Daydream: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 3)

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT WALKING OUT into the fresh December air knowing I don’t have to think about college again until the first week of January that makes everything in my life so much better.

Henry is engrossed in his cell phone on a bench when I walk out of the English building with Rory. He’s completely oblivious to the group of women talking about him to his left when we walk toward him. He looks up as I reach him, smiling at me in a way that makes my heart pound.

“Is the oxygen oxygening more today?” I ask when he stands, pushing his phone into his pocket and kissing my cheek. “Or is it me?”

“Halle’s being weird today,” Aurora says. “Like, really super weird and unnaturally joyous.”

His eyebrows crease, nose scrunching in the way it does. “It’s you. Air is air.”

“I have so many things I’m going to achieve over winter break and I’m excited to not feel like a failure anymore,” I say. “I’m going to get ahead in everything and get my life in order.”

“Sounds boring. How much more in order can your life get?” Henry says, pulling my book bag from my shoulder and slinging it over his.

I don’t bother answering him because he has no idea how many half-written and half-thought-out chapters I have collecting virtual dust on my laptop right now. I also need to type up the chapter I for whatever reason decided to write by hand. My first draft was supposed to be done so I could spend the next couple of months editing before I need to submit in March. I still haven’t finished the second act, and God knows what will happen when I get to the third.

I’m so behind, but I’ve decided to see spending Christmas working as a blessing and not a disappointment, and that when class starts again, I’ll be back to my usual undistracted and organized self.

“Yeah, I’m with him. You’re one of the most put-together people I know,” Aurora says, turning to face Henry. “But speaking of people who don’t have their lives together… How’s the soul-crushing panic treating you? When’s your last exam?”

“You’re being very judgmental about my choices for a person deeply in need of therapy,” Henry says, and while my instinct is to gasp, Aurora laughs. “It’s this afternoon and I’m genuinely not worried.”

“I also think lying is fun.” She looks down at her cell phone and smiles. “Russ just texted to say he’s finished. We’re going Christmas shopping; do you need me to pick anything up for you?”

I think she’s talking to Henry at first, but then I realize she’s looking at me. “Sorry, what?”

“Have you finished your Christmas shopping, or do you need some help? We’re going to the mall, but if there’s something specific you need, I can use the personal shopper service my mom has. They’ll gift wrap and arrange for it to be mailed to Phoenix for you, too.”

I know it’s not a huge deal, but Aurora’s offer catches me off guard. She already did me a huge favor by helping me organize the gift from my siblings when they were hounding me; I’d never expect her to help with anyone else.

I also can’t think of a time when anyone has offered to help me at Christmas. I’m always in charge of making sure everyone has the right gift for everyone else, and people think nothing of it.

“I’ve finished already, but thank you for offering.”

“No problem! Text me if you think of anything. Bye, lovebirds.”

Aurora lifts her phone to her ear as she walks away, and when she’s out of earshot, Henry finally talks. “I have two hours to kill. Do you want to break the ‘No heavy petting in the library’ rule with me?”

An unexpected laugh bursts out of me and he pulls me closer, laughing too. His hands settle on my neck, tilting my head back gently to look up at him. “As festive and not at all voyeuristic as that sounds, I promised I’d work at Enchanted for a couple of hours to help with the last-minute gift-buying as people start to leave town for Christmas.”

He pouts. Like actually. “Are you saying no to me?”

“You do keep telling me that I should say no to people.”

His thumb rubs along my jawline. “I mean everyone else, not me.”

“Ah, well, the instructions were unclear, so I’ll be saying no to everything you ask me from now on.”

“That’s not going to happen, though, is it? I’m taking you out later to celebrate surviving Thornton.”

I feel like everyone is looking at us, but I’m trying to tell myself it’s in my head. We’re standing so close together, talking in hushed voices, while Henry touches my face gently. I don’t know how we ended up here, but I don’t want it to stop.

“I just told you I’m saying no to everything you ask me,” I tease.

“And I didn’t ask you.” My mouth opens to object, then closes, then opens again, but I don’t have anything to fight back with because he’s got me there. “Are you being a goldfish? What’s happening?”

“You, Henry Turner. You’re happening. You are constantly happening to me.”

He leans in slowly, grinning before kissing me in a way that makes my entire body tingle. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes.”

“I told you saying no to me wasn’t going to happen.”

“What should I wear later?” I ask, apparently accepting his non-invitation with no objections. “For our plans.”

He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Something you like.”

“You are so, so helpful.”

“I know. It’s one of my many talents.”

THE DAY HAS FLOWN BY and I’m grateful that I don’t work in retail full time.

In a bid to decompress from the chaos that was working in Enchanted, I attempted to work on my book, and as a result have left myself with not enough time to find matching shoes. By the time Henry lets himself into my house, I only have one. It takes all my powers not to drool when I look up from where I’m kneeling on the floor of my closet and spot Henry standing there in a suit and white shirt.

