Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(35)
We’re interrupted by the waiter taking our order, and the fact that I’m eager for him to disappear again so I can tell Henry the end of the story is how I know I’ve picked the right one to work on. “No, it doesn’t. That’s my big twist. The whole time he’s watching her walk down the aisle to get married to someone else.”
Henry is quiet for a moment, tearing off pieces of bread and looking pensive. Until he eventually talks again. “Anastasia and Lola are going to lose their shit if there isn’t a happy ending.”
Henry talked about his friends’ girlfriends and their love of rom-coms when we watched the horror movie together. I can’t help but laugh, because losing their shit is the reaction of most readers I know. “It’s only a fiction competition, so it doesn’t need a happy ending. I want to write something that has romantic elements, but I also want it to stand out. I think having a bit of a twist at the end will set it apart from other entries. I think it’s realistic that two people in love might not get their happy ending.”
“I’m surprised you think that. You give hopeless romantic energy,” he says.
“I think I always had myself down as a hopeless romantic. The things I read, the music I listen to, the movies I watch, etcetera. I guess who we think we are and who we are can be different.”
“I don’t understand the point.”
“Of love? Is this the part where the handsome playboy reveals he doesn’t believe in love? Are we that cliché?”
Henry smiles, and it really invokes a feeling in me I haven’t quite gotten used to yet. “You think I’m handsome? Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m not even sure I know how to flirt, so no.”
“You can practice on me.”
“How generous of you. C’mon. Playboy who doesn’t believe in love, tell me more.” I laugh, but the heat is creeping up my neck. Nobody needs to witness me attempting to flirt, especially not him.
Henry rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling. “You watch too many movies and I’m not a playboy. And no, I do believe in love. I just don’t value it over other types of love. There are people in my life I love. I love art. I love my parents. I watch my friends love each other. I just don’t see what the big deal is about romantic love. Everything seems more complicated when people fall in love with each other.”
“Sometimes complicated is exciting, I guess. I imagine, at least.”
“People value romantic love over platonic love or familial love every day,” he says. “I didn’t really understand platonic love until I met Anastasia, and now I think I’d rather have that with someone. I look at the art people have created on the basis of being in love with someone and it’s never the emotion I feel.”
I can’t think of anyone I platonically love anymore. “What do you mean?”
“If you made a piece of art—a picture—I’d look at your choice of medium, the colors you chose, your personal style, your skill level. I’d see a landscape, or a person, an event, or whatever you wanted to create, but I’d feel something else.
“People paint people they’re in love with and I feel the lust, the longing, the joy, the sadness. It’s a physical manifestation of someone going, Look! Look at how in love I am. But I don’t believe people can look at a painting and see love. I can see friendship, though. It’s hard to explain.”
“Remind me not to paint you anything. I have a feeling you’re a harsh critic.”
Our food arrives and we fill the silence with a mix of questions about my book, life, and family while we eat. By the time our desserts—plural because Henry ordered multiple when we couldn’t decide—arrive, I realize all I’ve done is talk about myself.
“Are you avoiding talking about yourself on purpose or…” I ask, taking my first bite of cheesecake.
He leans over with his fork, stealing the top corner. “I like listening to you talk.”
“Well, I like listening to you talk. Where are you from? Where did you go to high school? When did you realize you could draw? Did you have any pets growing up? What’s your favorite color? Where would you have studied if you didn’t choose UCMH? I don’t know. Tell me something, mystery man.”
At no point in any of the articles I looked at did it say start interrogating your date at the dinner table, but I feel totally self-absorbed right now so we’re going off script.
“I grew up in Maple Hills and I went to Maple Hills Academy from kindergarten to senior year. I don’t know exactly, but I’m told my kindergarten finger paintings rivaled Picasso. My parents put me in a creative kids program after school. We did different things and I learned I liked basically everything. No pets because my nanny was allergic to almost everything. I don’t have a favorite color.”
I’m trying not to visually react to the idea of Henry in a Maple Hills Academy uniform. It’s a private school not far from the hotel, and I see the kids after school sometimes when I’m driving to work. Little Henry in a blazer and tie sounds adorable.
“I don’t believe you don’t have a favorite color. You’re an artist, for God’s sake.”
“Adults don’t have favorite colors, Halle,” he says, stealing another piece of my cheesecake. I push the plate slightly closer to him, but he pushes it back and stands up. Saying nothing, he moves his chair beside me and sits back down, moving the plate between us. “And Parsons, but everyone told me I’d regret not playing hockey if I didn’t go to UCMH. I wouldn’t have, but I was scared of moving to the other side of the country and trying to make friends.”