Page 105 of Lessons in Forgiving
I smiled at my thoughts, at him and everything else in this world that was beautiful because I loved him, too. Of course I did. And I told him with a kiss, and my hands in his hair and then my words. Over and over again. “I love you too,” I repeated.
Which was when my cat hissed from the hallway. Another reason the door was usually closed when he was around. Henry deflated below me, and I rolled off him with a huff.
When he sat up against the headboard, he held steady eye contact with Pip, her teeth still showing, but her back not arched the way it usually was in his presence.
“We’re going to have to do something about this, though.” And he sounded scared at the prospect.
CHAPTER 41
NOW
I was graduating today. And I still hadn’t told my parents about my degree.
What I did have was… about six more hours before I had to figure out what to do about the fact and how.
On top of that, theHall Beck Postissue with Henry’s profile got dropped off this morning, and I’d already found a typo. Eddie—after my fourth phone call had finally woken him up—had tried to convince me that it was fine. These things happened. And I knew they did.
But even more so now that my ethics record was clean, I needed this comeback to be perfect. No typos, no mistakes. And perhaps I’d been overly focused on compensating for the fact that my parents still didn’t know about my degree. The only way to overcome that was… focusing on other things.
The typo. The stain on my robe. The profile out in the world.
The entire morning I’d run around campus and the office and my house like a frightened chicken, until Maeve had finally confined me to the bathroom because with all my nerves—I’d forgotten to shower.
Now, my hair was half a mess on top of my head when we got to the auditorium, which was gradually filling with students and parents and siblings. They helped set up, chatted animatedly after months or years without seeing each other—some students only stared at their phones, and exactly one sat in the front row, with an issue of theHall Beck Postin hand.
My stomach still dropped sometimes when I saw Henry unexpectedly. When he randomly called or we ran into eachother at Daisy’s. Sometimes when he opened the door to his apartment, and I hadn’t expected his hair to look that good or he’d only had a towel around his hips.
“Excuse me,” I muttered to my friends trying to figure out where to sit. They knew I wouldn’t contribute to the decision, so they had no problem with my disappearance.
I stalked to the front of the hall, probably a little sheepishly, and sat next to him. “Riveting read, I hear.”
Henry held his hand up, eyes scanning the last paragraph before finally snapping up to me. “This Pressley fella,” he said, tone mocking. “What a guy, huh?”
“I was told he’s a little full of himself.”
“Funny.” He huffed. “I heard he’s humble as can be.”
I snickered, letting my head fall on his shoulder with a loud exhale. “So you like it?” I asked, and there was no point in hiding the desperation in my question, the need for validation in my tone.
I needed this to be good. Or I might as well throw myself into more debt for that business degree, after all.
Henry hummed in agreement, smoothing a hand over my head.
And then, like he’d been having a completely different conversation in his head, he said, “You didn’t print it.”
He was holding the paper in his hands. I could see some of Hallie’s candids on the page, see the paragraphs I’d meticulously crafted. So it definitely had been printed—“What?”
“Those things I said.” He swallowed thickly, still looking at the stage in front of us. “About… Felix. The contract I almost didn’t sign—don’t try to deny it, I know you realized.” My mouth closed again.
I only hummed in understanding before my tone softened. “I printed some of it,” I reminded him.
“Not the parts I wouldn’t have wanted you to.” He glanced at me on his shoulder, I could tell by the way he shifted underneath me. Lifting my head, a small smile played on my lips, and I didn’t have to say anything else. He understood. “The parts I started talking to Stephanie about. Like… Dad.” Stephanie, his therapist.
Those things had been off the record. No self-respecting journalist would put them in a profile—a fluff piece, of all things.
Henry could tell his story when he wanted to, if he ever did. Maybe after retiring, maybe right when he’d won his first cup with the Blue Eagles and mouthedThis is for you, Dad, into a live camera. We’d see.
“Where’s your sister?” I asked instead, changing the topic to clear the air. The air did not feel cleared when Henry groaned at the reminder, then fell back in his chair. It did feel lighter, though.
