The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,119
I say?” He raps his fingers on the table. “Books feed hungry minds. Tips feed the cat?”
Vanessa laughs, sudden and bright. “You’re so funny.”
“Am I?”
She sticks out her tongue. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”
“No,” he says. “Just curious. What do you see in me?”
Vanessa smiles, suddenly shy. “You’re … well, it sounds cheesy, but you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
“And what’s that?” he asks.
If she said real, sensitive, thoughtful, he might have bought it.
But she doesn’t.
She uses words like outgoing, funny, ambitious, and the more she talks about him, the thicker the frost in her eyes, the more it spreads, until he can barely make out the color beneath. And Henry wonders how she can see, but of course, she can’t.
That’s the point.
* * *
They’re at the Merchant a week later, he and Bea and Robbie, three beers and a basket of fries between them.
“How’s Vanessa?” she asks, while Robbie looks pointedly into his drink.
“She’s fine,” says Henry.
And she is. He is. They are.
“Been seeing a lot of her.”
Henry frowns. “You’re the one who told me to get Tabitha out of my system.”
Bea holds up her hands. “I know, I know.”
“It’s new. You know how things are. She’s—”
“A carbon copy,” mumbles Robbie.
Henry turns on him. “What was that?” he asks, annoyed. “Speak up. I know they taught you how to project.”
Robbie takes a long swig of beer, looking miserable. “I’m just saying, she’s a carbon copy of Tabby. Waifish, blond—”
“Female?”
It’s a long-running sore point between them, the fact that Henry isn’t gay, that he’s attracted to a person first and their gender second. Robbie cringes, but doesn’t apologize.
“Besides,” says Henry. “I didn’t go after Vanessa. She picked me. She likes me.”
“Do you like her?” asks Bea.
“Of course,” he says, a little too fast. He likes her. And sure, he also likes that she likes him (the him that she sees) and there’s a Venn diagram between those two, a place where they overlap. He’s pretty sure he’s safely in the shaded zone. He’s not really using her, is he? At least, he’s not the only one being shallow—she’s using him, too, painting someone else onto the canvas of her life. And if it’s mutual, well then, it’s not his fault … is it?
“We just want you to be happy,” Bea’s saying. “After all that’s happened, just … don’t go too fast.”
But for once, he’s not the one who needs to slow down.
Henry woke up that morning to chocolate-chip pancakes and a glass of OJ, a little handwritten note on the counter beside the plate with a heart and a V. She’s slept over the last three nights, and each time, she left something behind. A blouse. A pair of shoes. A toothbrush in the holder by the sink.
His friends stare at him, pale fog still swirling through their eyes, and he knows that they care, knows they love him, knows they only want the best for him. They have to now, thanks to the deal.
“Don’t worry,” he says, sipping his beer. “I’ll take it slow.”
* * *
“Henry…”
He’s half-asleep when he feels her run a painted nail down his back.
Weak gray light spills through the windows.
“Hm?” he says, rolling over.
Vanessa’s got her head on one hand, blond hair spilling down over the pillow, and he wonders how long she was leaning like that, waiting for him to wake up, before she finally intervened.
“I need to tell you something.” She gazes at him, eyes frosted with that milky light. He is beginning to dread that shine, the pale smoke that follows him from face to face.
“What is it?” he asks, rising onto one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just…” She breaks into a smile. “I love you.”
And the scary thing is, she sounds like she means it.
“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s soon. I just wanted you to know.”
She nuzzles against him.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I mean, it’s only been a week.”
“So what?” she says. “When you know, you know. And I know.”
Henry swallows, kisses her temple. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He stands under the hot water as long as he can, wondering what he’s supposed to say to that, if and how he can convince Vanessa that it isn’t love, it’s just obsession, but of course, that isn’t really true, either. He made the deal. He made the terms. This is what he wanted.
Isn’t it?
He cuts the water off, wraps the towel around his waist, and smells smoke.