Anne & Henry Read Online Free Page A

table.
    Arthur’s spirit lingers here, practically suffocating.
    I keep hoping that it will get easier, that the pain will fade and I’ll stop thinking about my brother every day. How it should have been me who went off that cliff last spring. How if I hadn’t bailed, I could have saved him.
    Anne and I pause at the grid of photographs on the back wall, framed pictures of successful politicians, athletes, Arthur. So much Arthur. More than a dozen stills, various poses and expressions.
    She zeroes in on an older picture of my brother and Principal Adams, just minutes after signing the school’s Code of Conduct, chins high and proud, like they’re passing the First Amendment.
    I want to take this photograph down, box it up with the rest of his things, bury them in the basement, under the basement, along with my guilt. “That’s Arthur.”
    â€œYou look like him,” Anne says. She leans in for a closer view, her emotions blank and unreadable.
    My face reflects in the glass picture frame, milky and unfocused, a reminder that while our features are similar, I’ll never be Arthur, will never quite measure up. The black hole in my chest widens. “He’s dead,” I say, maybe for shock.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Anne whispers, her gaze skimming from one image to the next.
    â€œThis isn’t a photo collage, it’s a shrine,” she says, and I’msurprised she notices. She pauses on another photo, squinting as though to find a familiar face in the crowd. When she cocks her head, I know she spots Catherine. I can almost hear the clunk of gears shifting in her brain as she studies the way Arthur and my girlfriend are posed—interlinked hands, bodies slanted toward each other, lovestruck expressions projecting the kind of happiness I’m convinced only happens in movies.
    She gives me a quizzical look.
    I offer a terse nod, gnaw on my lower lip. “It’s complicated.”
    It’s not, actually. As the lone children from the two most influential families in Medina, our relationship was encouraged, expected even, after Arthur’s death. With both my father and brother gone, I’ve inherited it all—the grief, the drama, the responsibility. Catherine. I’m a follower. Picking up where my brother left off. Living another man’s life. Maybe not by choice, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
    I’m relieved when Anne presses forward.
    â€œWas he a good president?” she says.
    The question catches me off guard. He wasn’t a good president, he was the president, leaving behind footsteps so large and overwhelming not even a giant could fill them. “Only the best,” I say.
    Anne smiles sadly. “What happened to him?”
    I shake my head to show discomfort. She gets it andsuddenly I’m anxious to leave this room. I glance at the clock above the cherrywood desk. My brother’s. Drawers overflow with his personal things—business cards, election pins, documents, an autographed Seahawks pennant.
    â€œWe should go. Class starts soon,” I say.
    Anne nods, but she lingers at my brother’s desk and lifts the only framed picture of me in the room—a group shot of the current council members. “Just one girl in the bunch,” Anne remarks, not with judgment, but awareness.
    â€œYeah, that’s Samantha. Sam,” I say, without looking. “She’s the council secretary.”
    Anne shoots me an annoyed look and I shrug.
    â€œHey, I don’t control the voting.”
    On our way to the courtyard we pass the gym and pause at the trophy case filled with statues, medals, certificates. My name is engraved on more than half. I glance at Anne through my peripheral vision, looking for signs she’s impressed. It’s suddenly so damn important that she’s impressed. I want her to see me for me , not the shadow of my brother.
    â€œQuite an amazing collection of trophies,”