“Why are you eye-fucking me?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe calmly.

“I’m not!” I argue, although I definitely might be. “Okay, it’s the suit.”

“You see me in a suit every week.”

“That suit is different.” I don’t know anything about men’s fashion, but this one looks like it was made to mold to every muscle in his body. Not too tight, just enough to accentuate his physique. “You look really good.”

He just smiles, which I’m going to accept as agreement. Henry reaches into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “I was going to do flowers, but I thought you might be bored of them.”

“I could never get bored of anything you create.” I open the piece of paper he hands me and find a drawing of me staring back. I’m in my living room reading a book with Joy in my lap. It looks like a photograph. “Did you do this from memory?”

“Yeah. I started it a couple of weeks ago, but I finished it last night.”

“I thought you said you were studying last night!” I say, my voice creeping higher than it should.

“No, I said I was busy working. I never said I was studying.” My jaw drops. “Halle, if you’re going to stay kneeling on the floor in front of me with your mouth wide open, we might end up having a very different evening than the one I’ve planned. Just say thank you and hurry up.”

Every inch of my body gets hotter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and you look really good, too.”

Henry watches me until I finally find my other shoe, and holds out his hand to help me from the floor. “I have two shoes. I’m ready. Do I get to know where we’re going yet?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “It’s a surprise.”

We put the makeshift cardboard wall around my Christmas tree to prevent Joy from trying to climb it and leave her with Destiny’s Child’s Christmas album playing for company. I truly believe that Henry would bring her everywhere we go in one of those cat backpacks if I let him.

We sit in a comfortable quiet, letting the radio fill the silence between us as we idle in traffic. His hand is holding the inside of my thigh, and I’m trying to hold myself together.

He turns the radio down, twisting in his seat to face me as we slowly creep down the highway. “Have you written anything today?”

“Maybe like a thousand words before I started getting ready. I was pretty tired after helping at the bookstore.”

“And what were your imaginary friends doing for those thousand words?” he asks, eyes darting between the road and me. “Is she dating his friend yet?”

“No, the book moves around in time so you see the key things in their story. I’m writing the past when she’s worried she likes him more than he could ever like her, because he isn’t a relationship guy. She’s scared to get hurt and she’s keeping bits of herself back, which he hates. She wants him to prove that he deserves those bits before she hands them over, and he wants her to just trust that he can be the person she needs because what they have is special enough for the risk.”

“And can he? Change for her?”

“No.”

He keeps checking between me and the road, which is how I catch his furrowed brow. “Why not?”

“You’re asking me to spoil the book for you?” He nods. “I don’t know yet. I’m working it out as I go. Mainly because I question if one person should change to be in love with another person. At what point do you eventually revert back to the person you were? And is the love even genuine if you had to become someone else to achieve it?”

“I disagree,” he says. “I think the right person makes you the person you were supposed to be in the first place. I don’t agree that you become a different person. That suggests people can’t change through all the other factors that make people evolve that aren’t romantic.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve seen my friends change for the better because they fell in love with the right person. If people only fell in love when the other person became their perfect match, messy relationships wouldn’t exist. People can’t control when they fall in love. You wanted to love Will, but you couldn’t.”

I take in what he’s saying, and it seems so different from our first date when we talked about my idea. “What happened to not valuing romantic love above the other types?”

“What happened to complicated is exciting?” He squeezes my leg playfully. “Does she really have to marry someone else?”

“I haven’t written it yet, but yeah. That’s the plan.”

“I’m going to keep asking.” He tsks. “I still have faith in my imaginary man. He’s going to pull it out of the bag and win her.”

The traffic picks up and we revert back to our normal comfortable silence. I realize where we’re going when Henry takes a familiar exit, and I’m immediately glad I found my other flat shoe. I’ve always intended to visit the Byrd & Bolton art gallery, but I haven’t had anyone to go with.

Henry climbs out of the car, immediately walking to my side and opening the door for me. He holds out his hand. “You’ve really got this gentleman thing down,” I tease.

“It’s the suit.” He threads his fingers through mine like he did earlier. “Makes me act up.”

He produces two tickets when we reach the entrance and scans us through the barrier. “I’ve always wanted to come here,” I admit. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“I’ve been wanting to bring you for a while. I was just hoping I’d have something special to show you here.”

I let him guide me through the first floor; his hand grips my waist to gently tug me out of the path of someone staring at a pamphlet as they walk toward us. His finger runs down the length of my forearm. “You have goose bumps. Are you cold?”

“The AC is a little high,” I flat-out lie. Lying might be bad, but so is admitting that my body does weird, uncontrollable things in his presence. “It’s my fault for wearing this dress.”

“The dress is perfect, and you look perfect in it,” he says, shrugging off his suit jacket. Before I have time to object, he places it over my shoulders. “I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Thank you,” I say, but it comes out as more of a whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know.”

