Henry rushed through his morning routine—shower, bowl of cereal, dressing—feeling slightly nauseated. He knew the butterflies in his stomach and the pounding at his temples were not due to a physical ailment, but he could ascribe them to what he would say to Rosalie Fiorello when he saw her.
He was afraid he would be closing a door rather than opening one, but Henry knew there was really only one course to take.
Carefully avoiding Maxine and his parents, Henry slipped outside into the warmth of the day. His parents always kept the house at a cool seventy degrees all summer long, and the humidity hanging in the air outdoors came as a shock to Henry. Although it was still officially spring for a bit, today could have passed for midsummer. The air felt almost solid, mired in close-to-ninety
