Seraph of Sorrow (38 page)

CHAPTER 18

Threatened

Over the next few years, Hank avoided Glorianna Seabright at every possible turn. Instead, he nurtured a friendship with Wendy Williamson. She enjoyed archery, so he practiced it with her. She liked modern abstract painting, and so he went to art museums to learn more about it. She enrolled at the University of Minnesota, and so he made plans to do the same.

His actions ignored inconvenient truths—that he wasn’t as good as she was with a bow, that modern art resembled nothing to him so much as two- or three-dimensional vomit, and that his late father had always hoped he’d attend one of the exclusive private colleges in Minnesota.

Wendy Williamson was worth it, he was sure.

A few months after arriving on the Twin Cities campus of the university, Hank was sitting with Wendy at a local coffee shop and decided to pop the question.

“Out?” Wendy replied with a furrow in her brow. “What, you mean like a date?”

“Yeah.” The spoon in his coffee swirled faster. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”

“Oh, Hank. I think I like us as just friends.”

The coffee spoon stood still. Hank had heard of the
just friends
phrase before, though it had never been used on him. Why, the dating landscape of the world was littered with the wreckage of young, brash male pilots who dared to fly their fragile jets of romance through the hurricane-force winds of female friendship. He refused to crash among them.

“I don’t,” he blurted. He caught her reaction and tapped his spoon on the coffee mug nonchalantly. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t like being your friend. I do. It’s more that I don’t like being . . .
just
your friend. I think we can be more. I think it would be chickenshit not to try.”

She rolled her tongue inside her pretty cheek. “So I’m chickenshit, unless I date you.”

He matched her cold tone with some chill of his own. “I didn’t say that.”

“Hank, I don’t think this is a good idea—”

“Why not try it? We have nothing to lose.”

“We have our
friendship
to lose,” she pointed out.

“If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back to being friends!”

Shaking her head, she licked her lips. “That won’t work. It never works.”

“How do you know that? Why are you afraid to try?”

“I’m not afraid! Why do I have to be afraid, or chickenshit, when I don’t agree with you?”

“What is this, if it’s not fear?”

“It’s common sense. We’re too different from one another. You’re younger; you come from an established family; you—”

“Different is good!” he insisted, arms stretched and palms up. “Different people have more to learn from each other! The more different someone is, the more attractive they are!”

She narrowed one eye. “So by that logic, I should seek out a tiny aboriginal man who can’t speak English, prefers Monet over modern art, and hates sociology and anthropology?”

“You should find someone . . .” He hurried to think of neutral descriptors that applied to him. “. . . unexpected, surprising! Maybe someone you weren’t originally attracted to!”

A nervous laugh escaped her. Instead of apologizing, she cocked her head with condescension. “Hank, you’re not making any sense. How can I be attracted to someone I’m not attracted to? You’re being ridicu—”

“I’m sharing my feelings for you!” he pressed. Forcing himself not to panic, he considered his strategy of last resort. Over the course of their friendship, he had gotten to know Wendy well. He knew she had difficulties forming relationships with men, abandonment issues with her father, and a general fear of living (and dying) alone. As her closest male friend, he had a privileged position in her life. And at this desperate point in time, he intended to use that position.
Otherwise,
he asked himself,
what was it all for? Why strike up the friendship with her in the first place, if you’re not willing to do what it takes to get to the next level?

“I’m sharing my feelings,” he continued, leaning in with a harsh whisper, “and all I’m asking for is a chance. Friends give each other chances. They try new things for each other. They set aside their fears and reservations, and they stand up for each other. You say you want to be my friend. Fine, be my friend!”

Her expression softened. “Hank, be reasonable—”

“This isn’t about reason! This is about my feelings! Wendy, most people don’t get chances like this. It’s hard, I know—for both of us—to reach out to others. It’s something we share. It’s a lonely way to live. I don’t want to be alone anymore, Wendy. Do you?”

When he saw the mixture of fear and resignation on her face, Hank knew he had won. “I don’t see why we can’t stay just friends,” she attempted one last time, but it was already over.

