Page 2 of Lessons in Forgiving
“Yes!”I had not.“Of course.” Hadn’t even met my roommates yet. “Is that what you’re worried about, mami?”
“No.”
Yes. Yes. Yes! She was lying, too, and I could work with that.
“Oh,” I swooned, slowly guiding my parents away from the spot in which they’d almost made a decision that would’ve jeopardized my entire future. Just in case it would remind them of it. “I’ve met amazing people. They’re all so… chatty here!”
“Americans do love to talk.” Dad agreed gruffly. “Loudly, too.”
“Really?” Not quite sure whether she’d asked me or Dad to elaborate, I took over. Finally, there was a glimmer of hope. Light at the end of the tunnel. María Castillo looked relieved, and I could build on that.
If all I needed to fake was an outstanding social life for the next four years, I’d call that a win.
“Really,” I assured them, throwing all the conviction I could into my gaze. It stayed on them, even when we continued making our way out of the room. “We spent all day together yesterday,” I lied as I walked backward. “And—”
I couldn’t build on my lie when I backed into a solid… something. Then, startled, felt myself slip.
I prepared to hit the floor face first. Or maybe the back of my head would make contact instead? Either way, my parents would realize I wasn’t fit to take care of myself (because I’d landed myself in the hospital with a head injury two days into my independence journey) and I’d be forced to agree with them because… well, I did land myself in the hospital. Mentally, I was already back in the Dominican Republic before I’d even made it to the ground.
I never did.
Instead, I felt a cool hand curl around my wrist, yanking me upright and keeping me there until I managed to find my footing.
I did not faceplant, only stumbled into Dad’s chest when the stranger’s grip around me loosened. And instead of my parents realizing I was in no condition to take care of myself, I heard an ironic, “Eyes up. Or you might hurt someone.”
Followed by Mom’s curious voice. “Do you two know each other?” She sounded… excited, and suddenly I did not care who I’d just run into. They would have to do.
I turned just in time to silence him with a look, his lips already parted to give the obvious answer: No.
“Yes!” I blurted, ignoring the confused furrowing of his dark brows. Ignoring how beautifully they contrasted his green eyes more. Wincing, I mouthed aPlease. Then added aSorry.
I swallowed thickly before turning to my parents, taking a step back to stand beside the brunette stranger, his hair a few shades lighter than my own brown curls. “Of course!” I doubled down, cheerily. Too cheerily? “This is…”
With the way he winced, I might’vegentlynudged my elbow into his side a little too forcefully. But it must’ve done the trick, conveyed my desperation accurately, because he straightened beside me and extended his hand.
“Henry Pressley. Pleasure to finally meet you.” His eyes only flicked in my direction for a second before he went on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
How much could I have potentially told him in the two days we’re supposed to have known each other?
I was surprised to hear Dad speak first.
“Pressley?” He repeated the name under his breath, barely loud enough for me to pick up his next words either. Like they weren’t intended for the audience he had. “¿Dónde fue que escuché ese nombre?”
Instead of answering where Dad could’ve heard the name before, Mom lovingly rammed her elbow into his ribs at the second Spanish slip of the day.
“Henry!” she cheered a little louder, smile forced, and eyes glued to the boy. Probably to distract from Dad’s Spanishandto compensate for his whispering. “No wonder Paula talked so much about you.”
I hadn’t, obviously. And in any other circumstance, I might’ve been embarrassed by the—although false—revelation. But the fact Henry’s appearance had made her forget that I hadn’t mentioned anyone until two minutes ago was worth the little color in my cheeks.
“Has she?” His eyes slid to me again before he huffed, the sound low and kind of pleased, then looked back at my parents. “Only good things, I hope.”
“Of course.” Mom waved him off, again forgetting I hadn’t talked about him before at all. She seemed too blinded by the possibility of her daughter actually making a friend. Like she couldn’t believe it.
Awesome.
“Pressley!” Dad blurted, completely out of nowhere, only realizing he hadn’t used his inside-voice when his head snapped up. His eyes widened. “Triste—no! Sorry! Sorry.”
I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to Henry for the outburst or to Mom for the Spanish. His gaze darted between the two so quickly, I couldn’t be sure. At last, they settled on the stranger, and, a little calmer, though still rattled, he said, “You’re Felix Pressley’s son. The soccer player.”
