Chapter 4
1485 Words
Chapter 4: Snowed In and Secrets Unraveling
Rita's POV
The warmth of Henry’s arms is immediate, solid, and so steady it makes me feel like I might actually be okay. I’m not a "hug it out" kind of person, but tonight, it’s different. I don't even realize I’m gripping his jacket until he rubs slow circles on my back.
“Breathe,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
I do. A shaky inhale. A trembling exhale. My eyes are squeezed shut so tight I see sparks of light.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he asks, still holding on, but there’s no pressure in his voice. No demand. Just patience.
“No,” I mutter against his shoulder, pulling back quickly. I swipe at my face like I can erase all the signs of whatever that was. “It’s nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing,” he says, watching me carefully. His gaze is too sharp, too knowing. It’s like he can see right through me, and I hate it.
“I’m fine, Henry,” I insist, forcing myself to stand straighter. I cross my arms over my chest like it’s armor. “It’s been a long day. You should go home.”
“Storm’s picking up,” he says, glancing behind him at the snow blowing sideways under the porch light. “Roads are slick. I’d rather wait it out for a bit.”
I hesitate, chewing on my lip. He’s right. The wind is howling like a pack of wolves, and the snow is already piling up fast. It’s not safe to drive.
“Fine,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “But don’t expect me to make you coffee.”
He snorts, stomping the snow off his boots before stepping inside. “Please. I’m the guest. You’re supposed to offer me coffee.”
“Not in this house,” I mutter, locking the door behind him.
He kicks off his boots, shaking off his jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door. His flannel shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the faint smell of cold air and pine follows him in.
I glance toward the stairs, listening for any sounds from Lily’s room. It’s quiet. Good. She doesn’t need to see me like this.
Henry follows my gaze, his brow creased. “Lily asleep?”
“Yeah,” I say, heading toward the kitchen. “She’s been out for a while.”
“Good,” he says, grabbing a chair at the table and dropping into it like he’s been here a hundred times before. "Means we can talk without an audience."
I shoot him a look from the kitchen. "Talk? About what?"
"About why you looked ready to collapse when you answered that door," he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes are locked on me, and it’s unnerving.
“Drop it, Henry,” I warn, opening a cabinet to grab a mug. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
“You never are,” he says, tilting his head. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop asking.”
I grip the edge of the counter, pressing my fingertips hard against the cool surface. My heart is still racing from the call with Terry, and I don’t know if I have the energy to argue with Henry tonight.
He doesn’t push, though. Just sits there, quiet and steady, like he’s waiting for me to c***k.
I pour myself some tea, letting the steam rise up in soft, slow swirls. The warmth of the cup grounds me. I take a sip, eyes closed, letting the quiet stretch between us.
“Was it him?” Henry asks suddenly, and I freeze.
I glance at him from over the rim of my cup. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow. “Terry. He called, didn’t he?”
I grip the mug tighter, the ceramic edge digging into my palms. “It’s none of your business.”
“Wrong,” he says, leaning forward, his voice low and firm. “It is my business if he’s messing with you again.”
“Messing with me?” I scoff, setting the mug down harder than I mean to. “He’s not ‘messing with me,’ Henry. He’s Lily’s father. He’s allowed to call.”
“Not at night,” Henry snaps, his jaw tight. “Not after everything he put you through.”
Heat rises to my face, but I’m not sure if it’s anger or embarrassment. Maybe both. “I can handle it,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’ve been handling it.”
“Yeah?” He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re one call away from falling apart.”
I flinch. The truth hurts worse than any insult. I hate that he sees it. I hate that he’s right.
“Just leave it alone,” I mutter, turning away from him. “Please, Henry.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches so far it feels like it might snap. But instead of arguing, he sighs.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “For now.”
---
Half an Hour Later
The wind howls harder now, rattling the windows like something’s trying to break in. I sit on the couch, bundled in a blanket, the faint glow of the Christmas tree casting shadows on the wall.
Henry is still here. Feet propped on the coffee table, arms folded behind his head like he’s settling in for the night. I don’t have the energy to kick him out, and honestly, it’s kind of nice not being alone right now.
“You’re quiet,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I’m tired,” I reply, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
He nods slowly, eyes flicking to the window. “Storm’s worse than they said.”
“Figures,” I mutter, eyes half-closed. The gentle flicker of the Christmas lights makes me feel drowsy. “The weather people are never right.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not driving home in that,” he says, stretching out his legs.
I peek at him from under the blanket. “You planning on crashing here?”
“Yep,” he says, popping the “p” like it’s a done deal.
“On the couch,” I add firmly.
“Obviously,” he says, tossing me a grin. “I’m not about to sleep on the porch, am I?”
I snort, leaning back into the cushions. “Lucky for you, I’m too tired to argue.”
He grins wider, like he’s won something. “I’ll take it.”
The silence returns, but this time, it’s different. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just... quiet. Outside, the storm rages, but in here, it’s still.
I glance over at him again, watching as his eyes drift toward the tree. The soft glow of the lights reflects off his face, and for a second, he doesn’t look like the cocky guy I’ve known since high school. He looks... thoughtful.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his eyes stay on the tree. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
He pauses, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch. “About how different everything feels this year.”
I nod slowly, understanding more than I want to admit. “Yeah. Different.”
“Not bad, though,” he adds, glancing at me. “Just... different.”
I don’t say anything, but I know what he means. This year is not like the others.
For better or worse, it’s different.
---
Later That Night
The wind wakes me up. It’s louder now, like a freight train roaring past the house. I blink, disoriented, my blanket half on the floor. The glow from the Christmas tree lights up the room just enough for me to see Henry still on the couch.
Except now, he’s sitting up, eyes focused on something outside the window. His body is tense, his jaw tight.
“What is it?” I whisper, my voice groggy.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps staring. Then, slowly, he glances back at me.
“Someone’s outside,” he says quietly.
My heart stops.
“What?” I sit up, every muscle suddenly alert.
He stands, moving slowly toward the window, careful not to make a sound. His eyes stay on the front yard.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice low and steady.
Chills race down my spine that have nothing to do with the cold.
“Henry,” I whisper, my throat dry. “Who is it?”
His eyes narrow, scanning the darkness outside. Then, his voice sharp as a blade, he says one word:
“I don’t know.”
- Writer
