. One of the girls I work with has a birthday tomorrow and she forgot to take a vacation day. I normally work tonight but they convinced me to switch to tomorrow so we could have a little birthday party in the break room. I said I’d bake the cake.”

Behind Henry, customers for the event start to appear from the staircase. I recognize them from book club. Whatever they think about Henry and me sitting close together talking, they don’t say anything as they take a seat in the front row and give me a small wave.

“So tonight is a pass and you’re working tomorrow. What about Saturday?”

“Surely the captain of the hockey team has something better to do on a Saturday night than study?” I tease. I know their first game of the season isn’t until next week, so this is his last weekend of sort-of-but-also-not-really freedom.

“I’m sure there will be something loud and busy happening. It’ll happen whether I’m there or not. I honestly kind of hate the parties sometimes. It takes me a long time to recover from all the noise and socializing.”

“Saturday it is then. Do you want to come to my place? It’ll be quiet and I promise I won’t make you do a keg stand. You don’t even need to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“I like talking to you more than I like talking to almost anyone. Yes, that’d be good. I’ll text you when I’m done at the gym? I can pick up dinner.”

Far too many seconds pass without me saying anything. More people begin to filter in and take their seat and I’m almost certain my cheeks are bright pink. I offer Henry a nod, swallowing hard. “Sounds good. I think I should probably greet people now instead of giving you all my attention. Do you want to stay and watch the panel? It’s a very interesting book about a serial killer.”

“Tempting, but you’re the only person I like listening to talk about books. And I have hockey practice in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh my God, go!” I squeak. “You can’t be late!”

He stands slowly, clearly in no rush. “Yes, Captain. Talk to you later.”

I whisper a “bye” as I watch him steal one final cookie and stroll away just as Aurora appears at the top of the stairs with her friends Emilia and Poppy. I watch her eyes narrow as she watches him walk past her, telling me she didn’t know he was going to be here. When her eyes leave him and land on me, immediately spotting the flowers still in my hands, her face breaks into the biggest smile.

I have a feeling she isn’t going to want to talk about serial killers today.

I’M LOSING MY THIRD FIGHT with eggshell fragments in my bowl when my cell phone lights up on the counter. Henry’s face stares back at me, because when he added his number he also took a selfie and changed my background. Wiping my hands on my apron, I swipe at the notification to open it.

HENRY TURNER

Ate too many cookies and nearly threw up on the ice.

Offended that you’re blaming my baking.

Have you considered you might just be out of shape?

No. I can show you if you like.

I’m good. I’ll take your word for it.

How’s your cake?

Being victimized by eggshells but otherwise okay so far.

Want help?

Do you know how to make a cake?

I don’t know how to do a lot of things.

Doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.

That’s the most confident nonanswer ever.

Are you not tired from hockey?

Exhausted. What’s your address?

I stare at my screen for at least forty-five seconds before typing out my address for him. As soon as I hit send I immediately start to panic, scanning the chaos I’ve created in the kitchen and mentally recapping the mess in the rest of the house. It was fine when he was coming over in two days because I had two days to make this place look presentable, and now I have, what? Fifteen minutes at most?

It’s not a total disaster, but I’m not confident there isn’t a bra or pair of panties somewhere they shouldn’t be. It takes me seven minutes to sprint around the house scanning for stray items, and a further four to clear up the random Tupperware littering my counters. It would have taken me less, but Joy followed me into every single room.

I don’t blame her; she’s probably never seen me move so quickly. When Henry knocks on the door a minute later, I’m still wondering if I’ve done enough. He looks me up and down lazily as I pull the door open. “You’re very sweaty,” is the only thing he says.

I want to tell him it’s because I’ve been running around my house like a woman possessed, trying to ensure he isn’t going to be hit by an errant piece of lace when he walks into a room while also trying not to fall over a cat, but I don’t.

“The kitchen is hot with the oven on,” I say. “Come in.”

I notice the sketchbook tucked under his arm before I notice the gray sweatpants, and for that, I feel like I deserve some sort of praise. I follow him through the doorway and he takes a seat at the breakfast bar opposite where I’ve set out all of the ingredients. Joy looks up from her bed in the kitchen and immediately makes a beeline for Henry. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” I ask, instantly relieved when he shakes his head. “Good, because she loves affection.”

She looks so tiny when he picks her up and she rests her head against his chest. I watch as he takes in the room, eyes scanning shelves and surfaces as he strokes her. “I’m glad I knew your grandmother lived here before you, otherwise I’d be seriously questioning your interior design skills,” he says casually, turning his attention back to me.

“Oh.”

