Henry & Me: A hilarious feel-good romantic comedy
Henry & Me: Chapter 12

Los Angeles—the City of Angels.

It’s exactly as it was when I said farewell a year and a half ago. The hot sun beats down on me, drenching me in sweat as I load Henry and my luggage into the rental car, climb into the driver’s seat and snap my seatbelt on. The engine roars when I hit the gas.

The boulevards, roads, signs, traffic…they look like a moving picture instead of the reality. The pollution from car exhausts chokes me, cars on the freeway moving in a slow crawl like ants up an anthill.

Fear coils under my ribs. This is it. I’m here. In the place where he lives. The place where he can hurt me again.

Every instinct clamors to slam the brakes, turn around and return to New York, where my life, even if unspectacular, was safe. My stomach is a tight ball of knots.

Henry likely realizes the war inside my head, because he puts his hand on mine that has tautened on the wheel.

“It’ll be all right. I’m here with you.”

I forgot to mention he came with me to LA. I was too scared to go alone, face the past alone, fight the fears alone, so I roped him in at the last minute.

It’s a Saturday. He was supposed to be working today. He won’t be anymore. Rotating the steering wheel to make a left turn, I feel guilty for making him a party in my attempt to fight my demons. I’m his housekeeper; he doesn’t owe me anything. We may have shared a few hot kisses and a somewhat awkward sexual encounter but that doesn’t mean we have a relationship. And I’m not dense; I know Henry wants a relationship. But I don’t. Not again. Not until I can be sure that I’ll be able to give him everything he deserves.

The next lane change is so sharp, I almost end up bumping into the car in front. I escape by a narrow margin because Henry guides the steering to avoid collision.

“Th-thanks,” I manage.

“You sure you want to drive?” There’s a crease between his brows, although he sinks back into his seat. “I could do it.”

“Don’t.”

I really shouldn’t drive in this state, but I want to feel in control of at least one aspect of my life. I can’t control the outcome of the two auditions I lined up for myself this week, one using a contact from years ago, and another one by calling in a favor (I didn’t get into the talent agency in New York—they said I didn’t have an interesting face L). Nor can I control whether I’ll meet Rob. Henry’s agreed to accompany me to every single audition, which, I must say, is a chivalrous thing to do, especially since he doesn’t know how long the waiting times can be.

There’s a particular role that I really want to bag, one for a lead character in an upcoming sitcom. With a big-name screenwriter, studio, and producer backing the production, I’ll be assured of at least three years of steady work if I land the part. I was lucky enough to get an opportunity to audition through one of the casting directors, who was an old contact who called me a few days ago, saying she’s looking for someone with my appearance and experience.

“Are you nervous about the auditions?” Henry asks.

“More than you can imagine. It’s a really big deal to get an audition.”

Although I got picked by a manager right after college, thanks to the department showcase, I realized how important networking was only when I got here. I landed my first gig easily, but I was unemployed for a year after that. After pounding the pavement and cultivating contacts for five years, I finally got to the point where I had a few good roles and the future looked hopeful…but then I quit.

You know the one thing an entertainer cannot do? Stop. Because someone’s always there to take your place if you quit.

Henry turns up the air-conditioning, a much-needed move. Cold air slaps my face.

“LA’s so different from New York. Did you like living here?” Henry questions.

“I did. There’s more space, and I’m not at the mercy of the subway. “

Opening the glovebox, Henry closes it again. Swallowing, he hesitates. “Was it hard being an actress?”

“It was brutal. Especially since I was waiting tables most of the time in the beginning.” I choke up at the memories that bubble up. “I cried myself to sleep on so many nights, then woke up in the morning, wiped away the tears, washed my face, and went to the next audition. There were days when I felt crushed by the weight of rejections, from being stuck in a cycle of failure.”

“I never knew you were so resilient. I always took you for a pampered princess who came back running because of one little scratch to her ego.”

