Page 39 of Lessons in Forgiving
“Definitely the latter,” Dylan chimed in from my other side, most likely because he hadn’t missed out on me much.
After Henry and I broke up, Dylan and I could still see each other through our respective living-room windows, if we chose to. Besides Caden and Blake, who must’ve been around here somewhere, Dylan was the only one out of the soccer team I’d still regularly seen once HBU games became off-limits.
Because by our third semester, I’d asked for sugar or flour when ours had run out so often, he started getting them for us at the store. Because after Henry and I had broken up, therewas no one better to shit-talk your ex-boyfriend with, than his apparent sworn enemy. And because, despite his bad jokes and the occasional arrogance, when I’d told him what had happened he’d given me an earnest hug and told me it would be okay. Not soon, but eventually.
Still, I whipped my hand across Dylan’s dark hair teasingly, meeting his brown eyes with a glare. “No one asked you, McCarthy.” Then, with a laugh, I turned back to Mike with big eyes and an exaggerated pout. “What is it you were saying? About missing me?” I bumped his shoulder with my own, sipped the beer in my hand.
“I did miss you,” he agreed, hesitated. “But those cookies—I’m sorry! They’re just so good.” He winced when I gasped in offense. We were both still laughing.
“Fuck you,” I deadpanned. “Both.” The two high-fived each other, and with an amused eyeroll, I got up.
“Are you getting another drink?” Mike asked, and the pleading look in his eyes combined with the half-empty beer on the table, told me he was about to ask if I’d bring him one, too.
“Food,” I corrected. Mike’s face fell in disappointment.
Already up, Dylan told me, “Athalia loves their nachos,” and sent me on my way with that piece of information.
As I pushed through to the bar at the other end of the room, I recognized a few faces in the crowd. Not just Henry’s teammates—whom I’d gotten to know plenty during our time together—but other HBU students that had nothing to do with the soccer team. Valentina Rhodes, from my academic research class. Steven, who worked at the library on weekends. And happened to be good friends with—
“Paula.”
I froze mid-step. There was a split second in which I’d seriously contemplated making a run for the exit. But I needed Henry if I wanted to leave, and Maeve had deleted his numberafter my second drunk call, nine months ago. I was ashamed to admit that it was the only reason I turned to face Jack.
I was met with all of his six-foot, blond hair messy as always.
“Jack!” I cheered.
He did not look pleased to see me. Not even surprised, for that matter. His eyes slid down my frame, back up like he was assessing a priced possession he hadn’t seen in a while. Drunk was another thing he definitely was.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice so loud I unintentionally flinched as he leaned closer. Which he had to do—lean closer and speak loudly. I wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.
I gestured for him to follow me the few missing steps to the bar and then leaned against it. Jack came to a halt by my side. “Do you know what this thing here is?” I asked instead of answering his question, hand sweeping across the crowd. I wasn’t sure if that was the best way to approach this, but I’d never been very good at making the right choices.
“You’re here. Shouldn’t you know?”
Alrighty, still grumpy.Noted.
“So are you,” I challenged. My head fell in his direction, and I leveled him with a playful glare. Which seemed to work, because something relaxed in his demeanor, and he sighed when he sagged against the bar himself. He ruffled a hand through his blond hair.
“All I know is that, about three hours ago, I asked if you wanted to go, and you blew me off.” Before I could argue that he’d never saidthiswas where he’d wanted to take me, he asked, “How often have you done that? Lied about being busy?”
I swallowed thickly, not looking at him. My eyes were darting through the crowd so I wouldn’t have to see the disappointment settling over his features. I’d take watching the couple makingout on the stairs, over having to see someone disappointed in me, any day.
“I didn’t lie,” I said.
I could see how it looked like I had. If the roles were reversed, I’d be just as suspicious. Only that he wasn’t my boyfriend—barely a friend—and not someone I owed anything to.
Take him out of his misery.
Maeve’s words echoed in my head when Jack laughed drily. “How so?” he asked, demanded, still shaking his head beside me. “You told me you’re working tonight. Didn’t you? I should’ve known when I didn’t see your name on Daisy’s schedule—”
“I am!” I finally found it within me to turn, look him in the eyes. “This.” I gestured to the soccer team. “Is work.”
Jack’s gaze trailed after my hand, and when it found mine again, his expression had shifted. His eyes twitched in confusion; his brows rose in what might’ve been regret.
I’d never get to know what he would’ve said next, if he’d demand an explanation or apologize. Because his eyes fell on something behind me before he’d said anything, and I had that awful inkling that I knew what—whoit was, when every single emotion drained from his face.
The sweet boy I’d known for almost four years now—the one I’d shared opening and closing shifts with, whom I’d politely rejected after we’d kissed once, and who had stayed my friend regardless—was gone.
