Page 17 of Lessons in Forgiving
“So why me?”
Eddie shrugged. “Look,” he sighed again. “The HBU soccer team wants this article about Pressley. The school’s marketing team wants this article. ThePostdoes, too. Forget about why and how, Paula. Think about what! What could come from it. What it might do for you. It’ll put you on the radar.”
Again, I added silently.It would put me on the radar again.
“Between you and me.” My editor lowered his voice when someone passed us. “A bigger magazine has already expressed interest. If you do a good job, they might pick up the story. Consider the optics! For you. For thePost.”
Gnawing on my bottom lip, I ignored the coppery taste in my mouth. Even with the chirping of the birds, the wind rustling through the newly green trees and distant chatter filling my ears, the silence between us felt deafening.
“For your sake,” Eddie huffed. “I’m going to pretend you have a choice in this. Sleep on it, then come see me with your decision in the morning.” Before he left, he added, “But don’t think the actual decision hasn’t already been made for you.”
Then, a smile replaced the worried frown on his lips, and he made his way back inside the building.
Lunacy, I thought as I slumped back onto the wooden bench. Cruelty. A really, really bad joke. From Eddie. From the universe.
Anything, but not real life.
I could probably do an article on my ex. A profile, though? One-on-one time. Shadowing. Once again being wound up in Henry Pressley’s routine—scheduling my days by how well my plans fit into his.
And yet, I couldn’t let him be the reason I passed on an opportunity like this, either.
I groaned when I realized Eddie was right. If there was external interest already, this could be huge for anyone involved. And perfectly timed to throw me back on the radar—just in time for graduation—when all that mattered were job offers and freelance gigs to keep me afloat and my parents off my back.
But out of everything Eddie could’ve given me, did it have to be this?
You cried,” Maeve assessed as soon as I’d appeared in the door to her room. The redhead sat against the headboard of her bed, legs pulled toward her body and a book in the hands she had lowered.
If there was one sign Maeve had her life together, it was her room. Not a single piece of rogue clothing scattered across her floor; the makeup on her vanity was neatly organized and the white walls were filled with motivational quotes in different shades of pink, enclosed in wooden frames.
“Did I?” The mascara had already smudged under my eyes, but I wiped at them anyway. “I don’t know what to do, Maeve.”
Her lips quirked in sympathy, furrowed brow relaxing. “That’s nothing new.” Beckoning me over with a pat on her bed, she scooted to one side. “Come here, honey. What is it?” The southern drawl in her tone always became heavier with concern.
“I don’t know,” I groaned, stomping over to let myself fall on top of her white bedding. Before she could say anything, I amended, “I mean, I do.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Eddie finally gave me something I can write the extra-curricular about. An article. An amazing article, really.” Which, in itself, was good news. The best of news.
“Paula!” Maeve hummed in appropriate excitement, her voice a pitch higher when she bumped my shoulder with hers. “That’s incredible!” Confusion laced into her tone when she added, “Isn’t it?”
“So incredible,” I agreed truthfully. My head fell against her metallic bed frame with an ironic huff. “The best. It comes with all these opportunities. A chance of being picked up by bigger press and all that. Eddie thinks it could put me on the radar—put thePoston the radar. He’s ecstatic.” I snorted. “Or at least his equivalent to that.”
Maeve nudged me again, and when I finally looked at her, my eyes still a little red and puffy, she was very clearly trying to figure out thebutin this. I suspected not even my psychic best friend could figure that one out.
She considered me for another second. “And what does Henry have to do with that?”
Never mind.
“How—?”
“Paula,” she sighed as if I should know better. “You’re proudly presenting your Henry-scowl. Don’t expect me not to pick up on that.”
I gasped. Mostly in faked outrage. “I’m not—” I tried to argue.
“You were wearing it on Saturday, too, by the way.” Her eyes twitched. “When you came back from hurling your guts out. You’re an awful liar.” I really wanted to laugh at that—my failed attempt to hide anything from her—but even the amusement in her tone did little to take my edge off.
I shook my head quickly, waving her off. “Completely different thing. We would digress.” I forced the memoriesof Henry’s hand around my wrist—of his face so close, his expensive cologne lingering—out of my mind.