“I didn’t know I was resilient either, until I became an actress. That’s why I think I’m destined to make it big in acting—because for the sake of this one thing, I will become better, swallow my pride, ego, arrogance, everything, subsist on instant noodles, and still not complain. That’s true love, and when you love something so much, it will love you back eventually.”

Henry’s attention is fully on me now. Intensity oozes out of him.

“Yeah…you’re right.” He doesn’t seem to be referring to my acting. “It’ll happen.”

*

I knew he’d be here.

Rob.

Right around the time I realized that the casting director in charge of today’s audition was him, I began preparing myself for the confrontation.

The way auditions work most of the time is that the studios producing the movie hire a casting agency to conduct auditions and weed out the totally unsuitable actors. The promising ones are recorded and sent to the studio execs, who then pick the final person to hire.

So I knew as soon as I stepped into that room his face would be the first I saw, along with the cameraperson who would be filming my audition.

But I won’t let that affect my performance. I will be a true professional, right until the cameras go off. I’ve fought to get this chance. I can’t waste it.

His eyes are the same turbulent brown as they widen in shock. Anger and violence stirs in them. Even now, every cell in my body recoils and screams to be taken away from his presence. I am aware of what he can do to me, of the contrast between his power and my powerlessness. Henry’s in a car outside this building, waiting for me (I insisted on going in audition alone), but with Rob so close, that’s no consolation. He’ll have my neck before I can attempt a scream.

“Ready?” the cameraman asks me, oblivious to the monstrous tension around him.

Rob’s lips part on an involuntary gasp, and the unsaid question lingers on his lips.

Are you the Max who left me?

I indicate my tacit agreement with a small downward slant of my chin.

His fists clench, and his mouth scrunches into a scarily pleasant smile.

In movies, this kind of scene is rendered very romantically—the moment when somebody meets the lover they left. But in reality, it’s totally terrifying.

Strutting to the spot where I must stand, I manage a deep breath, preparing myself to give the most mind-blowing performance of my life. Once the emotions take over me, once I replace my flow, I’ll forget all about Rob.

I attack the script with vigor, pushing back fear even as it reaches its tentacles towards me, shaking my voice, making my lips tremble, sucking the strength out of my facial muscles.

“But if I leave you…”

“And I cannot…”

The words and sentences bleed into each other, until I’ve come to the end of the three-minute monologue.

The camera guy gives me a thumbs up. “All done.”

“Thanks.” The word leaves my lips as a trailing whisper.

Without delay, I turn back, impatient to make my escape.

“Wait,” Rob commands.

Despite the pep talk I gave myself all morning, I feel cold and frozen, like three spears of ice have been shoved up my spine.

Slowly, I face him, hoping for the best. “Yes?”

He tosses the script he’s holding at the camera guy. “Max, I’ve missed you. I’m sorry for the way things ended. I really didn’t mean what I said that time. You have to trust me.”

“It’s okay…that’s all in the past. I’ve moved on now.” My voice is tremulous. I nervously brush my clothes.

He’s in charmer mode now. He can persuade me to do anything when he’s like this. “You look amazing! You were always such a beauty. And so talented. I was floored by your performance just now.”

“T-thanks.” I step back towards the door, hoping to get out, but he holds up his hand.

“We need to catch up. I have so much I want to say to you. I need to apologize for the way I treated you…it was unacceptable. And you…don’t you want to tell me what’s been going on in your life?”

Not really. I only want to get out of here. “Maybe some other time. You’re busy with the auditions right now.”

“I’ve always got time for an old friend. And you’re one of my dearest friends, Max.” His smile is all dazzle and glamor. He shoots the camera guy an apologetic glance. “I’ll be back in five.”

“It’s okay; you don’t have to do that for me.”

He shuffled through the door ahead of me, turning back and casting a spell on me with his grin, the one that used to make my knees go weak. “Don’t be silly; it’s no big deal. I’m dying to hear what you’ve been up to since we…parted. I heard you left LA. Why?”

