Page 79 of Lessons in Forgiving
But my breath was too heavy to speak, my chest rose and fell too hard to get a word out. And when our lips connected again, and another one of my moans got swallowed by his lips, I couldn’tthink, never mind speak.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. After New York. After last week. I—” He groaned into my mouth, teeth digging into my lower lip softly. “I need you. I—” And it seemed he had more to say but gave up when my fingers began fumbling with his belt buckle.
His head fell back at the implication, hands driving up the back of my neck and into my hair. His belt fell open, and he kissed me like he was rewarding me for finally getting it done.
Which made the generic ringtone blaring through the room so much worse.
I shook my head even before our lips disconnected, because I could feel him draw away, and I didn’t like it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he sounded like he really was. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Which was when he took a step back, and my body sagged against the door because my legs had turned into jelly. “Remember when I said I don’t have much time?”
That reminded me of something awful—I didn’t, either.
“How late is it?” I asked, panic lacing my features, need and desperation taking a backseat, when I realized I probably wouldn’t make it to Eddie’s office in time.
“Two.”
“Fuck.” My hand ran down my hair, smoothed out my clothes in an attempt not to look thirty seconds post-heavy make-out. And sixty seconds pre- much more. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The phone was no longer ringing, which meant Henry had taken the call. My plan was to leave the room and not think about what had happened in it until I’d survived my meeting. I’d already opened the door, was halfway through it.
“Paula.” When I turned around, Henry covered the microphone with his palm, holding the device a few inches from his face. “I’ll call you.”
CHAPTER 31
THEN, May: eleven months ago
Is this still about Mark?” Henry yawned from beside me, nuzzling his face deeper into his pillow, eyes squinting shut. I turned the brightness of my screen to its lowest possible option. As it was probably the reason he was still awake.
Mark, Henry’s friend who’d managed a full-ride scholarship to Harvard. Mark, the thin, blond European guy I’d interviewed today. Mark, whom I couldn’t help but have a weird feeling about. I’d been trying to ignore it ever since I’d gotten back from Boston. So far I had nothing, though.
“Yeah,” I answered his question. “How did you say you guys knew each other again?” My eyes flicked down to Henry, and I honestly felt a little bad when he turned, with a stretch, onto his back to blink at me sleepily. Quickly, his eyes trailed over me, the way I sat against his headboard. He shrugged.
“Friend of a friend of a friend. I think,” he added. “But however pretentious it sounds, he’s the only guy I could think of who’s smart enough for an Ivy and not filthy rich. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Because going to an Ivy probably isn’t as much pressure when you’ve got a hefty trust fund to back up your academic achievements. Or lack thereof, I guess.” And that’s what HBU wanted this entire article to be about.
How damaging the stress of keeping up expectations at Ivy League colleges across the country was, and how most people might be better off going to equally good schools without that added pressure. Hall Beck University, for example.
I was essentially writing a marketing letter for them. Just with more words, research, and time invested.
“And what about Mark?” Henry asked.
My head shook. I wish I could pinpoint it, but I had no idea what it was about Mark that made my stomach turn.
He’d been kind, his answers perfect. Detailing every way in which going to Harvard would look great on his resume, but was damaging enough to his mental health and self-worth that it might not be worth it.
It was exactly what I’d been wanting to hear, exactly what I’d been worried I wouldn’t—unsure how willing students were to give me those details when they spent sixty thousand dollars a year to go to an Ivy. With Mark’s scholarship, it had seemed even less likely. But alas.
From arrogant professors to a lacking safety net for their students’ mental health, Mark had given me everything I could’ve asked for. Including personal anecdotes that had been so perfect, I’d known which parts to quote when they’d come out of his mouth.
It’s like someone had personally sent Mark Lager to make my life easier. It seemed almosttooperfect. And I didn’t know how to word the suspicion in response to Henry’s question.
“I don’t know,” I sighed instead, head falling back against his headboard. “Something feels off. I just don’t know what it is,” I rasped, frustrated. “I’ve gone through his followers, his following. Tagged pictures.Facebookfriends,” I stressed.
“And nothing?” Henry’s hand emerged from below the covers to trail along my arm, up and down, gently, soothingly.
“Nothing,” I agreed. Ignored the goosebumps his touch still sent across my skin. “Just his own GoFundMe link and financial troubles he seems to love posting about.”
