Henry is a romantic. We all are in our own little ways, but Henry truly has the beating heart of a soppy Hugh Grant character locked up in his surprisingly hairy chest. His favourite film is When Harry Met Saly, for God's sakes—the OG friends to lovers, with a momentary dash of enemies for kicks and giggles. If that's not a man who burns for true love, I don't know what is.
Henry's also ridiculously risk-averse. Mix that with his secret love of love, and you get a monster with a string of broken hearts flying in his wake, his own front and centre in the pathetic lineup.
But mystery girl is his chance. His chance at redemption, at romance, at a rom-com ending. And if his fussing is anything to go by, he knows it too.
He strides into my room, trouserless, and slams two pairs of shorts onto my bed. They're both blue, unfaded, with glinting silver buttons and thick upturned hems. He holds the first pair to his body. "What do you think?" he asks. "Too short?"
"I don't know, ask Paula." She's the resident fashionista around here.
"She'll tell me they both look fine."
"Maybe because they do."
"Yes, but this one is a little shorter than this one." He gestures vaguely at the identical shorts, his lips pursed as he stares at me.
"Fine, then go with the longer ones."
"And this shirt?" he asks, fingering the navy Hawaiian print material.
"Yes, and that shirt."
"You sure?"
"I'm not going to let you leave looking like shit," I mutter as I rifle through my makeup bag.
"And you're sure you still want to come?" he asks.
"Yes, Henry, I'm sure."
"I'm serious, Lizzie. I don't need you deciding this isn't your kind of thing at the last minute."
"I'll be on my best behaviour."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He rushes over, pinkie finger stuck in the air. It captures mine before I can spring away. My bones whine under the pressure, then he steps back and sets me free.
"There." I huff as I cradle my throbbing finger in my left hand. "Are you happy now?"
"Immensely." He wriggles into his shorts before shoving me aside to hog the mirror. "What do you think?" he asks, leaning into his reflection, a slight frown toying on the corners of his mouth. "Do I look ridiculous?"
"You look fine."
"Fine?" He twirls around, his knuckles already in his mouth.
"Perfect," I say, my eyebrows twitching.
"You sure?"
"Of course. If she doesn't fall in love straight away, she's a massive idiot."
"Essie," he whispers. "Her name is Essie."
"Pretty."
"I know." He collapses onto my unmade bed, sighing as he falls like a fragile damsel. Honestly, he's two seconds away from placing a hand to his head and swooning like a straight-laced Austen character. It's ridiculous. "She's perfect," he says. "Too perfect for me."
"Nobody's perfect."
"You haven't seen her, Lizzie. She's like no one I've ever met before."
"I highly doubt that."
YOU ARE READING
Bliss
Teen FictionTwo weeks. Two weeks of sun, sand and stress-free fun. At least that's the package Lizzie was sold. Little does she know, the package was a dream. A sweetly wrapped lie fed to her by those she trusts the most. There will be sand, sure. And sun, lot...
