Anne & Henry by Dawn Ius Read Free Book Online Page B

burgers are out of this—”
    The word hangs on the tip of my tongue as the restaurantdoor swings open. Anne and her mother stand at the threshold, eyes narrowed, scanning for a table. Anne cocks her head and pouts. I can’t help it. Before I think about the consequences, I stand and wave my hands back and forth like an idiot until Anne sees me.
    Our eyes lock.
    She hesitates.
    Maybe I should be nervous, wary of my mother’s inevitable reaction, but it’s like I’m someone else, someone decidedly not Henry Tudor. I motion Anne over and make room on the bench beside me.
    â€œMrs. Boleyn,” I say, and point to the seat next to my mother.
    â€œIt’s Harris now,” she says, holding out her hand like we all need a reminder of her new status. Her diamond is blinding under the harsh overhead lights. My mother’s skin pales, and for a second I revel in her discomfort. Mrs. Harris may be married to the architect, but she’s not an equal—not by a long shot.
    Anne slides onto the seat next to me and our thighs touch, a split second of shared heat.
    My mother plasters on one of her “for the people” smiles. “Lovely to see you both,” she says, though I notice she doesn’t look at Anne, not even from her well-practiced periphery. “Your husband is . . . ?”
    â€œAway,” Mrs. Harris says, and sighs. “I thought it might bea nice time to explore the neighborhood. Grab a quick bite to eat.” She twists around to scope out the room. “This place is . . . charming.”
    â€œIndeed,” my mother says, giving me an evil side-eye. I’m so going to pay for this.
    Sweat dots Mrs. Harris’s chest and forehead. There’s a strand of thread unraveling at the collar of her faded black sweater. Though not as polished, pulled together, regal as my mother, there’s something striking about her. Not hard to see where Anne gets it from.
    â€œWhat’s good here?” Anne says.
    I hold up my cup. “Best strawberry shakes in the state.”
    â€œHow about the chocolate?”
    I shrug, try to suck more out of the straw, and come up empty. “Never tried it.”
    Anne wrinkles her nose. “Pretty cozy there in your comfort zone, huh?”
    The slight twinges a bit. She hasn’t known me long enough to make those kinds of comments, even if she’s half right. “If it ain’t broke . . .”
    My mother fishes around in her designer purse and pulls out an embellished gold wallet. She digs out a hundred-dollar bill and hands it to me with a counterfeit smile. “Henry, go pick out a couple of burgers for Mrs. Harris and her daughter. I’m sure you’ll know what’s best.”
    â€œOh,” Anne’s mother says, and presses her palm againsther chest. “That’s generous of you, but I can get this. My husband left me his—”
    â€œDouble cheese, Mom?” Anne says, a deliberate interruption. I almost wince with her embarrassment.
    Anne slips out of the seat, not bothering to wait as she makes her way to the front counter. She surveys the menu, the extensive list of burger combinations, everything from plain cheese to Arthur’s favorite, the Mexican. I come up behind Anne, breathe in her earthy scent.
    â€œWell, this is awkward,” she says, not looking back.
    I glance over at the table where our mothers appear engrossed in conversation, though I can’t imagine what they have to talk about. “They’ll figure it out,” I say.
    Anne orders two identical double burgers, loaded, minus the onions, extra on the ketchup and Jack cheese, pickles on the side. She passes on the shakes, asks for sodas instead.
    â€œYou’re seriously not even going to try one?”
    Anne presses her lips together. “Lactose intolerant.”
    â€œOh shit, really?”
    â€œNo.”
    Fuck me. Played again.
    Before I can come up with