He’s angry. He’s angry. He’s angry.

That’s all I can think. And cold, hard terror is all I can feel. He doesn’t look angry; he never does. But I know what’s under the surface. He’s seething with fury at my betrayal.

And I don’t want a scene, so I follow him, saying, “Let’s have coffee. Is there any place nearby?”

If it’s a public place, he can’t make a scene or do anything drastic.

“Also,” I add, “I’d like to introduce you to one of my friends.”

“It’s better if it’s only the two of us. We don’t want anybody hearing private details, do we?” He winks at me, but no part of my body responds to his flirtation.

I realize that while I’ve been ahead of him, he’s been leading me with soft presses of his hand on my back to indicate a turn in direction. A year later, I still fall into his trap so easily. I can’t believe it. He’s so sly.

“My friend knows about us.” Gathering courage, I stand my ground. “So you should really meet him.”

“Him? Now that’s interesting…” Ripping away the necklace from my throat, he hurls it into a dustbin we pass.

Just like that.

Nobody hears. Or notices.

The thing I hate about him is that he’s figured out these ways to abuse me in broad daylight.

“Did your friend give you that?” he asks, his tone deceptively polite, as he casts a glance at the now-broken necklace.

I hiccup, sliding back into that shell where I am nothing but a mute spectator to everything that happens. It’s my defense mechanism. I don’t know what to do. Anger and furious words are boiling inside me, but I can’t seem to speak them.

Be calm, I remind myself. Or you’ll accomplish nothing.

“Actually, that was a gift from my brother,” I say. “And you had no right to destroy it.”

For a moment, I feel power grow inside me, before it’s dampened by thoughts of what he will do to me. Retaliation never helped me previously.

At this point, even though there are people around us, Rob squeezes my wrist tightly, until there’s a red mark where his fingers are digging into my skin. “And what about what you did? Leaving me without so much as a word. Did you have the right to disappoint me? Did you have the right to call things off selfishly? Do you know how humiliated I am, every time someone asks me where you are? I don’t fuckin’ know where you are,” he spits.

He’s pissed, which means I’m going to get hurt badly.

“I-I left you a letter. Also s-sent you an email,” I remind him.

Before I left LA for good a year ago, I wrote Rob a letter and email breaking up with him, detailing the reasons why I couldn’t carry on, and hoping that he moves on. I tried not to mention the abuse, because I didn’t want to make him angry (I know, perverse).

“Stupid words. ‘I’m breaking up.’ They mean nothing.”

“No, they mean something.” Defiance. Wow, it’s a new feeling. “They mean I’m through with you, Rob. They mean I was through with you a year ago.”

His knuckles crack against his sides. Shit. He’s going to hit me.

I immediately close my eyes and flinch in anticipation.

“Were you cheating on me? Is that why you left? Talk, you slut!” His voice isn’t even raised, but I know all he’s capable of, so he doesn’t have to yell to drive home his point. Right off the top of my head, I can list all the ways he could harm me here, even with so many people here.

“N-no.” How am I supposed to talk when I can barely breathe? “I didn’t cheat. But this right here”—I point to his hand around my wrist—“is why I left. I couldn’t tolerate being abused by you any longer.”

“You knew who I was when we met.” My wrist starts to ache, unnerving me. I could shrug out of his grip, but I’m scared it’ll trigger something worse. “You even enjoyed the roughness, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t!” Where in the world did he get that idea from?

His fingers twist around the base of my head, twisting it painfully. “Don’t run your mouth on me.”

Nothing comes from me in response. Again, I’m reduced to feeling helpless and scared. My skin feels prickly where he touches me. There’s not even a remote sense of sexual arousal here. It’s only fear pouring down like a waterfall.

My insides are in turmoil. I try to replace one thread of calmness, anything I can latch onto. But there’s nothing.

