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6.

Henry stepped out onto the sidewalk. It had been cool in the shade of the church, but outside it was bright and warm; he paused a moment to unhook his sunglasses from the front of his shirt and slip them on before he made his way to the coffee shop.

While Elizabeth had turned to a counsellor to work through what had happened—she was doing well, calmer now and more like her old self—he had turned to Father John. In many ways it helped to talk to someone: it enabled him to deal with his anger towards Charlie, to stop him from acting on that anger and doing something he would later regret (only because it would bring more pain to Elizabeth), and he hoped it made him a better friend, even if his feelings for Elizabeth were definitely more than any friend had the right to feel. What it didn't do was to free him from the guilt. Guilt for not protecting her. Guilt for the role, however inadvertent, he'd played in her being at that party, being in that bedroom. No priest nor god could absolve him of that.

At the coffee shop, Henry ordered two cups of coffee—both black—and a blueberry muffin, then carried the tray to their usual table in the front window. While he waited for Elizabeth to arrive, he retrieved his notebook from his satchel and turned to what he'd been working on that morning. It wasn't finished yet, but still he found himself editing what he had written, striking through words and replacing them with ones he'd no doubt change again or scrap entirely later but for now felt a little more precise.

"Hey, there."

At Elizabeth's voice he folded shut the notebook and turned to greet her with a warm smile. "Hi. I bought you a muffin."

"I can see." She let the strap of her bag fall from her shoulder and lowered the bag to the floor, so it slouched against the wall beneath the window, as she took a seat. "And I see you're writing again, too." She pulled the plate with the muffin towards her.

He opened his mouth, ready to dismiss it as, Just thoughts.

But before he could say it, her gaze darted up and met his. "And don't say it's 'just thoughts'."

His lips twisted and his gaze drifted to the window. Was he really that easy to predict? "I wasn't going to," he said.

She gave a sharp huff of a laugh, clearly not buying his lie. "Admit it. I know you too well, Henry McCord."

He smiled and his gaze returned to her. "Okay, maybe I was."

She cut the muffin in half, then balanced the knife at the edge of the plate and pulled off a chunk from her portion. "So, what are you writing really?" She popped the chunk into her mouth.

His smile faded, and as he picked up his cup and raised it to his lips, ready to blow on the steaming surface, he shook his head. "Things I can't talk about."

Not without running the risk of ruining our friendship.

Elizabeth paused chewing and studied him. After a moment, she nodded. Just like he'd told her with her notebook, Only you get to decide whom you share it with and when, she wasn't going to pry or pressure him into sharing what he'd written.

She finished chewing, and through her mouthful, moved the conversation on. "So, I have an update on my Dr Clark theory…"

But Henry's thoughts remained on his notebook and the idea of sharing with her what was in it. It was true it would risk ruining their friendship, but could he even call himself her friend if he was lying to her, holding back such a huge part of himself? After how much she'd trusted in him, it felt like a betrayal not to show her the same trust in return, not to give her the truth and allow her to do with it what she would. And maybe on some level he wanted her to read what he'd written, wanted to get it out in the open—why else have the notebook out when she was around?

"Here." Henry picked up the notebook and held it out to her. "I want you to read it."

Elizabeth stopped talking. She eyed the notebook, then him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said.

She hesitated several seconds longer, perhaps giving him the chance to change his mind and snatch the notebook away, then cautiously she took it and opened it. A frown crept to her brow as she thumbed through the first few pages. Then, with a flash of surprise lighting her face, she looked up. "They're poems."

He nodded.

She returned her attention to the notebook, this time reading through the first few entries slowly, drinking them in.

Henry's heart pounded, like it was throwing itself against his ribs with every thump. He only hoped he hadn't made a mistake, hadn't destroyed something that was so important to both of them.

Elizabeth looked up at him again. This time, tears glossed her eyes and threatened to spill out. "They're about me."

For someone who insisted she didn't understand poetry, she'd decoded the feelings hidden in those stanzas pretty quickly.

"Yes," he said, then added, "But I want you know this doesn't change anything. Your friendship is the most important thing to me, and just because I—"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "Henry…I never wanted to be your friend."

Henry stopped. His heart snagged in his throat.

She what…?

"I wanted this." She flapped the notebook. "I wanted more."

Henry frowned. "You did?"

She nodded, a single, small nod.

His frown deepened. He tried to rub the tension from his brow. "But…when I asked, you said you wanted us to be friends."

"No. You said you wanted us to be friends, and I thought of course you didn't want something more, because you were so clearly way too good for me, so I agreed."

"No." He shook his head, vehement: she had it all wrong. "I thought you were way too good for me. That's why I assumed…"

He trailed off as understanding of the misunderstanding crept over him.

Oh…

From the look on Elizabeth's face, he guessed she was having the same realisation.

They met each other's gaze, and for a moment, they smiled.

But those smiles soon dimmed. So much had changed since that first evening in the coffee shop, and maybe if he'd been brave enough to open up about his feelings earlier, things between them could have worked out, but now… Elizabeth had said she wanted more. Wanted. Past tense. Too much had happened. It made sense she'd no longer see him as something more; he was lucky she still called him her friend.

He cradled his coffee cup in both hands, its base rested to the tabletop; his thumbs ran back and forth along the rim as he stared at the surface. "Everything that's happened… If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have met him, you wouldn't have been hurt."

"You don't know that," Elizabeth said.

He looked up, mouth open, tongue poised to protest.

If he hadn't introduced her to his friends, if he'd warned her about Charlie's track record with girlfriends, if he'd told her how he felt about her and instead she'd been going out with him…

But before he could voice any of that, she grasped his hand. "But I know this: I wouldn't have gotten through it without you."

She held his gaze. The look in her eyes was so intense, so raw; it pleaded him not to blame himself in a way no words could.

In it, he might find absolution.

"Henry…you're my best friend. I thought I wanted this." She laid her hand on top of the notebook, her other hand still covering his. "But what I really wanted is this." She motioned between the two of them, no doubt indicating their friendship.

So, he was right: her feelings for him had changed…

But before that thought could take hold, she continued. "And I want this." She touched the notebook again. "And I want more."

His heart jolted and flipped.

"You do?" he said.

"Yes," she said, a smile spreading across her lips. "I do."

Nothing about the situation was simple, but in that moment it couldn't be more straightforward.

He let go of the coffee cup and rested his hand on the table, palm open, facing up; she placed her hand on top, and their fingers folded together, like a watch clasp closing.

They were friends.

Best friends.

And also, something more.