Henry gives me a funny look and retakes my hand. “It’s supposed to be around this corner.”

We pass signs for a local up-and-comers exhibition on display through December. He stops in front of a large painting.

It could be a photograph, it’s so intricately detailed. The women are sitting together at a table outside; light blue sea and small white buildings are their backdrop. Their intertwined hands rest on the table between wineglasses, and their faces are turned toward each other. The woman on the left has pale white skin and dark blond hair, cut to a length that just skims her collarbone. Her blue-and-white collared shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I can just about make out the Y and H initials hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.

I’m captivated by how the artist has shown her laughing; I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.

The other woman has rich brown skin and long reddish-brown hair braided down to her chest, where it turns into perfectly identical curls. Her bone structure feels familiar, like I’ve met her before. The part of her outfit I can see is the softest shade of buttercup yellow, but the thing I can’t take my eyes off of is her smile.

It’s mesmerizing, and even as someone with no knowledge of art, I can tell the time and care that’s gone into this piece. Someone who loves these women painted this; I’m sure of it.

Beneath the name of the painting is a much smaller rectangular plaque with black letters sitting on a white background.

Two Women in Love Henry Turner

“You painted this?” I’m trying not to let the shock show on my face, since it feels like I spend a lot of time with my mouth hanging open around this man. “Henry, it’s stunning. Are they your moms?”

He nods. “I’m glad you like it. Okay, we can go now,” he says, placing his hand on my waist.

“Wait!” I whisper, twisting to face him. “You’re showing me your art, Henry.”

“Why are you telling me like I didn’t organize this?”

“Because this is monumental for me. You don’t like people looking at your work and you’re voluntarily showing me work that isn’t of me or on me. Can you understand how special that makes me feel?”

“You are special, Halle,” he says, leaning forward to kiss my forehead.

“Please tell me about the painting, Henry. When did you do it? It must have taken hours. Where is it?”

“I did it during summer break. Russ was working at a summer camp; Nate, JJ, and Joe all moved away; Robbie was with Lola and visiting his parents. I had a lot of free time. It was on their anniversary vacation to Greece last year. They borrowed my camera for the trip, and I found it when I was looking for something else. They look so happy in the photo. I decided I wanted to paint it.”

“What do they think of it?”

“Wow, you’re asking a lot of questions tonight. They haven’t seen it yet. I forgot to tell them I’d submitted it. They both have some vacation time for Christmas, so I’ll ask if they want to see it one of those days I’m home.”

“They’re going to want to see it, Henry. They’re definitely going to want to. I’m so proud of you, and I’m so honored that you’ve shared it with me. Do you want me to take your picture with it or something? This is so special. I feel like we need to commemorate it somehow.”

Henry looks down at me like I have three heads. “I’m good.”

“Don’t you want a picture to show people? Or to remember it?” Short of picking him up and putting him next to the painting, I will convince him.

“If people want to see it, they can come here. It’s an art gallery,” he says calmly. People pass by us, not stopping to pay attention to the two people standing face to face, debating with each other. “I don’t care about these hypothetical people. I wanted to show you and I have.”

“But I want the experience of taking your picture next to your beautiful artwork,” I say, definitely pouting. Childish, but hopefully effective.

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. “I’m too busy to take a picture.” He lifts both of his shoulders and tilts his head, giving me a look that says “Waddaya gonna do?”

“You’re too busy?” I repeat.

“Number one in the Henry and Halle code of conduct rule book: we have to be honest about how busy we are.”

“You’re—” God, he’s smiling really big now. “Insufferable.”

“How about we compromise?” Both of his hands find my waist and my pulse ping-pongs around my body as he walks me backward slowly. There’s no sound except my feet hitting the floor and our breathing. When I sense the wall behind me he stops moving, letting go of me to take a few steps back himself. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and holds it up. “I’ll take your picture with it.”

“You’re joking.”

“If you want this picture to turn out nice, I recommend you stop talking and start smiling, because you look possessed in that last one.”

“You’re rid—”

“Oops, there’s another one.”

“Fine!” I snap, smiling next to his painting.

After ten seconds he finally lowers his phone. “Beautiful.”

“Do I get to see?” He nods and walks over, handing me his phone. “I’m deleting the bad ones.”

“But they’re my favorite,” he groans as I pull up his camera roll.

He wasn’t joking—I really do look possessed. I spend more time deleting awful pictures than I do looking at nice ones, but at least I know I’m not going to come here one day and see it hanging on the wall.

“Are you done being a photography critic? We have a dinner reservation and I’m so hungry.”

“I’m not done looking at your work,” I say. We stand side by side in silence, elbows touching, looking at the two people who made Henry Turner the man he is. “How do you feel when you look at it?”

He mulls over my question for a little while, but I don’t mind waiting. “Lucky. What about you?”

“Grateful.”