Eventually words replace their way out of my muddled conscience. “B-but why me? There are so many women.”

“Because you’re rare. It’s impossible to replace someone like you in my world.” Two fingers spear the soft area under my chin. Another shot of pain. “Out here, everybody is broken by their struggles. But you’re always smiling. Nothing can bring you down. You’re perfect for me. The only one who can take all my darkness.”

“That’s twisted,” I say, wishing desperately for Henry to come and rescue me. For someone to come and rescue me. I can’t seem to make him stop. He doesn’t listen to anything I say.

But this is my battle. And nobody can fight it for me. Rob will have to listen to me. I will make him listen to me.

“Rob, stop using your strength to intimidate me. I’m not the cowering kitten I once was. And I no longer wish to be anywhere near you. We’re over and that’s definitive.” I kick his hand, forcing him to release his hold on me. “You’re not the only one who can be violent.”

I hope my eyes are radiating all the anger I feel inside, because I’m really mad.

He bares his teeth. “I told you to shut your trap, stupid bitch.” He tries to reach for my hand again, but I dodge. “You’re mine. You do as I say.”

Anger boils inside me. How dare he call me ‘his?’ I’m nobody’s. I can’t believe I let him keep me so subdued for so long.

“You’re so full of shit.” I lean into him, taking up his personal space. I hate confrontations, but if somebody pushes me over the edge they’d better be prepared for my wrath. “The only reason you’re not in prison is because I didn’t call the police on you. And if you dare lay another finger on me, that’ll change. Think carefully. Prison’s not a pretty place.”

He bares his teeth, but doesn’t attempt to touch me. Relieved at his lack of aggression, I continue in a raised voice, spitting out the words like bullets, aiming them at his thick skull.

“Get this in your head because I’ll only say it once: I’m not yours. I was never yours. And we’re not together. We’ve broken up and don’t you ever try to talk to me again.”

For the first time in my life, I see Rob cower in fear.

Because of me.

Wow, I must be a really good actress. Or maybe I’m just super angry.

“I have been…mistaken about you,” he finally says, in a voice unlike his previous bellow.

“Yeah, you were. I may have been a victim once, but I will not be treated that way again. By you or anyone else. That’s why I left you, and that’s why I’ll leave anyone who treats me that way.”

“Bitch! Don’t know what I saw in you,” he growls, and whirls back and marches away.

Instantly my legs give out and with a thud, I crash to the ground.

“I can’t believe I did that.” My lips tremble.

I palm my face, checking for sweat or blood from injuries. Old habits die hard, I guess. When I replace nothing, I waddle back to the car, where Henry’s waiting for me, reading a book on catalysts. In contrast to what happened, it’s peaceful and sunny inside the car, and Henry’s presence only makes it better.

As he drags his eyes over me, worry grows on his features. What I went through must be visible on my face because Henry asks, “Max, what happened?”

I shake my head. “I said goodbye to Rob, that’s all.”

“Well done.” Something akin to respect glimmers in Henry’s eyes as he throws an arm over my shoulder.

A light feeling circles my chest. Renewed hope. It feels like I emerged from a storm onto a sunny beach.

“Sorry to have involved you in my messy breakup,” I mumble to Henry.

He rolls back his shoulders. “I involved myself.”

“Still. I made you come all this way for nothing.” I sniff. “Rob will make sure I never get this role, so that’s one day wasted.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“You don’t know him like I do. Gee, I feel so bummed out about this.”

When we make it out of the building, it’s only been an hour.

Can’t believe it was over so quickly.

*

After that incident with Rob, I was pissed off as hell, so Henry decided to drive me around the city to cool me down. He drove all the way to Beverly Hills. Lined with luxurious mansions, this postcode is glamorous even after sundown, when the lights inside the toy-like houses have been switched on, and I can catch peeks of expensive furniture and décor entombed within the walls.

Henry turns right, so we can circle back to where we started from.

