“I knew it!” Anne announces, elbowing George. “I told you!”

“You know nothing!” Henry retaliates, shifting on the bench. The movement brings him even nearer, the side of his muscular thigh pressing into mine.

“I’m so out of the loop here,” I laugh nervously, unsure what he might have said about me.

“Oh, Emma darling, it’s nothing bad,” Anne says quickly, shooting Henry a stern look. “It’s quite funny. He would woefully lament about this woman he worked with, trying to figure out why his charm didn’t work on you. He made an entire list once, a few years back, documenting reasons he was inferior to you, and my favorite one was that he—”

“Mother,” Henry hisses. “Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence.”

“Language!” Anne says, reaching across the table to swat his arm. “You don’t want your girlfriend to hear about the time you walked through the house drunkenly waxing poetry about her and the… what was the phrase? Hair like sunshine? You had a conversation with a wall.”

Henry groans, dropping his head to his hands. “I’m emancipating myself from this family. None of these events ever happened. You’re all a bunch of liars.”

I reach over, prying his fingers away from his face. Slipping his hand into mine, I bring our joined palms to rest on my thigh, squeezing reassuringly and doing my best to abate some of his distress. With our grips hidden, I tap his skin eight times, hoping he understands what I’m spelling.

Together.

He taps back.

“You’ve been talking about me for a while, huh?” I ask, keeping my voice low so only Henry can hear me.

He squeezes my hand tighter, thumb running along my pointer finger. “Can’t help it, Sunflower. You’ve irked me in the best way for years.”

There goes my heart again, stumbling, sputtering, and spiraling out of control as he speaks to me—just me—like I’m the only person in the world.

“Maybe one day you’ll let me hear some of that drunken poetry,” I say bravely, and the ghost of his lips dance across the top of my head.

“Maybe if you behave yourself this weekend, I’ll recite poetry to you all night long,” he whispers over the shell of my ear, breath hot on my skin.

I gape at him, blinking a dozen times. I can’t find anything to say. I can’t find anything to do. I’m frozen, staring at him as he smirks, the left side of his mouth tilting up in a taunting, promising way.

“So, Mom, what flavor is the cake Saturday night?”