Hank did not respond. He stared at her and waited for her to wrestle with herself. Eventually, she lost. “Fine.” She sighed. “We can try a date, I suppose.”

“I’ll make sure every detail is perfect. I promise.”

She returned his smile, weakly. “This weekend?”

“Whenever and wherever you like.” He could afford to be magnanimous in victory.

Familiarity with Wendy Williamson—deepened already during their friendship and rapidly intensifying as they dated—made Hank bolder with the once-imposing woman he had met when he was only fifteen and she was on the verge of adulthood. He came to understand most of the neuroses she had developed while being raised by a judgmental mother and distant father, and the battering her ego had taken at the hands of Glory Seabright. He knew from probing her psyche that Wendy Williamson was pliable, far more than the average woman (and the average woman, Hank felt, seemed already predisposed to please).

In his mind, this made Hank her perfect match. She
needed
the sort of guidance he could give. When the first date worked out okay but her choice of restaurant had slow service, he pointed out that he could find them a nicer place for their second date. He found on the second date that he could make subtle comments about her hair and clothing, and she would change her style to match his preference by the third date. When he rewarded her by telling her how amazing she looked, it lifted his heart to see her smile. Hadn’t he just made them both happier?

He could tell her a few months later, after spending the night in her dormitory room and watching her practice her sword technique, that she looked a little rusty, leading to her missing classes and staying awake to practice for the next forty-eight hours. A year or so after that, he could tell her it was stupid to want to be a sociologist or anthropologist, since there was no money in it and her parents wanted her to move back to Winoka after college anyway, and her major was essentially a big mistake, just like her other naïve dreams for herself. Eventually, he could tell her he didn’t like her tone that much when she argued with him so hotly . . . and she began to back off. Piece by piece, he chipped away at her perceived faults until all that was left of Wendy Williamson were the parts of her that pleased him.

Truth be told, Hank could never remember the name of Wendy’s sorority. Sororities were silly, unnecessary fabrications. Since when did it take a house with Greek letters to get college-aged women to cluster together and do stupid things? The parties they sponsored were no better. Overly loud and crappy music; provocatively dressed females hooting mating calls into the darkness (“Who wants to get me a beer bong?”); flocks of males strutting around until chosen by one of the women, who dragged him by the groin to a quieter, smellier room. The disappointed males left behind would disperse and wait for the next mating call.

He had hoped he had seen the last of these events when Wendy graduated. As it happened, it wasn’t Wendy’s idea to return. It was Elizabeth’s.

“Lizzy wants to show her new boyfriend her old school. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” This was not completely true, since Hank found himself irritated at the thought of Elizabeth Georges with some dork of a boyfriend who would be impressed by a sorority party. “Why do we have to go along?”

Her smile wavered. She knew what she’d say wouldn’t be good enough. “Because you don’t show up at your old sorority by yourself, with a boyfriend! You have to bring someone!”

“So let her find some other chump. You outgrew that place years ago, before you left. I don’t even know why you were in a sorority to begin with.”

She tried a nervous laugh. “Hank, I was in a sorority to make friends. Women supporting women, that sort of thing. Some of those friendships you want to last a lifetime. Lizzy was in the same house. She wants to go back, and she wants me to go. I want to go.”

His jaw set. “Fine. Go.”

“You won’t come with me?”

“It’s not my sorority.”

“It could be fun!”

“It never was.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek. “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me what a cold fish Lizzy is, and how she’s always too busy studying medicine to be a good friend, and how she never calls us to hang? Well, now she’s calling! We should go.”

“You should go. I’m fine staying home.”

“What have you got against going out? Don’t you want to get out of this apartment?”

“It’s not going out that bothers me,” he explained. “It’s going to that place—the same tired place we always went. Instead of asking what’s wrong with me, Wendy, why not ask what’s wrong with
you
? Why do you need to go back? What are you chasing? Are you so bored with me, with our life together, that you need something new? Do you need to go flirt and make out with some strange guy to make a spark happen, to make your life meaningful?”