“Why didn’t you leave him?” His voice echoes loudly in the quiet car.

“Who? Rob?”

“Yeah. You could have called the cops, yet you didn’t.” Pale skin strains against his taut knuckles, which clutch the steering wheel tighter.

“Is that judgment I hear in your voice?” Crossing one leg over the other, I open and close the glove box.

“I’m trying to understand you.”

The car decelerates, but doesn’t stop.

“Well…it was a long time ago. I cared about my career then. Also, I was scared of confrontation. I didn’t want things to get ugly, even though they were not pretty.” The tip of one finger reaches my chin. “But mostly, I hoped it would get better in time. I hoped he’d stop. I hoped last time would be the last time. I hoped he would change. I hoped for too much. And when I left him I lost all hope. For everything.”

“Mmmm.”

I’m sure I imagined that sound from Henry. His face is stoic.

“Abuse overshadows everything else in your life. I was drained from constantly fighting. I wanted to run away from everything. It was too much for me.”

Henry caresses my hair. “It’s okay.”

I swallow conspicuously.

“I’m fine now.” A lovely, clear groan from my stomach cuts through the dark car. “And ravenous.”

“Let’s eat, then.” Henry swivels the car around, his gaze briefly brushing my body in the process. “You know, after all this, you had better mention me in your Oscars victory speech.”

“Definitely. That speech needs a lot of updating.”

I also have to add Ji-ae’s name to it. She’s been a pillar of support for me. And Lucien’s— because I’ve never met a more interesting kid.

And this time, it’ll be perfect.

*

Henry and I dine at a cheap place, since I’m paying for it, and I can’t afford expensive places on a housekeeper’s salary. The food is filling and homely, and on an empty stomach, that equals heaven.

By the time we make it back to the hotel, though, I’m hungry again. I’ll never understand my stomach for as long as I live.

I tap my shoes impatiently in the elevator, which is a little too crowded. One by one, the people who are with us get off. Henry’s and my room is on the fifteenth floor. Did I mention we are staying in the same room (my fault, not his, since I dragged him here last minute and there was no other choice)?

I unlock the door of our room and step in first. The lights blink on when Henry deposits the card key in its slot.

At least the room has twin beds, not a double bed. I’m gonna be content with that. Arbitrarily deciding on the bed on the left, I fling my shoes and then sink into the downy goodness of it. Locating the remote, I flip on the TV.

There’s a romantic movie playing on it that I’ve seen before, but I don’t mind seeing again. After today’s confrontation, I could use some easy entertainment.

“Mind if I watch TV?” I ask him.

He’s settled under the covers, like he’s going to sleep.

“Go ahead. I’m just lying down.”

The movie runs on, and I watch it almost wordlessly. Henry’s eyes also stay open, and he’s watching it. I can’t tell whether he likes this kind of stuff or not, because he doesn’t show any expression.

“So hot.” I swoon at the male lead.

Henry’s head emerges above the cocoon of bedsheets and pillows. “So far all he’s done is be a jerk to her.”

“He’s a control freak and a bad boy; that’s his appeal. Nobody wants to watch boring nice guys on TV. They’re not interesting.”

“I see.” He looks quite offended by this. “You like guys like that?” he asks finally, with a note of derision in his voice.

“I used to,” I admit. “Not anymore. I think a young girl’s version of love is very different from a woman’s. In school, I always longed to have dramatic romance, filled with over-the-top gestures and a guy who would obsessively want me. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with jealous or possessive guys. But now, I have more practical concerns. I’d like to replace someone who can do some housework, and I’d like him to be someone who can tolerate my craziness.”

“What else?”

“Secure. Even-tempered. Obviously not somebody who gets angry or is abusive. It’d be good if he has a stable job, but he doesn’t have to be rich or anything. Not a spendthrift. A problem-solver. Good with kids. Open-minded and willing to compromise. Responsible. Steadfast. Unselfish.”

