“I had some errands to run, so I was in the area.”

Wow, he really was a bad liar. His gaze flicked around, and he shifted from foot to foot, and it was honestly hilarious and adorable how obvious it was.

Not to mention the airport was all the way west of the city, and we trained all the way east. What errands would he have out here? During Toronto’s hellacious rush hour that rivaled LA’s?

I let him off the hook and said, “Cool. Thanks.”

I insisted on paying the ridiculous airport parking fee, and we merged into heavy traffic on the highway, a sea of red lights ahead in the night. At least it was moving decently even if we were only going three quarters of the speed limit.

Henry hadn’t turned on the radio, and I could only take the silence so long. I jiggled my foot restlessly. “Aren’t you going to ask me how the funeral was?”

That cute little furrow appeared between his brows. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Well… Not really. It was a funeral. They pretty much suck. I’ve only been to my grandparents’ before. Separately. They didn’t die at the same time or anything, like in an accident or whatever.”

“Mm.”

“I’m glad I went, though. It was good to see my LA people. There was a huge turnout. Everyone loves Mr. Webber. Loved. Still getting used to it, I guess. Maybe I do want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“I miss him. Like, duh, what an obvious thing to say. But even though I knew he probably wouldn’t make it, he was just so…much. He had such presence. You know what I mean?’

“Like you.” Henry seemed to regret saying that as soon as it came out, his lips tightening and fingers flexing on the steering wheel. He opened and closed his mouth, but didn’t add anything.

I laughed, trying to hide my pleasure and rambling on. “I’ll take that as the ultimate compliment. Anyway, it’s weird that he’s gone. It shouldn’t have been a shock. It wasn’t, I guess. But it was. I’m probably not making any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Now I really didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I said, “You must be starving,” I said. “Do you want to hit up a drive-through? My treat. Oh, or I have some snacks.” I reached behind for my backpack that I’d dumped on the backseat.

Henry looked at the junk food I pulled out like I’d just offered him a plate of steaming turds.

“I know, I know! I shouldn’t. But I’m jet-lagged.”

Eyes on the road, Henry said, “Eating that will only make you feel worse.”

“I know, being a pig won’t help me win.” I laughed. “You should be feeding me Doritos all day.”

Henry apparently didn’t see the humor. An awkward silence filled the car at the reminder that we were competitors. Why did I say that? It was the last thing we should talk about.