DEPRAVITY : Embry Call

04

When I get home, Henry is in the kitchen. He's washing his plate, presumably from dinner, even though he should've eaten hours ago. I head inside to grab some food.

"Your home late," he points out, turning to face me. "What are you wearing?"

"I stopped by a friend's fire," I say. "Forks is more outdoorsy than New York, I guess."

"Yeah, you smell like a fire," he says, crinkling his nose. He pinches the bridge of it. "I made tacos if you want any."

"Thank you," I say. I open the fridge and pull out the ingredients. Then, I heat the meat in the microwave and get started on prepping my wrap.

"You're welcome," he says, so sour it probably would curdle the milk in the fridge.

I glance over at him, and then back at my food. "How was work?"

"Good," he says.

He works as a small business consultant for his father's company. The work is remote, easy, and pays more than my salary ever could, even as a doctor. He's made a business out of making a business. He'll take over his father's company in ten years.

He doesn't elaborate on his day.

As I finish putting my tacos together, I sit down at the table. I'm in the mood for something sugary, like s'mores, but I don't want to admit that. Instead, I take a few small bites of the food. This is one of the few times in recent memory he has cooked and left enough for me.

I take the kindness and put it in my pocket. I'll remember it.

"Do you have any interesting clients right now?" I ask.

"Some," he answers. "What friends have you made?"

I shrug, "I met one at the library."

"Forks has a library?" he asks.

I nod. Apparently so, since Fawn claims to work there as well as at the diner. I guess they don't pay librarians all too much.

"It's small," I tell him. At least, I assume it's small. It's doubtful that this library can even compare to any at my colleges.

"We both could've gone to the fire, you know," he says. "I could use a friend or two in the area."

"We haven't exactly been communicating since our last dinner," I try not to sound accusatory, just stating it matter of factly.

I want this to work. I need this to work out between us. Not only do I love him, which I do in my own twisted way, but my parents depend on his money. Even if we have our rough patches, prickly like his beard the day after he last shaved, we have our good times too.

He sits down next to me as I eat. He chats about a few customers who have been leaving him puzzled, about living under his father's thumb, and about a coworker who has been flirted with him relentlessly.

I nearly choke on my food, "sorry?"

"Yeah," he answers. "You remember Carlie. She doesn't seem to understand that when I say I'm married, it means that I'm taken."

I swallow down my own sense of self-worth, as well as the taco. I'm sure it mixes in an ugly brown mess on its way to my stomach. The name Carlie is familiar. We must have met at some sort of Christmas party or mixer or something while I was still in med school.