The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,112

idea if he’s doing it right, but he inhales, and it hits like a sudden, jolting cold, and then—the world opens. The details clear, the colors brighten, and somehow everything gets sharp and fuzzy at the same time.

Henry must have said something, because the guy laughs. And then he reaches out, and wipes a fleck from Henry’s cheek, and the contact is like static shock, a spark of energy where skin meets skin.

“You’re perfect,” says the stranger, fingers drifting down his jaw, and Henry flushes with a dizzy heat that makes him need to move.

“Sorry,” he says, backing out into the hall.

He slumps against the darkened wall, waits for the world to steady.

“Hey.”

He looks up and sees a guy with his arm slung around a girl’s shoulders, both of them long and lean and feline.

“What’s your name?” asks the guy.

“Henry.”

“Henry,” echoes the girl with a catlike smile.

She looks at him with such obvious desire, he actually rocks back on his heels. No one has ever looked at him that way. Not Tabitha. Not Robbie. No one—not on the first date, or in the middle of sex, or when he got down on one knee …

“I’m Lucia,” she says. “This is Benji. And we’ve been looking for you.”

“What did I do?” he asks.

Her smile tilts. “Nothing yet.”

She bites her lip, and the guy looks at Henry, his face slack with longing, and at first he doesn’t realize what they’re talking about.

And then he does.

Laughter rolls through him, a strange, unbridled thing.

He’s never been in a threesome, unless you count that one time in school when he and Robbie and one of their friends got incredibly drunk and he’s still not entirely sure how far things went.

“Come with us,” she says, holding out her hand.

And a dozen excuses spill through his mind and then out again as Henry follows them home.

New York City

September 7, 2013

VIII

God, it feels good to be wanted.

Everywhere he goes, he can feel the ripple, the attention shifting toward him. Henry leans into the attention, the smiles, the warmth, the light. For the first time he truly understands the concept of being drunk with power.

It’s like setting down a heavy weight long after your arms have gotten tired. There’s this sudden, sweeping lightness, like air in your chest, like sunlight after rain.

It feels good to be the user instead of the used.

To be the one who gets instead of the one who loses.

It feels good. It shouldn’t, he knows, but it does.

He stands in line at the Roast, desperately needing coffee.

The last few days have been a blur, late nights giving way to strange mornings, every moment fueled by the heady pleasure of being wanted, of knowing that whatever they see, it’s good, it’s great, it’s perfect.

He’s perfect.

And it’s not just the straightforward gravity of lust, not always. People drift toward him now, every one of them pulled into his orbit, but the why is always different. Sometimes it’s just simple desire, but other times it’s more nuanced. Sometimes it’s an obvious need, and other times, he can’t guess what they see when they look at him.

That’s the only unsettling part, really—their eyes. The fog that winds through them, thickening to frost, to ice. A constant reminder that this new life isn’t exactly normal, isn’t entirely real.

But it’s enough.

“Next!”

He steps forward, and looks up, and sees Vanessa.

“Oh, hi,” he says.

“You didn’t call.”

But she doesn’t sound angry, or annoyed. If anything, she sounds too bright, teasing, but it’s the kind of teasing used to cover up embarrassment. He should know—he’s used that tone a dozen times to hide his own hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, blushing. “I wasn’t sure if I should.”

Vanessa smiles slyly. “Was the whole name and number thing too subtle?”

Henry laughs, and hands his cell across the counter. “Call me,” he says, and she taps her number in, and hits Call. “There,” says Henry, taking back the phone, “now I have no excuse.”

He feels like an idiot, even as he says it, like a kid reciting movie lines, but Vanessa only blushes, and bites her bottom lip, and he wonders what would happen if he told her to go out with him, right then, if she would take off her apron and duck beneath the counter, but he doesn’t try it, just says, “I’ll call.”

And she says, “You better.”

Henry smiles, turns to go. He’s almost to the door when he hears his name.

“Mr. Strauss.”

Henry’s stomach drops. He knows the voice, can picture the older man’s tweed jacket, his