The Beginner's Guide to Henry and Gabriella

| 13 | if Gabriella says euphoric one more time, Henry may never sleep again

Henry's POV

"You're up early," Brenna observes, chucking a lime-green grape into her mouth.

I stroll to the fridge. The crisp, cold air nips my face the moment I pry it open. "Yeah, I've got tutoring in half-an-hour, and I don't want to be late."

Seizing the sweet, watermelon-flavored water Bai, I close the refrigerator door and turn around to find my little sister with an eyebrow raised.

"Since when are you entrusted with tutoring people?"

I take an apple from the 3-tier fruit countertop and bite into it, "I'm being tutored."

"Makes sense," she taunts, her fork mindlessly picking remnants of scrambled eggs and red-skinned potatoes― what she calls a breakfast when it's our cook's day off.

A Caviar and Crouton Omelete is what I need to start the day. Basketball practice was brutal yesterday, and another one follows this afternoon.

Coach finalized the roster, and I'm confident with weekly training and practice the newbies will hold their own when any of the starting five― composed of Adam, Rocco, Julio, Jeffery, and I― need to catch a breath. The season has yet to start, but I feel it in my bones that we're going to make it to the Championships. I need that trophy to secure Duke's interest in me for their 2022 Fall roster. I'm aware it's two years from now, but playing for them has been my goal since my father took me to their 2013 playoffs in North Carolina. But regardless of how well we do, none of it will matter if I'm watching from the bench.

In between chewing, I ask, "What are you doing up early?"

Prominent bags dip under her eyes, reminding me of our mother― who has yet to make her monthly visit from New York. Both should be a concern, but Brenna's mental and physical health is my priority. The thought of finding her in the corner of her room, sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried in her hands again, twists my heart.

I couldn't go near her, knowing that if I did, it would worsen it. I remember the advice Doctor Kinsella gave us about how she deals with patients with severe panic attacks. Remind the person to breathe. Don't touch them unless they want to. Some are relieved through physical touch, and others like a conversation as a distraction. You ask them what they need you to do. Everyone's different. Brenna falls under none. She doesn't like touch but she wants someone she's comfortable with sitting beside her. It's their presence and knowing they're there with her that soothes her.

That's how I knew to comfort Gabriella, who's poles apart from Brenna.

"I couldn't sleep," she admits, "and instead of doing my homework, I deep-cleaned my room. Now I have an hour and a half to bullshit a three-page essay about my greatest influence. I'm thinking of Harry Styles, but not 2010-2013 Harry. I'm talking 2017-2020, Harry."

"Sounds great," I ruffle her hair, and she swats it away with a frown.

"Buy her a drink," Brenna suggests.

"Buy who a drink?"

"The girl that visited last week. Your tutor."

"How do you know she's my tutor?"

"I was eavesdropping behind the bushes," she casually states, chucking another lime into her mouth.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop," I scowl, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.

"Buy her a drink," she chirps, ignoring my comment.

"I'm not going to buy her a drink."

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