“Whoa, that’s a long list.”

“It’s not a list,” I respond. “It’s my assessment of the qualities guys in happy marriages tend to have. But I know that not every man will have every quality. Coop isn’t good with kids, but he doesn’t have kids, so it doesn’t matter.”

Henry chews over this, falling silent. We continue watching the movie, which is nearing its climax.

Actually it’s not as bad as I thought, being with Henry in the same room. Even on normal days, Henry and I spend time in each other’s proximity in the house. If I think of it like that, it’s not such a big deal.

Halfway through the climax, Henry gets off the bed. Tears glisten at the rim of his eyes.

“I think I’ll go and have a shower…” His voice is shaky. “Unless you want to go first?”

I guess the over-the-top romance proved too much for him to handle and he’s probably not the kind of guy who likes to cry in front of people. Unlike me; I like to cry in front of people and draw their sympathy and attention all the time.

“It’s okay; I can wait,” I say cheerfully. “I want to finish watching the movie.”

The bathroom door clicks shut. I hear the spray of water from the shower. It grows more intense, then stops momentarily, before starting back again. Moments later, I realize I’ve abandoned the movie and am listening to the sounds from the bathroom. It’s silly, if you consider I don’t even have to clean this bathroom later (the perks of vacation J).

Forcibly, I turn my attention back to the television and cry at the heart-tugging final scene. I’m still wiping my tears and reveling in the sadness of the fictional heroine’s death when Henry finishes with his shower and comes out.

Seeing me cry makes him panic. “What happened? Did something—”

“It’s the movie,” I explain.

“Yeah, it was emotional,” he admits, nearing me and dipping his face to mine. “You can use the bathroom now.”

The flecks of gold in his eyes appear so much brighter up close. My heart thuds. Thud. Thud.

My blood’s growing warm. It’s whooshing in my ears. After seeing so many on-screen kisses in the last hour and a half, I’m longing for an off-screen one.

The scent of soap drifting from him stirs me into action. In a paroxysm of desire, I tip my face up to his. Our mouths fuse together, hot and ready. The slide of his lips over mine makes me moan, and I bite down on his lip to keep from making a noise. As a consequence of being lost in the movie, my mind is tired and quiet, which allows me to deepen the kiss. Henry responds with fervor, drawing me close and licking my tongue teasingly.

Before long his hands have strayed to my body, invading spaces that feel too vulnerable, despite being clothed. The familiar, claustrophobic, too-close-for-comfort sensation snakes up my body.

I push him away, break the kiss abruptly, trying to stop the feeling from eating me up.

“I’m sorry…I can’t do this.”

“Why not?” He squints, confused as fuck (I’d be, too, if I were him).

He might think I keep blowing hot and cold, but that’s not true. There’s a logic to this thing. When I’m inundated by desire, I feel an overwhelming sense of hope. I think, I can do this. This time will be different. I won’t fail this time. But by the time I’m halfway into it, I realize that this time won’t be different. That hope can’t carry me through something like this. That’s when I go cold.

“Intimacy issues, remember?”

“But you did it before.”

“You mean the time when I started crying?”

His shoulders draw together. “Guess you didn’t like it even then.”

He’s inching away from me now, but I don’t want to let him get away.

“That’s not true! I liked it. I did.”

“But you didn’t even come.”

“So what? I enjoyed the experience of being intimate with someone again. But…I freaked out when you touched me.”

“Like this?”

I flinch like I’ve been shot.

Our voices fade away into a tight ball of tension.

“Talk to me, Max. Explain your problem. What is it that you feel when someone touches you?”

Shudders work their way under my skin. “Afraid. I feel afraid. I’m scared they’ll do something I don’t want them to do. And I feel helpless, because I can’t control what happens.”

“Will you feel safe if you’re in control?”

“I don’t know…maybe.” The tangle of emotions inside me doesn’t lead me towards a clear answer. “I don’t know what it means to be in control. Is sex meant to be controlled?”

