Page 104 of Lessons in Forgiving
But I guess we had to address the elephant in the room at some point. This seemed as good a time as any.
“And—” I swallowed thickly. “Has anything else changed? Since last year?”
“Everything.” He seemed sure. But my head shook.
“You’ll be busier than ever after you graduate,” I reminded him, but it was half-hearted. My brain trying to come up with reasons why this was a bad idea, when my heart had swelled to the size of my entire chest already.
Henry shook his head, still sure. “It’ll only be soccer after graduation. No more exams to study for, no more papers to write. It’ll be soccer, and you.”
But—“You’ll move to New York. You’ll be traveling for games. You’ll be away a lot.”
“And I’ll be with you whenever I’m not. Wherever you decide to go. You won’t have to fit into my schedule, I will manage to fit into yours.”
“You seem to have thought about this a lot,” I figured.
“All the time,” he agreed. “Every day.”
I huffed. “So you have a solution to every single problem I bring up?”
“I’ve got two, Paula. Three, for some.”
And I believed him. The fact he’d cleared his schedule on what had been supposed to be his busiest day showed that, right? The fact he’d made time instead of expecting me to, did as well.
I took a deep breath. “You still owe me those deeply personal questions.”
I hadn’t used them in the interviews—everything I’d asked, he’d given up willingly. Without the need for an ace (or three) up my sleeve. I could only think to use all of them on the one question now.
“I do,” he agreed.
“So—”
“No.” He huffed a laugh, the corner of his lips quirked. When he finally opened his eyes, gone was the embarrassment and sheepishness—replaced by what I knew of him. Mischief. Humor. Adoration. “That’s the answer to your question. I do. I love you. I honestly don’t think I ever really stopped.”
I only blinked at him. Stomach turning, cheeks heating.
“That’s what you were going to ask, right?”
I had been.
And only not to jump him, I tried to play it cool. I was obviously failing.
“I was actually wondering about your favorite breakfast food?” I smiled, cheeks hurting, deciding to climb on top of him, straddle his lap instead of jumping him the way I had wanted to.
I looked at Henry and thoughtthat man loved me.
Heloved me.
Helovedme.
He lovedme.
Again.
Henry snorted a laugh, unapologetic and beautiful. “I take it back!” he scoffed. He did not take it back.
Instead, his hands found their way to my waist, and his eyes gleamed in that way I thought they only did when he talked about soccer. But he looked at me that same way now, and I wondered if it had ever really been about the sport or just the fact that it was me he was telling about it.
Selfish? Conceited? How couldn’t I be—at least a little bit—when Henry Parker Pressley loved me.
