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Back The Companion Project
Chapters (89)
  1. Dedication
  2. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  3. ONE
  4. HENRY
  5. TWO
  6. EMMA
  7. THREE
  8. HENRY
  9. FOUR
  10. EMMA
  11. FIVE
  12. EMMA
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. HENRY
  16. EIGHT
  17. NINE
  18. TEN
  19. HENRY
  20. ELEVEN
  21. TWELVE
  22. EMMA
  23. THIRTEEN
  24. HENRY
  25. FOURTEEN
  26. HENRY
  27. FIFTEEN
  28. SIXTEEN
  29. EMMA
  30. SEVENTEEN
  31. HENRY
  32. EIGHTEEN
  33. HENRY
  34. NINETEEN
  35. HENRY
  36. TWENTY
  37. TWENTY-ONE
  38. EMMA
  39. TWENTY-TWO
  40. EMMA
  41. TWENTY-THREE
  42. HENRY
  43. TWENTY-FOUR
  44. EMMA
  45. TWENTY-FIVE
  46. EMMA
  47. TWENTY-SIX
  48. EMMA
  49. TWENTY-SEVEN
  50. HENRY
  51. TWENTY-EIGHT
  52. EMMA
  53. TWENTY-NINE
  54. HENRY
  55. THIRTY
  56. HENRY
  57. THIRTY-ONE
  58. HENRY
  59. THIRTY-TWO
  60. EMMA
  61. THIRTY-THREE
  62. HENRY
  63. THIRTY-FOUR
  64. EMMA
  65. THIRTY-FIVE
  66. EMMA
  67. THIRTY-SIX
  68. HENRY
  69. THIRTY-SEVEN
  70. EMMA
  71. THIRTY-EIGHT
  72. HENRY
  73. THIRTY-NINE
  74. HENRY
  75. FORTY
  76. EMMA
  77. FORTY-ONE
  78. HENRY
  79. FORTY-TWO
  80. FORTY-THREE
  81. EMMA
  82. FORTY-FOUR
  83. EMMA
  84. FORTY-FIVE
  85. HENRY
  86. EPILOGUE
  87. ALSO BY CHELSEA CURTO
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I’m surprised to find it doesn’t look like the bachelor pad I thought he’d reside in. There aren’t women’s bras scattered about or half-naked centerfolds taped to the wall. No boxers hang from a lamp and the bedside table is free from old pizza boxes and beer bottles.

It’s freakishly clean.

A large bed sits on one side, and navy-blue curtains cover hidden windows. A dresser is against the opposite wall, a large television mounted over it. A thin bookshelf is smushed into the corner, overflowing with books. Pictures hang sporadically on the eggshell white walls, no design or pattern to them.

I run my finger over the glass protecting a particularly weathered photo and frown. Henry’s in his graduation outfit, and it’s like I’m transported back to the days when we were young teenagers, blissfully oblivious to the real world and the challenges that awaited us.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I reply, studying the young Henry. He was scrawnier back then, with messier hair that nearly covered his eyes. Age has been kind to him. His body has filled out and his shoulders are more broad and toned. He grew taller. Wider. In the photo he’s smiling, but I can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. It doesn’t rival the one he tossed my way a few minutes ago. The brown orbs look sad and dull, a far-off glance hovering there, searching for someone or something right out of the frame, unseen to the viewer.

“Ah. Graduation day,” he says, voice dipping near my ear.

“You don’t look happy.”

“I wasn’t. In that particular moment, I was having a crisis.”

I turn to stare at him. “Why?”

The day is a distant memory; I vaguely remember going through the required motions of the event. I wore the gown. I walked across the stage. I collected my diploma, shook hands with teachers, and walked off. I threw my hat in the air with the rest of my classmates.

“Do you know what happened the moment this photo was captured?”

“No.” I gaze at the photo then back at him. My eyes are glued to his. Even now, they look more alive than in the snapshot, dancing with fulfillment. “Why would I? I’m not in it.”