“That’s something you have to decide,” says Henry. “You wanna try tying me up? That way, I couldn’t touch you if I tried. You might feel safer that way.”

“No…I don’t want you tied up…”

I want you to be able to touch me. I was gonna say that, but I bit it back. It doesn’t make sense. On one hand, I flinch at his touch. On the other hand, I want him to touch me so desperately. The inconsistency in my brain drives me nuts sometimes.

“All right.”

“No…”

Henry ponders over this dilemma, spacing out for a bit.

“Can I do an experiment on you?” Henry draws circles with his fingers on his thigh. He’s clearly itching to touch me, but I appreciate the restraint.

“O-okay…” I sit perfectly still.

“Close your eyes, then.”

My eyelids screw shut. Soon after, I feel his hand on the side of my throat. It doesn’t take a second for me to shoot up from the bed. Tightness crushes my chest. The inside of my head feels like a twister. Oh, no. What did I do?

“S-sorry,” I mumble.

Shit. I overreacted. Again.

Henry pats the bed. “Don’t be. Sit back down.”

Unwillingly, I reoccupy my position. I can sense that this is all going nowhere. He should just accept that I can’t have sex and move on. Why is he trying so hard? Nothing’s gonna come out of this except more awkwardness.

“What did you feel when I touched you, Max? Elaborate.”

I copy the position his hand was in, act it out. “I felt your hand around my throat…near my throat…and I thought you were going to strangle me.”

“Okay.” He takes this in quite bravely.

“I don’t mean to accuse you of being abusive.”

“Don’t worry. My ego’s not that fragile.” He flexes his fingers. “Now I’m going to touch you again on the throat. It’ll be a soft touch, with a pressure of less than ten kilopascals and it’ll last two seconds. Time it mentally. And keep your eyes open.”

I follow the trajectory of his hand with my eyes, so I’m prepared for the moment a soft weight presses into the squishy part of my neck. At first, the tautened cords of my neck muscles protrude reflexively, but once I begin counting, a sense of calm prevails over me.

I relax into his touch. It’s only a touch. It’ll only last two seconds.

One. Two.

Then his hand’s gone.

“You didn’t flinch this time,” he observes, impressed.

Hope flickers weakly inside me. “Because I knew what was going to happen.”

“Exactly. My hypothesis has been proven.”

“Come again?”

“I hypothesized that you’re scared of the unknown. Your sense of security is threatened by unanticipated touches and other unpredictable actions. Therefore, I explained my actions in detail beforehand, taking away the element of surprise. And you were okay.”

“I see…”

That’s clever. I’ve never delved into my own psyche deeply enough to understand the cause of my fear. To me, it was fear, black and white; a wall of emotion without a cause. But every phenomenon has a cause, doesn’t it? And by examining it, the cause can be found. I’m starting to see science in a whole new light.

“Wanna try it again?” His grin is a mile wide.

So is mine. “You bet.”

Angling for the pencil and notepad on the table, Henry scribbles down something. “Let’s do a kiss this time. I will lay my lips on yours, again with a pressure of ten kilopascals, for four seconds. Once this time has passed, part your lips by two inches. I will then suckle on your bottom lip for three seconds. Ready?”

Hearing a kiss broken down like that has already put me at ease. Rather than a kiss, it sounds like I’m doing a scientific experiment. It takes the romance right out of the act, to be sure, but it also takes the fear out of it.

Putting my hands on my thighs, I wait breathlessly for Henry’s lips to brush against mine. Ten kilopascals, did he say? Mmmm…that sort of pressure feels heavenly on the lips. And four seconds, I’ve just realized, is barely a sneeze.

As per the instructions, my bottom lip juts out, allowing Henry’s mouth access to mine. For three seconds, I let him knead my lips into submission. Those three seconds fly by in a blink. I’m not ready to let go, so I press the back of his head to keep him glued to my mouth for thirteen more seconds.