She licked her lips and cocked her head. It was a very Wendy-from-a-few-years-ago sort of look, and he didn’t care for it. “Great questions, Hank. I suppose there’s only one way for me to answer them. And you’re right—my investigation will be more fun for me if you stay here.”

That got him to go with her, and he was glad he did. Wendy and Lizzy’s sorority had always been known as a magnet for athletic women, which in turn served as a full-spectrum beacon for every college-aged man within a twenty-mile radius.

“For a sorority, there are an awful lot of guys in this house,” he complained to Wendy within seconds of pushing through the sweat-stained crowd.

“Aren’t you glad you’re here to protect my honor?”

“That’s enough of the smart mouth.”

She sighed. “I wonder where Lizzy is.”

Hank had already looked around. “She’s not on this floor. We should try upstairs.”

“I’ll bet she’s in the basement, where the music is.”

He grimaced. The pounding, relentless beat was already threatening a migraine, and that was with the comfort of floorboards between him and the speakers. Fortunately, the lithe and blonde figure of Elizabeth Georges appeared at that moment. She peeled herself from between two burly frat boys to smile at them—or at least at Wendy.

“Wendy! I’m glad you’re here!” The two girls hugged. Then Elizabeth turned to him with flat features. “Hank.” She motioned to a tall, skinny fellow who had encountered difficulty navigating the crevices between frat boys. “This is Jonathan.”

By the time Jonathan finally got to them all and began shaking hands, Hank already didn’t like him. He was a scrawny thing—
so not a beaststalker
—and his goofy smile betrayed a nervousness Hank found unacceptable.
If I had gone into Eveningstar years ago looking like this guy,
he thought,
they would have roasted me on a spit my first night there.
Wendy seemed more accepting at first, but it didn’t take long for her to cool on Jonathan.

“So where are you from?” she asked this scarecrow of a man.

“Eveningstar,” the answer came. Even Elizabeth looked alarmed at that answer, but then she laughed. “Don’t worry about him,” she assured Hank and Wendy. “His family has roots in Winoka. Eveningstar is more of a seasonal home.”

“Really,” Hank spat. “What season would that be?”

Wendy smirked as Jonathan turned to Elizabeth. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong with Eveningstar? You guys have a high school sports rivalry with them or something?”

“It’s nothing, Jon.” Outside her new boyfriend’s field of vision, Elizabeth mouthed to the two of them:
He’s okay, guys. Back off.

Hank couldn’t tell if Jonathan was genuinely innocent or theatrically gifted. In any case, he was gratified to see that Wendy didn’t warm up to him.

After some stilted small talk, Elizabeth tried to save the evening by suggesting they go downstairs. “Everyone’s dancing down there,” she pointed out. “And that’s where the kegs—”

“No thanks,” Hank interrupted. “I’m fine up here.”

Wendy scrunched her face at Hank. “I’ll go downstairs with you, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth considered the combination of Hank and Jon left upstairs together. “Jon, why don’t you show Wendy downstairs? Hank and I will reminisce up here where it’s quieter.”

This idea didn’t seem to go down horribly well with either Wendy or Jonathan, but Hank liked it just fine. “That sounds great. Wendy, get a beer ready for me. We’ll come down in a few minutes.”

Trapped, Wendy glared at Jonathan as he kissed Elizabeth, and then followed him downstairs. Elizabeth’s own features hardened as she watched her boyfriend leave; by the time she began talking to Hank, he wasn’t so sure he wanted this time with her after all.

“Hank. I wanted to talk to you about Wendy. I’m not sure she’s happy.”

“That makes sense. Her best friend’s boyfriend is from Eveningstar.”

“I don’t mean happy right now. I mean, happy anymore.”

“What, with life?”

“With you.”

Hank tried to look noncommittal. He had expected a challenge like this someday, though he had expected it from Wendy herself. “Wendy told you this?”

“No. We haven’t talked in weeks. Not before today.”

“So what are you basing this opinion on?”

“I know Wendy.”

“So do I. She seems happy to me.”

“It’s hard to judge a person’s state of mind while you press your heel upon their throat.”