Page 73 of Lessons in Forgiving
I might.
I knowI’d said I had enough self-control when it came to Henry. And I’d really been convinced I could keep my hands to myself, urges and wants and needs constraint to my own head. Until now I had been.
What I hadn’t added to the equation was this.
The way his throat worked, lowering our hands but not letting go of my wrist. The way his skin felt on mine, the way his touch made metingle. I felt I might combust under the weight of all those possibilities swimming in his eyes. Swimming in mine.
“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t draw back. His gaze flicked to my mouth, and he closed his eyes—squeezed them shut tightly and exhaled loudly. “I’m really trying,” he whispered, strained and desperate.
“Trying?”
“To stay away from you.” His eyes batted open, connecting with mine. “To give you space. After New York.”
“Are you?” My gaze flicked between us, the lack of distance apparent. A slither of humor made it through the charged air between us. “This is the first time you see me, and you’re not… away.”
Not that I minded.
Henry huffed against my nose, minty scent still lingering from his toothpaste. “Youwouldthink this is the first time,” he said unhelpfully, cryptically—teasing. “I saw you four days ago. In the library, typing away. Twice yesterday, actually. At Daisy’s in the morning, and then again on campus.” The corner of his lip curled upward, affectionate and sweet. “But you’ve never been very aware of your surroundings, charm.”
I swallowed thickly, tried to blink whatever must’ve shown in my eyes away. “And you were always better at watching people,” I agreed half-heartedly.
“Watching you,” he amended.
He said it so quietly, it might’ve slipped out of his mouth when he didn’t mean it to.
Henry’s tongue flicked across his lips, and he hesitated a moment; his lazy grip around my wrist twitched. Just once, very quickly, and then he let go. Took a step back, cleared his throat.
“I made up this thing in my head where I told myself I needed to talk to you.” The words slipped out, like he didn’t know what else to say but didn’t want the conversation to end.
“What reason did you come up with?”
It seemed we were both on autopilot at this point. Because if I had anything to do with it, if myconsciousmind could get a word in, there wouldn’t have been a flirty lull in my tone. I wouldn’t have tilted my head; my eyes wouldn’t have trailed to his lips.
None of that would’ve happened. Probably. It shouldn’t have. We’d agreed to it just last week.
And yet he asked, “Let me give you a ride home?”
Bad idea. But autopilot.
“Sure.”
At least in the car, there was a console between us. Seatbelts keeping us from jumping the other. Henry’s undivided attention on the road, and not me anymore. I might not survive the latter again.
So, how’s it going?” he asked as he rolled to a stop in front of my house. “With the profile, I mean. Have you started writing it?”
I shook my head. “No. About to, though. I think all that was missing was watching a game.” Which led me to add, “Congrats, by the way.”
“On not losing?” he asked, unconvinced.
I shrugged. “That, too.” I guessed? “And the assist.”
Henry barked a laugh, unbuckling his seatbelt. His gaze trailed to me. “Thanks,” he deadpanned. “McCarthy will never let it go.”
My eyes rolled as he went on. “He never stops gloating. He never gets over things—or letsothersget over them. Paula,” he pressed, serious. “He still thinks it’s hilarious to be close to my sister whenever I enter a room they happen to be in.”
I snorted a laugh, and raised my voice when he got out of the car, and jogged around it. “And you don’t think he might just want to be close to her,and get this, even when you’renotaround? Because he loves her?”
“No.” My door popped open, and it revealed a scowl on his face.
