Page 75 of Lessons in Forgiving
I reached for his face, clumsy, needy, and said, “If you kiss me, you won’t have to stop—”
So he did. Or I did.
I wasn’t quite sure who’d finally done it, in the end. Only that his lips moved in sync with mine, and that the noise he’d made when they finally connected hadn’t been in my head.
A sigh of relief, a groan, a plea.
The way he’d sounded a year ago whenever I’d trailed kisses down his neck, chest, stomach, hips—until he’d gotten impatient, and I’d finally wrapped my lips around him.
Only that instead of whispering sweet, encouraging words and praise into my mouth or neck or hair like he always had, he was quiet now. Like he didn’t want to miss a single thing or any of his words to interrupt what was happening.
My lips parting, our tongues reuniting, the broken moan about to slip past my lips when his hand interlaced with mine on the seat, and I could feel how much he wanted me by the way he was squeezing it—holding tight like he might spontaneously combust, if he couldn’t have me.
I might, too—so much so that, when my name was yelled across our front yard, I’d been tempted to ignore it.
“Paula?” It came again, and pulled me back to the reality of the situation.
In my ex-boyfriend’s car. His lips on mine. Him, half-way on top of me. Us, about three minutes from that point of no return. In the middle of an open street. With neighbors around—and nosy roommates.
I froze in the same moment he did, but the space between us hardly existed. Barely enough not to still feel his lips on mine. Like a lingering touch, the end of one kiss and the start of the next. My breath hitched, eyes wide.
Henry swallowed thickly, and his gaze flicked behind me, through the window on the driver’s side that faced my house. He cursed, the sound low and intimate against me.
“The windows are tinted, right?” I whisper-yelled, almost into his mouth.
When he nodded, he finally put some distance between us.
It was the right thing to do, but it felt wrong beyond words. Worse, once he straightened and appeared above the car again, revealing himself to whichever of my friends stood beyond it.
“Oh.” And I could finally assign a face to the voice. “Henry. Didn’t see you there,” Riley said.
He cocked his head sideways, shooting the girl a look that implied she should’ve expected him. “It’s my car,” he explained.
“Good to see you too,” she deadpanned, completely oblivious to the reason for his dismissive tone.
Which was her. Her, and her cruel interruption.
I heard Riley’s footsteps echo on the short walk-up from the house, and before she could round the corner of Henry’s car to find out just how close, how compromising, our position had been, I got out of my seat to meet her halfway.
Even if I’d tried, my last look at Henry couldn’t have conveyed everything I had wanted it to.
I missed you,above all else.
“Ah,” Riley mouthed when I finally jumped into view. “Thought that was you. We saw the car pull up through the window.” She nodded toward said window behind her, coming to a halt. “So when so much time passed, and you still weren’t there—”
Her eyes trailed to Henry behind me, and I knew sheblamed him. Rightfully so, I guess. “Almost missed Taco Tuesday,” she chided, some humor back in her tone.
Henry only thought it fitting to comment, “It’s Sunday.”
Which Riley and I both ignored.
“Sorry.” I smiled as I caught up with her. “Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
That was a lie. The reason I’d miss Taco Tuesday any day of the week—although the Sunday ones were my favorite—stood feet away, eyes probably on us. “Although I do miss Dominican food,” I quipped on the porch, lingering in the front door as Riley disappeared inside.
For a fickle second, I thought perhaps I shouldn’t turn around. Spare myself the embarrassment in case Henry had already gotten back in the car and wasn’t even paying attention to me anymore. Was halfway gone wishing the past ten minuteshadn’t happened and cursing himself for how much he’d regret kissing me.
But the attempt was useless.
