Page 23 of Lessons in Forgiving
Mierda.
“So fun catching up with you!” I basically beamed, my smile so fake it hurt. Almost as much as leaving them by themselves. “But I’ve gotta go.”
Henry’s eyes were already on me when I turned to him. “Big plans. Remember?”
He huffed, a shadow moving across his face. “How could I forget?”
Lacy didn’t give me the courtesy of leaving before involving Henry in another conversation. Still, I felt his eyes on me until I’d disappeared down the stairs.
CHAPTER 9
NOW
HENRY: I JUST think it’s funny how you’re pretending you don’t know my name when it was loud and clear that you did most nights. Way back when, of course.
If I hadn’t been continuously jumping back to that line, I’d have been done transcribing this interview a long time ago. But it felt physically impossible not to scroll back to the top of the document, read his words, and blush like he was still in the room with me now.
The reality was, though, I’d cancelled my plans with Jack minutes after I’d come home and had been glued to my screen ever since.
The only company I’d kept was the black pile of fluff currently residing in my lap, which, yes, kept me from typing at my usual lightning speed, but was in no way the main reason for how long this had taken.
That was all me.
And my inability to treat Henry like any other subject, the way Maeve had unhelpfully suggested. How could I, when he was saying things like that?
Who said things like that?
I deleted the paragraph before saving the document and sending it over to my editor. Eddie had requested to take a look at the first few interviews to get a feel for thedynamic. He could’ve just flat-out told me he didn’t trust me, and I’d have been fine with that, too. If I wanted to write—which I desperately did—I had to be.
With a frustrated groan, I shut my laptop. At the lingering silence, the missing sound of the fan and lack of Henry’s voice from the recording, Pip gave a pleased meow. She snuggled deeper into the blanket draped across my legs, clearly satisfied.
She’d never been Henry’s biggest fan, and apparently, even his voice seemed to do it for her. “I know,” I cooed, scratching her chin with a sigh. “You were right from day one.”
I should’ve taken her hisses around him as the warnings they were. Instead, I just ended up at his place more than my own. Which, at the time, I didn’t mind. Maybe even welcomed.
His apartment was godly, and even now—almost a year later—I still missed his silky sheets and the comfortable mattress that had cost more than most things currently in my room. For a second, I caught myself wondering if he still shared the loft with Heather and Reuben, if they’d changed anything in it?
None of my business,I reminded myself. Shaking my head, a dry laugh escaped me.
If I couldn’t stop Henry from making guest appearances in my head, the least I could do was make them productive. Not think about how much I missed his bed—the things we’d done in it.
I just think it’s funny how you’re pretending you don’t know my name when it was loud and clear that you did most nights.
Get it together, Paula.
Right. Productive! Plan the next few weeks, in which I had to get as much information out of the man to write a profile that would not only appeal to soccer fanatics and mega fans, but to the general public.
A profile that would (hopefully), put Henry Pressley on the radar of mainstream press and social-media fan pages, and in return, would do the same for HBU and our soccer team. Show the world that he wasn’t just his father’s son, born into wealth and privilege and a pro soccer career—how hard could that be?
Very, I decided. Because in the three years I’d known Henry, loved and cared for him, he had barely let me scratch the surface. I could count the number of times he’d mentioned his parents on one hand, their accident on a few fingers.
Another frustrated groan escaped me right as my phone rang. And when I saw the caller ID, the sound only got louder, increasing in frustration and some nuance that was probably despair.
I stared at the vibrating device;Eddie (HBP)displayed on the screen. It was all it took to remember how sloppy the work I’d just sent had been—no prep, one question, flustered silence—and how he was probably calling to tell me I was done.
Maybe this way, after reading that joke of a first interview, he’d assign me something else for the extra-curricular.
Only when I was sure the call was about to go to voicemail, did I pick up.
