Page 100 of Lessons in Forgiving
I grasped for his hand between us, and the words died on Henry’s lips. “I—” Hestuttered, and it took him about two seconds before both of his hands clasped around mine, holding on so tightly he might’ve been content with never letting go again. “This whole thing could’ve been so easily avoided if I’d just remembered to tell you about Lacy.”
And I guessed it could have been.
If I’d told Henry more about my life, and he’d been less busy with his, this whole thingwouldhave been avoided. Our breakup probably would’ve been, too.
But there was nothing we could do about that now.
The anger I’d felt earlier—when I wasn’t sure how well the two knew each other and why my boyfriend had told my nemesis about my sources—died. The lingering resentment of our breakup did, too.
And I was only left with Henry. My hand in his, pulled against his chest and feeling his racing heart underneath my touch. With stinging eyes and a heart that was beating just as fast, in sync with his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my nose, as earnestly as every single one of his other apologies. When one hand left mine, and his thumb swiped across my cheek, I noticed I might not have been keeping my emotions at bay as well as I’d thought. Just a few stray tears, but enough for worry to crease his brows again. “I’m not worth a single one of these, Paula. Please don’t—”
I shook my head, fast enough for his hand to fall from my face and for my vision to blur for a moment. But I wasn’t sure if the motion had cut him off or if it had been my strangled breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
“I forgive you, Henry.”
My words hung between us for one, two, three seconds before he really understood. Before relief riddled itself into every single one of Henry’s features, and he exhaled so loudly it overcame the roaring in my ears.
This felt like a monumental moment. Like we might be about to get over everything that had come between us.
That article. Mark Lager. Lacy’s accusation.
And, my God, if I wasn’t just as relieved about it as he seemed. “I mean… youarestill groveling, right?”
I didn’t know how well the joke landed with tears streaking my face and another sob—perhaps one of relief?—bubbling in my throat, but here we were.
His green eyes batted open a little wider, his lips parted in surprise, replacing the tense frown. “You’re not mad?”
“I’ve spent so much time being mad at you.” My arms locked behind his neck, his hands instinctively found themselves on my hips. Neither of us had to think about it. “I don’t think I could pretend for another minute.”
He huffed, tightened his hold around my body and hugged me. My nose pressed into his chest, pinewood and citrus taking over my senses.
And it no longer felt like a bad idea.
“Groveling, hm?” he hummed into my hair. “Any specific requests?”
I tore my face away from his chest to look up at him. The insinuation, the mischief in his eyes, and the way his hand slipped below my shirt to caress my bare skin beneath it told me he certainly had something in mind.
And he was very willing to make up for whatever he still blamed himself for.
Who was I to object?
“I always thought the point of groveling was that the… grovelerhad to figure out how by himself.” But my tongue flicked across my lips, and my body betrayed me when I leaned into his touch, eyes threatening to flutter shut once his fingers danced across my back in feather-light patterns.
Henry’s lips twitched. “Good thing that in my head, I replayed all those things you liked almost every night.” He pulled me back with him, until his legs hit my bed and he sat. Looked up at me through heavy eyes. My hands were in his hair. I didn’t know how they got there. “Good thing that I never forgot what you begged and pleaded for. The way you sounded. No matter how hard I tried.”
His hands slipped to the waistband of my jeans. Our eyes stayed connected when he opened its button, moved to the zipper. Didn’t pull, just lingered. “Isn’t it?”
And I meant to agree. Nod vigorously until he wriggled me out of my jeans and showed me exactly how much he remembered. Showed me that there was much more than what he’d shown in the Hamptons. And the time after that. But something in the back pocket of my jeans vibrated, then started ringing.
Henry slipped my phone out, probably to throw it across the room and far away from what it had just interrupted. I groaned when I saw the caller ID, though. Unhelpfully, he said, “It’s your dad.”
Which meant if I didn’t pick up that phone in the next five seconds, my family would probably call the local police station all the way from the Dominican Republic to claim I was missing, got kidnapped or was lying in a ditch somewhere.
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” I warned, pointing a finger at Henry when his hand had lingered by my zipper. He raised both innocently, and I tugged my phone out of his grip before I threw myself onto my bed. He followed, and only closed my button again before keeping his hands to himself.
For ten minutes, my parents filled me in on the latest gossip of cousins and aunts and old family friends. Gasps andNo’s! andSí’s! flew back and forth between the line until they finally dropped the bomb. The reason they’d called.
