Page 107 of Lessons in Forgiving
I was ushered off the stage, to the much smaller pool of students with their degrees already in hand. I held mine tightly, probably wrinkled it withhowtight. But it was my only anchor now. I couldn’t see my parents from here, and I didn’t know if I wanted to.
The entire commencement ceremony was almost two hours long. I cheered as my friends took the stage. Caden had walked before me, but Laila eventually followed, then Dylan and Riley. When Maeve crossed it and shot me a wink halfway through, I almost started crying.
When Henry walked after his sister, ever the picture of billionaire son, I couldn’t believe we’d found a way back to each other.
None of that, though, made me forget what was waiting on the other side of this. When the last person walked, shook hands and got handed their degree, I hated how fast those two hours had gone by.
My parents were the first to leave that hall, and I sent a helpless glance across the many students around me, trying to find—
“Looking for someone?”
I could pick his voice out of a million samples if I had to. Leaned into his body behind me before turning around—without having to, really.
“You,” I said.
Henry’s arms slung around my waist, his head on top of mine. “Where are they?” he asked, like he knew about the decision I had to make now.
To tell them or to lie. To spill the truth or blame it on a mistake.
I turned back to Henry for some kind of guidance. Remember? Making decisions was not my specialty. But his gaze said little in regards of potential next steps. He didn’t nudge me toward the exit to tell the truth, he didn’t reach for my hand to take me away and signal I should keep lying.
He just looked at me, with his green eyes and said, without a word coming out of his mouth;Whatever you want. I’ll be there with you.
My choice. And he wouldn’t judge or laugh, whether I turned around and told them the truth or faked a laugh and saidI have no idea why they said journalism!
“Will you come with me?”
And I hoped perhaps it would lighten the blow.
CHAPTER 42
NOW
My parents both held high-school diplomas. That’s where they’d met. They never went to college because by the time they could have, dad’s parents had died, and he’d taken over their little restaurant by the beach. My mother waitressed there until the place held up well enough to hire help, and Dad promised María Castillo she’d never have to work again in her life. She thanked tourism for it every day since. They got married, he took her name, and a few years later… there I was.
They’d been putting money into my college fund since before I’d been born, and I grew up in the sand, by the water, and my dad never had a problem makingmewait tables.You’re working your way to America, Paulita, he’d say before I’d even known what the United States was.
That I’d gone to college here had been his dream more than my own, I think. Now, twenty-two years later, I stood in front of him like the manifestation of it come true, only for everything to be kind of fake.
Mom was furious. I didn’t blame her.
María was so angry, she’d forgotten all about fitting in—shouted about trust and secrets in Spanish. Although the area of campus was more secluded, it still drew a few curious glances.
That wasn’t what I was worried about, though.
It was the way they looked at that degree now. Their eyes skimming over the words again and again. Probably ignoring the perfect transcript and latching onto the classes I’d taken instead.
Again, I didn’t blame them.
Gone were the Tax Law and Econ and Statistic classes I’d told them about. Instead, they were looking at Creative Writing, Media Law, Arts and Culture—Journalism. Every single course reminding them of the fact that I’d taken their hard-earned dollars and thrown them at a degree they probably deemed unnecessary, stupid, a waste of time.
Well, maybe.
I’d been holding onto Henry’s hand for dear life to keep myself from thinking about that.
Mom’s eyes shot back to me, still a million more scoldings simmering in the dark brown of them. It was Dad who stopped her from carrying them out. Simply by placing a hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing it.
He looked up at me, and I couldn’t believe there was a smile lingering in the corner of his lips. “So my little girl is going to be a writer?” he asked. “Like Leonardo Nin?”