You know, thirteen gets a bad rap for no reason.

Flushing crimson, Henry releases me. “I assume it went well for you.”

“Very well, thank you.”

Handing me a new set of instructions—this time for a French kiss—he lets me read them instead of explaining. The script brings it all together in my head—enacting scripts is the one thing I absolutely excel at.

Then we’re at it again, and again, and again.

The whole thing becomes a hypnotic rhythm—Henry’s clipped, precise instructions followed by the act, followed by counting. The counting actually consumes all my concentration and prevents wavering thoughts. It also keeps me grounded in the moment. With my focus sharpened, I can experience the friction of his rough skin against mine in a much richer way. In the space between the numbers, there’s pure sensation.

At thirty seconds past the first minute, we’re both naked. Forty-five seconds later, I’m sucking at his throat.

Sex unfolds like a well-plotted primetime drama.

Two-thirty—I’ve left a hickey on his neck.

Three-thirty—His thumb caresses my inner thighs, coaxing them to part.

Three-fifty—I moan. First time in a year.

Four minutes—He fondles the swollen lips of my pussy. I moan again. Actually it’s more like a growl.

Four twenty-five—The numbers are starting to blur inside my head, but the sensations are becoming more vivid.

Four fifty-five—I finish feeling up the entire length of Henry’s hard shaft. Conclusion: Rock and I are going to be best friends.

Five minutes—My body temperature has soared two degrees above normal. Pinpricks of heat tickle my groin.

Five-twenty—Foreplay begins in earnest. My pussy is introduced to his tongue. They fall in love at first sight.

Here and there, I spazz out, especially when the intensity of pleasure is beyond my ability to handle, but I get myself back together and soldier on. There are enough wonderful sensations flowing into my body to motivate me to keep at it. My discomfort hasn’t disappeared, but it’s rearing its head less frequently.

Knowledge is power, I suppose.

Twenty minutes after we started this thing, I’m finally wet enough to be penetrated. Kudos to Henry for even bringing me to this stage. Guy has the patience of a saint, if he’s tirelessly performed cunnilingus on me for that long.

Henry rolls on a condom, wiping away sweat from my brow, bending down until his breath blows on my face. “This wasn’t in the script…but I’m going to penetrate you now, with a thrust velocity of five inches a second.”

A furious blush ignites my cheeks. “You don’t have to be that specific.”

“I’m not taking any chances on you.”

I slap his arm. “I can’t make sense of numbers anymore, so don’t explain, just do it.”

Mental math was never my strong suit, and counting twenty-four hundred seconds could just about render anybody brain dead.

“Open for me, baby.”

My pussy opens to him. I’m feeling strangely lighthearted, mostly because my brain’s as empty as a new house. I feel the weight descending inside my vagina, the rhythmic movement, the raw power of Henry’s penis as it pushes and pushes against my walls and past my limits. He pulls in and out, counting the seconds long after I’ve lost count.

Next thing I know, an orgasm is crashing into me. My muscles contract, releasing a flood of pleasure. Fear can’t exist in the presence of such a glorious high, so it crawls back to its dark hole.

In that short interval of time, everything in the room radiates an unearthly light. Love wins. Fear loses. Sex is amazing. The man next to me is smiling. I’m smiling. Heck, even the portrait of a poppy on the wall seems to be grinning from ear-to-ear. It’s a testament to how delirious I am that I don’t question the logical validity of a flower smiling.

Who cares about petty details when the world is filled with so much beauty and joy?

“Thanks,” I say to Henry, who sinks into the bed at my side, as spent as me.

I pray his tongue survives today’s ordeal.

“Glad I could be of service,” he replies, out of breath.

How in the world I managed to loosen up enough to orgasm, I’ll never know. Maybe I should ask Henry later. There might be a scientific explanation for it.

But I won’t stress about that tonight.

Tonight I’ll be happy.