Kiss and Cry

I didn’t bother with the hood of my jacket, weirdly enjoying the wet. The streetlights gleamed in puddles between dark, locked-up cafes. A Mini zoomed by on the narrow road, tires sending up splashes before the muffled silence settled in again.

I stopped for a while in front of a clock shop with an intricate Christmas-themed display in the window. The swaying chimes, spinning wheels, and cuckoo clocks mesmerized me, keeping the grief at bay. I felt strangely empty and light-headed.

It was hard to imagine that I’d never see Mr. Webber again. He’d never give me the cocked brow that spoke volumes. He’d never offer a hard-won smile after I worked my butt off and did everything he asked without complaining for once. He’d never again pat my knee in congratulations or condolence in the Kiss and Cry.

Why hadn’t I called him again this morning? I was struck violently with the need to know exactly when he’d died and what I’d been doing, and if I’d had time to call and hear his gravelly, sardonic voice one last time.

I didn’t think anything of the footsteps behind me until I turned down an even narrower side street a block from the bright windows of the hotel. My Chucks squelched as I headed down the steeper road, not ready to leave the shadows. When the footsteps followed, I turned just in case I was being a dumbass and was about to get mugged or something.

Henry stopped about fifteen feet back. On the higher ground of the sloping alley, he looked tall. I could just make out his typical serious expression, though for once he wasn’t frowning. His eyes looked soft with concern even at a distance, and my heart felt like it expanded even as my breath caught.

I realized it wasn’t true that I wanted to be alone.

My gratitude in seeing him standing there—soaking wet in the miserable December rain, not intruding but watching over me—was overwhelming.

I wanted Henry. No one else. His steady presence reassured me in a way I didn’t think anyone else could. That was actually a scary thought, and I almost bolted into the mess of narrow old streets.

Heart thumping, I closed the distance between us. I was still downhill, and it reminded me of the times when he stood atop the podium and I was a step below at silver, though it had been a couple of seasons since he’d beaten me.

He’d always seemed so unknowable—a robot, an alien, ha ha. He still watched me silently, rain dripping down his nose.

On my tiptoes, I slowly pressed a kiss to Henry’s rain-damp cheek.

After lowering my heels, I rested my temple featherlight against the side of his jaw, arms hanging at my sides.

I trembled—did Henry too? Holding my breath, I longed for more. More warmth than his ragged exhalations tickling my left ear. More contact. More skin. More, more, more.

What was I doing? Why was he letting me? This wasn’t—we weren’t supposed to be…

What?

For a horrible moment, I thought he’d shove me away or even just step back, and it hurt. I wanted to beg him to just let me…what? I wasn’t even sure.

Let me in.

Since when did I want that? What did that even mean? This was all getting too big, too out of control. It didn’t feel like a game at all anymore, and I guessed it hadn’t for a while.

We stood frozen with my lips a whisper from his skin. We should both run. I should never have gone to train in Toronto, even if Mr. Webber—

The sob burst free. I had to run, but hot tears choked me, my throat closing. And Henry let me in, enveloping me in his arms, my face buried in his throat as I cried.

Which didn’t really do it justice. I was weeping, and I was so relieved my mom wasn’t there ordering me to pull myself together. I reached around his waist and clutched him, hands squeaking on the slick rubbery material of his jacket.

Honestly, Henry had every right to tell me to get a grip already, but he only held me close. It should have been humiliating, but I was safe.

A Vespa approached up the hill with a thin, tinny hum of its engine as it passed. We stood locked together in the rain’s steady fall.

Eventually, I mumbled, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

All he said was, “I liked Mr. Webber.”

I sniffed loudly, tasting the salt of my own snotty tears. “He liked you too. He always admired your discipline and work ethic. He’d say stuff like, ‘Henry Sakaguchi isn’t complaining about an extra run-through.’ And he was right, of course. He was always right. I should have listened more. I should have—”

Henry rubbed up and down my spine slowly as I cried out the fresh burst of tears. I didn’t know how long we stood there before he guided me along the narrow streets with a gentle hand on my back as I word vomited all over him, telling stories about Mr. Webber and how I’d been such a pain in the ass sometimes.