Page 10 of Lessons in Forgiving
I could feel his presence now.
Low and behold—a single, cautious glance out of the corner of my eye later—and there he was. Opposite the bathroom, right next to me, Henry stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall as he waited.
For the bathroom door to open or for me to acknowledge him, I wasn’t sure.
I huffed into my arm, eyes closing again in frustration. And maybe some relief that he hadn’t left with the beautiful brunette after all.
I kept my eyes from dragging back to him as best as I could, still facing the wall to avoid whatever this was—could become. But as much as I tried to ignore him, I felt Henry’s gaze on me. Taking me in, raking up and down my body, the dress I wore. Maybe my bare legs.
And it was driving me mad.
“Mierda,” I cursed between gritted teeth, finally turning toward him. “What?”
Henry blinked at me. His eyes flicked up to mine, their piercing green a little disorienting. He seemed as confused, surprised, taken aback by my tone as I was.
I hadn’t expected whatever emotions were simmering in the pit of my stomach to make it to the surface either, but now that they were out, it felt kind of… great. And this was good! Wasn’t it?
If I just focused on how much I hated him instead of how good he looked tonight. If I reminded myself of all the reasons why Ishouldhate him, instead of the fact we hadn’t been this close to each other since our breakup, and I’d almost forgotten those few freckles across his nose, then maybe this could work.
Henry Parker Pressley’s ego was big enough on its own. I didn’t need to inflate it more by making the fact I hadn’t quite moved on (yet) obvious, when he clearly had (e. g., beautiful brunette from earlier). I think I might’ve flinched at the reminder.
When I doubled down, I was, again, surprised by my tone. “Spit it out, Henry.”
He swallowed thickly, brows twitching before whatever hesitancy he had blew out of his features. When he huffed in amusement, there was no humor in the sound.
“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Simply concerned you might fall down the stairs just by standing too close to them.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at the (accurate) observation, throw some remark his way that proved him wrong, showed that I wasn’t half as drunk as I actually was. That I could stand straightandstill.
Unfortunately, as if on cue, when I let go of the wall I’d been holding onto for support, I swayed. Probably just a step or two, Iwasn’t sure because I caught my footing quickly, kind of proving him wrong? Somehow?
A proud smile sneaked onto my lips when I looked at him again.See, I wanted to say.I can stand upright.
Which was when I noticed his hand around my wrist.
A second ticked by, then another. My eyes slowly drifted to where he held me, right above my pulse point, and I hoped to God he couldn’t feel it kicking into overdrive underneath his touch.
I hadn’t caught my footing at all. Henry had simply caught me.
What I thought might’ve been actual concern drew his brows together when I looked back at him. Our gazes held for a moment, but whatever he was searching my eyes for, he came up short.
Henry cleared his throat, cautiously letting go of my arm, making sure I could stand on my own two feet without falling over like a baby giraffe.Great.
“Are you sure you’re fine, Paula?”
I scoffed. “Yes. Thank—”Angry, I remembered. I was supposed to be angry. Or at least not pleasant. “No.” There would be no such thing as gratitude. I was failing operationNo Contactbadly enough already. “Not thank you. In fact…”In fact what?“Nothing at all.”
Before I could stop the rambling of my own accord, the door to the bathroom unlocked, and a girl rushed out, leaving it empty for the next person. Which was Henry. “Would you just get in there, p— ?”
“Don’t sayplease.” Henry was clearly holding back a smile when he interrupted me. “You might regret your manners, Paula.” Before I could sayDon’t say my name like that, it’s doing things to me!he stepped aside, gestured to the bathroom. “It seems you need to get in there more urgently.”
He was right. The second I locked the door behind me, I hurled into the bowl. Very glad the girl before left the lid up, and even more glad I’d made it this far—that it hadn’t been Henry’s shoes—I stayed on the floor of the bathroom for…a while. And as I hung there (head over the toilet, surroundings spinning, contemplating the last twenty minutes), I decided not to tell my friends about this encounter.
Which wasn’t the easy way out: I loved oversharing. Though if Maeve considered even looking at Henry a breach of our No Contact Agreement (NCA), talking to him—touching him!—would be a federal offense.
Luckily enough, I wouldn’t have to go against it again, because when I left the bathroom, Henry was gone. Perhaps he considered his odds downstairs better; with how analytical he was, I wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see me again.
The painful thump in my chest propelled me downstairs, where Maeve patiently held my drink, covering the top with her palm.