I don’t mean to say it out loud, but his tone just caught me off guard. I’ve always known the house is dated, so it shouldn’t be a surprise, but I guess I’m not used to having new visitors. My mom brings it up every time she visits, but I’m reluctant to erase Nana’s choices.

“That was rude,” Henry says quickly, rubbing the palm of his hand not cradling Joy against his jaw. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s totally fine,” I say instantly, slipping my apron back over my head, double wrapping it around my waist and tying it extra tight—like somehow that’ll help squeeze out the knot in my stomach at the thought of this house not feeling like hers anymore. “You’re right. I should definitely decorate.”

“You don’t have to tell me it’s fine, Halle.” He stands and walks around to my side of the counter, reaching for the bow tied at my side and tugging the loose end until it unravels and the apron strings fall. “I try really hard not to say things I shouldn’t, but sometimes, like when I’m tired, it’s harder to keep up with thinking about what I should say, not what my brain automatically wants to come out with.”

The apron molds to me as he pulls the strings to the base of my spine, not too loose and not too tight, and ties it into a bow. “You don’t have to filter yourself for me. I know you’re not being mean. You just say what you think.”

“It can be exhausting,” he admits, returning to the spot in front of me. “But so is seeing the look on… my friends’ face when my words hurt them.”

“They didn’t hurt me, I just… you are right about it. It’s kind of a weird long-winded situation.”

He returns to his seat and Joy tries to climb onto his shoulder. “Give me the speedy version.”

I start mixing the ingredients again, concentrating on my hands. “Hmm. Speedy version, okay. It was my dream to go to college in New York. Senior year of high school, Nana had a fall, which scared the shit out of Mom. Nana was old and stubborn, wouldn’t move closer or accept hired support. Mom was terrified every day, and I wanted to help, so I offered to move in with Nana to look after her and go to UCMH. I had already applied anyway as a safety choice. I got in. Nana bought Joy”—I nod toward the cat asleep on him, then look back at my hands—“to celebrate us being roomies and keep her company until I moved in. She got really sick and died right before I graduated high school.”

“That’s sad, Halle. Why didn’t you go to New York if it was your dream?”

I shrug, wondering how I can avoid mentioning that there was a part of me that wanted to stay closer to Will. Henry doesn’t like it when I bring up Will, which is fair because neither do I. I think it would be weird and complicated to try to explain how grief made me rely on him emotionally more than I ever had before.

“I was grieving and didn’t have it in me to change my plans again. My mom inherited this house and said I could still live here and redecorate it however I want. At first I was hurting too much from to grief to want to change anything, and as time has moved on, I don’t really have the time or the resources to redecorate a house by myself. There are a few things I definitely would change, but I kind of like living among all her weird mismatched things. Makes it feel like she’s still here.”

“I’m sorry I was rude,” he says. “And I wish you didn’t have to put everyone before yourself. If you ever decide you want to change those few things, I’ll help you. I’m very good at painting.”

“I don’t think you were rude… I don’t put everyone before myself. She was probably my best friend. Living with her would have been fun, although at the time I did worry about her wanting to go to frat parties. Would have absolutely annihilated everyone at beer pong, I bet. I just miss her, Henry. I’m not sad because of what you said. Promise.”

He nods and is quiet for a little while. The silence of the kitchen feels peaceful, not awkward, and I almost jump when he talks again. “Do you have an apron for me?”

The idea of watching Henry putter around my kitchen in a floral apron edged with frills immediately replaces all other thoughts in my head. “On the back of the door. And wash your hands, please.”

The corners of his mouth tug up. “Yes, Cap.”

He kicks his sneakers off and places them neatly next to the back door before returning Joy to her cat bed. After he’s washed his hands, he grabs the apron. I divert my attention from watching him to scanning the recipe book in front of me. My nana’s familiar cursive sweeps from left to right, and out of all the things in this house, this old, falling-apart recipe book is my favorite.

“I think it’s only fair I tell you I’ve never baked anything before,” Henry says, leaning against the counter beside me. “But I’m confident that my ability to be good at most things will also apply here.”

“Most things? What are you bad at?”

“I’m not telling you that,” he says instantly. “Mainly because I can’t think of anything. I was trying to be humble.”

“I appreciate the honesty, but I don’t think we can mess this up. We just need to stick to the rules and follow the recipe and all should be well.”

He scoops some buttercream I’ve mixed with his thumb, licking it off slowly. “Following rules might be on the list of things I’m not great at.”

“Well, you’re lucky I’m a habitual rule keeper.”

He sighs, but he’s smiling at me. I’m smiling back, trying not to start laughing, and I don’t even know why. “Weird use of the word lucky.”