Page 20 of Lessons in Forgiving
“Oh.”Say something, I begged myself.Anything. “Yeah, my mom. Still haven’t told her about the whole journalism thing.” I was well on my way to oversharing, and I almost sighed in relief when Henry spoke quickly enough to stop me.
“About that,” he said. I could hear him make his way over to the other side of the table. I could feel him take a seat opposite me. I could not see him. Because I was still staring into my bag. “We’re focused on project management, business simulation and thesis writing this semester. Tax law was last.” Henry cleared his throat. “In case they happen to ask again.”
Theybeing my parents. This conversation showed he still knew them way too well.
I finally drew my eyes away from the contents of my bag to meet his. As expected, green and big, they reflected the humor previously prominent in his voice.
Like a mantra I repeated the role I was supposed to play in my head. To make sure it stuck.
Ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care, and actually kind of despised him.
“Why don’t we get started?”
Although I plastered an innocent smile on my face, I’d never been good at hiding my thoughts and feelings. Maeve had saidthey were written all over my face, free for anyone to read. She’d also said it was her favorite thing about me.
Right now, with the way Henry scrutinized that smile, I wished I’d taken Riley up on her offer topokerfaceme.
“Of course.” He paired the words with a courtesy nod.So far, so good.
Eddie had shared his expectations for the profile as soon as I’d… officially agreed to do it. Characterization, more than just a list of his accomplishments.Anyone could Google those, he’d said. They wanted me to focus onhim. On the Henry beneath that carefully crafted mask—one he hadn’t even fully let go of, months into our relationship. Childhood, family life, personality… with a side of stats and soccer.
Someone should’ve told Edward Smith that asking Henry’s ex-girlfriend to pry on personal details like that probably wouldn’t have thePostend up with the information he’d hoped for. But here we were.
My phone sat on the table between us, unlocked, screen facing up. “I’ll be recording our conversation,” I informed him unnecessarily. “So, make sure not to say anything you don’t want to read in an article later on.”
Henry cocked an eyebrow, a teasing smile hanging in the corner of his lips, just waiting to be unleashed. “I thought your job was to get exactly those kinds of things out of me.” His tone was less question, more challenge.
I leveled the man opposite me with a look that screamed professionalism. I needed to, to keep myself from letting every word he said affect me—to keep my chest from tightening in his presence.
I can do this.
I’m the journalist. I’m the one in control, and I needed to start acting that way. Henry was just another subject. His story was, in a way, in my hands.
Even if I didn’t quite believe it myself yet, fake it till you make it.Right?
That finally made me find my footing. “Don’t worry,” I said. “If there’s something I want to know, I’ll get it willingly, and on the record.” I paired the words with my sweetest smile.
Henry shifted in his seat, sweeping a hand through his brown middle part. When his head tilted slightly, taking me in from across the table, he matched my smile with one of his own. Blinked once. Leaned forward. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”
He was the one to press start on the recording.
I tried not to let that get to me—his smiles, the pride in his tone. Surely, it’s what he was trying to do: get to me. Controlling the room by controlling me, my reactions, the effect he had on me. After all, one could not separate Henry Parker Pressley from his need to be in control.
“Let’s start with…” My eyes fell on the blank page in my lap. The same page that was meant to hold all my prep—talking points, questions—but was virtually empty, apart from the heading on top of it:Henry Pressley, 1st; 15thof March.Thanks, Mom.
Alright, then. Improv it was.
I cleared my throat. “Start with… your name.”
I wasn’t great at improvising, by the way.
Henry’s gaze dragged away from the potted plant in the shelf behind me to connect our eyes. He huffed, lifted his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” I levelled him with a glare. “I’m taking this very seriously. Aren’t you?”
I may be overcompensating for that blank page in front of me and the fact that I hadn’t taken this seriously enough at all. I suspected he knew, too.
But he just nodded, a smirk in the corner of his lips he couldn’t help. His hands raised in mocked defense. “I am.”
