Page 71 of Lessons in Forgiving
A piece of his childhood from Athalia for a piece of Henry she might not know about. And round and round we went for an hour.
Later, when Maeve and I listened to the material like others might to a podcast, I was tempted to play it back, just to make sure I hadn’t missed any of the juicy details.
“God,” the redhead sighed beside me, sprawling across my bed, eyes on the ceiling. “Athalia really is something. I’m a little jealous McCarthy took her off the market before I got the chance to.”
I huffed. “You guys would’ve been cute together.”
“An absolute power couple.” She agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “How far along are you with this, anyway?” She stretched her hand in the direction of my laptop by the foot of my bed.
Shrugging, I decided, “I’ve talked to Henry plenty. Seen enough, probably.” And it definitely wasn’t just another way to postpone eventually seeing him again after New York. “I got the chance to talk to Coach Hepburn at the game the other day, and his friends after that. I should probably watch another one of his games from the stands, just to get a feel for him. On the field. Right?”
I preferred the thought of watching Henry from afar, where we wouldn’t have to interact. “Then I’ll get to writing the first draft. Which would leave me with enough time to get some more stuff should Eddie deem it… insufficient.”
Maeve blinked at me, a little dumbfounded. “Did you just actually make a plan?” she asked, like it was an impossibility. “Like, in advance? Instead of doing and writing as you go?”
“That seems like a backhanded compliment,” I deadpanned.
“Well—”
“Why does everyone think I’m incapable of getting my shit together?” I groaned, definitely too loudly. Like Maeve had accused me of that, and it wasn’t just what my own insecurities were chanting in my head.
She looked at me like she knew that. “Paula.” She rolled her eyes lightheartedly. “No one actually thinks that.” She hesitated. “And even if they do. Who cares? You know how you work best, and if that’s without a plan, chaotically doing whatever you want, whenever you want—” I shot her a glare I didn’t mean. “Then so be it. As long as you get it done.”
I wish I could share the sentiment, believe in myself—my abilities and resilience—as much as other people did. Even Marty seemed impressed.Excitedeven, about the prospect ofmewriting about one ofhisplayers. The thought still seemed odd.
Why, though? How come other people, some of whom I barely knew, had more faith in me than I did?
Me, who’d been the one to fuck her parents’ expectations and change majors because she knew she’d be better at something else.
Me, who’d gotten article after article at thePost. Who’d written forThe New York Timesas an undergrad student.
Me, me, me.
I’d been there for all of that. I’d actuallydoneit. For some reason I thought I might never be able to again.
And I decided, something about that needed to change.
CHAPTER 29
NOW
I went to HBU’s next game, and I didn’t think I’d ever dreaded watching a match before. This one, though, I was terrified. For no reason, really.
Henry had no idea I was there because I didn’t tell him I would be. After all, I was supposed to watch him in his natural habitat—and no one acted naturally when they knew a journalist writing a profile on them was nearby.
So, I’d rummaged through my accessories until I found the one baseball cap I never wore, threw on a tee and jeans, and was on my way to the game. With the season over, it was just another friendly. On our home pitch this time, with the spring sun feeling terribly summer-y. It was so close, I could smell it in the air, see it in the sky and the trees. Feel it through the sun on my skin.
And I couldn’t wait.
As opposed to summers at home, which were too hot and itchy and loud, summer on the east coast felt warm and calm and quiet. No cicadas outside your window keeping you up at night, and no cockroaches on the floor keeping you from getting out of bed in the morning. I hugely preferred that.
Squinting against the spring sun, I watched Henry jog onto the field. Judging by the way he sprinted to his position, I could tell he’d been itching to be put in.
Apparently, Coach had only deemed it necessary in the second half, when the score had already been 0-1 against us, for thirty minutes.
Not ideal when you were supposed to write about a player, and he wasn’t playing.
As if hedidknow I was there—impossible, as I’d pulled my hat further over my features the second he’d emerged from the bench—Henry made sure I got something to write about, regardless.
