Page 19 of Lessons in Forgiving
I’d called Eddie two minutes after my conversation with Maeve, mostly to make sure I didn’t have to change my mind again. Unfortunately, that still didn’t keep me from going through the motions.
I can’t do it. I have to do it. Do I really? I shouldn’t even care who the profile is on. But I do care; that sort of thing.
“Are you busy, Paulita?” Mom asked through the phone she surely had on speaker with all the background noise it was picking up. Clattering dishes, animated conversations, cicadas, the ocean. “You sound like you’re busy.”
“Well—”
“Is it school?” She cut in before I had the chance to gracefully exit the conversation with aWhy yes, I’m very busy. Talk toyou later!When I saw my destination at the end of the corridor, my steps slowed. “How is school? You know, your cousin Sofia dropped out just last week. My God, can you believe it?”
The line went silent just for a moment, like she was thinking. Then, panicked, she asked, “You haven’t dropped out, have you?”
“Ay dios mío, mami, no.” I came to a screeching halt outside the room I’d been looking for, maneuvering the papers from my hand under my arm.
Knowing Henry and his rigid schedules, he was already inside. Just a closed door away. A glance at my phone told me it was two minutes past.
“Listen. School’s good, I’m actually—” I hesitated, only for a second. “On the way to speak to my professor about an upcoming tax law exam?” I sounded less sure than I intended. “Gotta go!”
“Good, good,” Mom sighed. “Our little American businesswoman. We’re so proud of you, Paulita.”
“Te quiero, mom. Bye!”
Hanging up, I exhaled forcefully—an effect my mother had had on me for as long as I could remember. I glanced at the screen just to make sure I’d really ended the call.
Little American businesswoman.
I’d laugh if it wasn’t so unnerving.
The fact that I still hadn’t told my parents about the change in my major, almost four years ago. Honestly, I’m not quite sure how I’d gotten away with lying about the degree I’d been working toward for that long. It kind of just happened.
And sure, I loved journalism. And I did not regret spending the past three and a half years perfecting it, instead of learning how to run a business and commit legal tax fraud. But I still hated lying to my parents.
To them and everyone else back in the Dominican Republic, I wasPaulita, their little American Businesswoman.
Here at HBU, I was Paula, that failed journalist who used to date Henry Pressley.What a legacy.
Shaking myself out of the thought with a scoff, my hand ruffled through my curls. I took one deep breath to get into character.Ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care and actually kind of despised him. It had worked last time, right?
I silently countedone, two, three, and pulled the door open.
Usually, my interviews had been in classrooms. Long, multiple rows of desks and chairs. Big windows, plants that were at least my size in the corners. Bright. Spacious.
Eddie had organized this room, and it was… not at all that. Best described as somewhat of an expanded broom closet, maybe a luxury storage space, it was too small, and a little too dark for today’s sunny weather.
By the only window, Henry leaned with his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest inthatway. Whatever he saw in the courtyard must’ve been interesting enough to keep his attention. His gaze didn’t shift when he said, “I thought you might not come.”
I couldn’t interpret the tone in his voice. Relief? Disappointment? Annoyance?
I cleared my throat, closed the door behind me. “Hope you haven’t been waiting for long,” I said, trying to force as much confidence into my voice as I could. “I would’ve been on time if it weren’t for—” Turning back to him with my best shot at a polite smile, I realized he was still not looking at me. My tone dropped, so did my lips. “No matter.”
With a straight face, I sat on the chair closest to the door. A desk separated it from Henry’s on the other side. To avoid eye contact, I rummaged through my tote bag for a pen and paper.
“Was that María?”
Hearing my mom’s name come out of his mouth caught me so off guard, I froze in my search. Something about it felt too familiar. Like we were still part of each other’s lives. “On the phone, I mean.”
His voice continued to rumble through my brain without any sense of reason. Deep, silky, with the tiniest hint of a British accent—a leftover from his childhood in Chelsea.
I blinked into my bag, unable to meet the gaze I could now clearly feel on me. After a few more seconds of silence that I couldn’t for the life of me break, he added, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
