Page 63 of Lessons in Forgiving
I don’t think I can do tonight without you.
My next breath stuttered in my throat, but I nodded. “Alright,” I agreed, and I could hear him exhale in relief. Like he’d been holding his breath. “What about the size issue, though?”
“What size issue?”
“How do you know Céline’s dress will fit?”
“Céline’s—?” Henry’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, like he finally understood my apprehension. “Oh no. I got that dress for you, Paula. Last year. When I decided to get over myself and invite you to that New Year’s Eve party.”
I blinked at him.
I was under the impression Athalia had invited me. And only because her best friend was dating one of mine.
“Clearly I couldn’t get over myselfenoughto actually give it to you. So, it’s just been collecting dust here. Don’t worry. I know you, and I know it fits.”
An off-shoulder neckline. A subtle mermaid cut. Tight around the top and fitting like I might’ve been in the store to get it tailored. A beautiful shade of emerald green that seemed almost black in low light. A gold necklace rested in the plunge of the dress’ neckline.
And Céline was Henry’s PA who’d delivered it all here. Dress. Jewelry. Matching heels.
My curls sat freshly washed and diffused in an updo on top of my head, front pieces framing my face. My eyes flicked to Henry’s in the mirror we were both standing in front of. Neither of us had said a word since I’d gotten out of the bathroom fully dressed. His suit had clearly been tailored, and I tried not to wonder whether his tie had dark green accents to match his eyes or my dress.
“What?” I asked, when his mouth still hadn’t moved and his eyes hadn’t shifted either. “Are you going to tell me you forgot how pretty I am when I try?” I joked.
“I didn’t.” Henry’s gaze fell down my reflection again, slowly, deliberately taking in every curve and dip of my body in his dress. The one he’d picked out way after we’d broken up. “I couldn’t. And I don’t think you ever had totryto be pretty.”
I finally turned to face him, and I wished the way his gaze lingered on my neckline wouldn’t send heat straight up my neck. I wished it would feel insulting instead of flattering. But I’d always liked the way he’d looked at me. Love, adoration, lust in his gaze. It was no different now.
“You need to stop flattering me, Henry,” I said honestly. I wasn’t sure if the missing filter was thanks to the dress’s built-in confidence or my nerves. Perhaps both.
“Why?”
Because you’re my ex-boyfriend. Because we agreed to be friends and this conversation isn’t friendly in the same sense. Because it makes me blush and my heart stutter and I’m not sure how much of that I can take.
“Because.” I wasn’t planning on finishing the sentence, and Henry knew that.
He laughed, low and hushed, then held out his arm for me to take. “If you can’t give me a reason to stop, I won’t see the need to. Sorry, I don’t make the rules,” he said sheepishly. “Let’s go, beautiful.”
He’d briefly let go of me once we’d gotten in Andy’s SUV, but by the time we’d made it to the venue, my arm had interlocked with his again, and we’d ascended the stairs together, steps matching unintentionally.
Henry hadn’t let me move away since. Like I was the lifeline he kept clutching tighter whenever someone mentioned his father.
Five times, so far.
My hand still rested on his arm when he was drawn away from one group into another, and perhaps at that point I was using him as lifeline instead. If only not to get lost in the bustle that was New York City’s soccer scene.
I tried to remember as much about the evening as I could. The stuccoed ceiling, the massive half-pillars in the walls. The flower arrangements. The chandelier above us, and the people below it. Soccer legends left and right, players and managers I’d never thought I’d meet.
The way Henry spoke to them now, like he belonged.
“It’s so dark, I can’t see if there’s a ring. Are you two married already?” An older man asked now, his gray hair thinning on top of his head and the bow tie around his neck a little outdated. His tone was friendly, though. Unassuming and innocent.
His question was not.
“Oh God,” I winced, shaking my head adamantly. “No. God no. We’re not—” I didn’t know how to even begin explaining. Why, if weren’t together, my arm had been in Henry’s for an hour now. Why, if he was my ex-boyfriend and I was his ex-girlfriend, we were even here together at all.
My eyes flickered to Henry’s for help, but he seemed, for once, without answers. Which left the man to make assumptions. One that would follow us for the rest of the evening.
Humored, his gaze flew back and forth between us before he patted Henry on the back. “Get on that soon, son. You’ll be gone so much during the season; a ring will make sure she won’t forget you.” He winked and left.
