Page 68 of Lessons in Forgiving
My gaze wandered around our surroundings, trying desperately to find another anchor point that wasn’t six foot one, played soccer on the college team and was still looking at me. So, it jumped across his car, the tree a few feet down the road, skipping him entirely and continuing to admire—well,noticethat we should tend to our garden and its wildlife better. The flowers to the side of the house were wilted, the bushes in front of the windows lacked leaves, and three pairs of eyes stared back at me through the glass.
Wait what?
My eyes started back to where all three of my roommates’ heads popped out from behind the curtains. They did not move, even after prolonged eye contact. Even after I’d sent them a glare that should have made it obvious they’d been caught. They stayed right where they were. Watching us through the window.
And now that my attention had latched onto them, Henry seemed curious to see what had caught it. He turned their way.
I couldn’t have that.
I moved without thinking, and suddenly my arms were around his torso and my head on his chest and my eyes so wide they might pop.
So much for keeping away from each other.
I turned his back toward the demon girls mid-hug.
Very awkward hug.
“Oh.” Escaped his mouth, and I was surprised to feel his arms around my shoulders, anyway. “Are youthisgrateful?” he asked mockingly, then rested his head on mine. It made me want to combust—being pressed against his chest, feeling his hands on me, his strong arms around my body, forced to inhale his scent.
Pinewood, citrus and bad ideas.Always those.
“I should’ve taken you away more often, then. Hm?” He muttered the words into my hair, and I almost wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear them. But he was Henry Parker Pressley, and he always knew exactly what he was doing.
I also remembered he was my ex-boyfriend. That we shouldn’t be this close less than twenty-four hours after we’d decided not to be. It seemed impossible to stay away, though. Whenever I thought of it—him, away—my chest ached, and my stomach turned, and I realized I had missed him terribly. So badly, I might start crying if I don’t get those memories of us being anything other thanfriendsandpartnersout of my head.
Of the way he’d play with my curls, wrapping each one around his finger after I’d washed them to make sure they set properly. Of the way he’d insisted I teach him Spanish, and he’d become adorably flustered every time he pronounced a word wrong. The way he’d held me when I got homesick; the way his fingers would trace along my back until I stopped crying, andthe way he massaged my neck and pulled my hair when it had inevitably led to a migraine.
In all the ways a person could miss someone, I missed Henry.
Which was absurd, I wasliterallyin his arms.
But that was ex-boyfriend/profile-subject/friend-Henry. Not boyfriend-Henry. Not pretend-boyfriend Henry from last night, either.
That made me draw away from him so quickly, I almost stumbled over my own feet. “Sorry,” I said quickly, clearing my throat and trying to keep it together, just until I’d make it into the confines of my own home.
Which was about ten seconds later, after I’d grabbed my bag from the floor and sprinted into the house with nothing but a shoutedSee you!over my shoulder.
I pressed my body against the door as if it might open otherwise.
“That was one steamy hug,” Riley whooped from where they’d watched the whole ordeal. And I really wanted to laugh at her comment.
What made it past my lips was more of a sob. A strange mix of a laugh and a cry that could only be interpreted as the former if you squeezed your eyes shut and plugged your ears. Maybe then.
Between tears, I could vaguely make out all three of my roommates jumping into motion, fussing andOhing and Maeve starting after Henry—presumably to punch him. Which wasn’t a great idea because he’d done nothing wrong except being a good boyfriend right up until he’d broken up with me—so much so that I still missed him a year after the fact.
I held her by her arm, shaking my head and trying to laugh through my tears to signalit’s not that serious!I must’ve looked ridiculous. We’d broken up so long ago and I decided to miss himnow?
It was at least partly due to the fact we hadn’t acted like we’d been broken up at all last night. Touched and almost-kissed like he was still my boyfriend.
“Oh, honey,” Maeve cooed, pulling me into a hug that only reminded me of Henry again, and squeezed another strange sob-laugh out of my throat. Still, I relaxed into her touch and finally let go of the bag I’d still been holding. “It’s okay,” she said. “You never really stopped missing him, did you?”
Her words punched me right in the gut, and instead of another earth-shattering cry, I groaned. So loudly I woke Pip on the couch, who started up and glanced our way with wide eyes.
“Why?” I asked, desperate to get over him—or back with him. Whatever it took for this stupid feeling in my chest to lift.
Maeve put some distance between us, her hands staying on my shoulders when she looked at me. A small smile tugged on her lips, and her head tilted. “You loved him, Paula. That doesn’t just go away.”
If I focused on Maeve’s brown eyes for too long—the compassion and understanding and love in them—I might break into tears again. So I watched as Pip jumped off the throw pillow on the couch, leisurely wandered past the rest of the girls, and planted herself right by my feet. She looked up at me curiously, meowed terribly loudly, and then brushed along my legs until I picked her up.
