Page 62 of Lessons in Forgiving
Suddenly I felt like I should’ve inquired about our weekend plans beforehand.
“For the gala,” he explained. “The MSL pre-season fundraiser?”
And I blinked up at him like it was a bad joke and he’d soon reveal it as that. But he just stared back at me, not a glimmer of humor in his green eyes. “Paula,” he repeated. I suspected I’d gone into some kind of shock, frozen in the middle of the room because…
A gala.The MSL pre-season fundraiser, apparently. With other teams, other players, important managers, and more people with a lot of money. The press, probably. Paparazzi and photographers, and Eddie had thrown me into the shark tank without a word of warning. And without a bathing suit.
To answer Henry’s question: I had nothing to wear. I’d prepared for office runs and stadium tours by packing my favorite pair of jeans and three different tops. A jacket in case it got cold.
Not a fancy dress or heels or Mom’s beautiful gold jewelry, that she’d heavy-heartedly parted with when I’d left.
“I don’t—” I couldn’t even say the words. “Eddie didn’t—”
Watching the realization settle on Henry’s face, that I hadn’t just forgotten a shirt to sleep in but apparently a dress and appropriate footwear, made color rise to my cheeks. They were probably a blotched red that I couldn’t do anything about.
My head shook. “I don’t have to go.” The suggestion shot out of me as the only viable option I saw. It was five now. When did galas usually start? Seven? Eight? Not enough time to fix this mess any other way.
Henry’s throat worked, and by the look on his face, so was the upstairs department. He paced up and down in front of the large windows overlooking Midtown. Just once.
“Not an option,” he supplied curtly. When his gaze met mine, he’d come to a conclusion. I could tell that, too. “Give me a second.”
And by the time I wanted to ask for a reason (around three seconds later), his phone was already by his ear, and he began pacing again. Until the muted beeping from the other end stopped, and a female voice drawled through it. What she said, I couldn’t hear.
“I need you,” Henry replied in that no-nonsense way of his. “You remember the dress I made you run across half of SoHo for last year, right? The dark—Yeah, the dark green one.” Henry’s gaze found mine again, and he started like he’d almost forgotten about my presence.
Or maybe at the way I was staring at him. Bewilderment growing in my features, confusion spreading through them. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Give me a second, Céline,” he said into the phone, then, on his way to the door mouthed aBe right backin my direction and escaped through it.
Céline.
The name seemed familiar. Like maybe he’d mentioned it before or I’d found it analyzing every single one of the profiles he followed on Instagram—one of the lower points in my life, but, in my opinion, an inevitable stage of grief after any relationship.
I said what I said.
So perhaps Céline was an old fling I’d found stalking, or a newer one he’d met after me.
The thought shouldn’t have stung but it did, terribly. In a way that made me want to topple over, crawl under the covers of the heavenly bed and never get out again.
Who else would he call about a dress? He’d probably wanted her to wear it so badly, he’d made herrun across half of SoHoto get it. And now he wanted to do what? Make me wear it afterward?
The thought felt objectively wrong. And no matter how much I’d wanted to mingle with journalists and press-people who might know about job openings that no one else did, I wasn’t sure if I could wear one of his other girls’ dresses for it.
The door beeped, Henry was back, and I don’t think I’d moved an inch in the time he was gone. I wasn’t even sure if it had been one minute or five or ten.
“Sorry,” he said, hand washing over his face when he leaned against the closed door. “It’s all sorted. Just start getting ready, Céline will bring the—”
Céline.
I shook my head again. Quickly. “I don’t need to go. Really,” I stressed, because I didn’t want to explain how the only problem I had with a borrowed dress, was who had worn it before. That he might’ve seen someone else in it, that it had probably fit them better and he’d taken it off them by the end of the night. That I wanted to throw up at the thought. “I don’t even know if Céline and I are the same size.”
Henry’s brow furrowed in confusion. His jaw ticked and his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. “I assumed you’d want to go. With the press there you can network a little. It’s the only reason I RSVP’d after I knew you were coming. And—”
He pushed off the door toward me, paused a few feet away. I tried not to notice that I had hoped he’d come closer. “And I don’t think I can do tonight without you.”
The confession hung in the air, and I could imagine his reasons. “They’ll all want to talk about your parents, won’t they?”
Henry huffed, and I knew I’d guessed correctly. “I’ll be surprised if they find anything else to talk about.”
That look on his face was the reason I hadn’t brought them up in any of our interviews yet. I didn’t want him to think about me the way he thought about any other reporter, who had crossed that boundary in his teens—I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him once their names slipped from my lips on the record.
