Page 82 of Lessons in Forgiving
“I figured—” But he cut himself off, shook his head. His shoulders sagged. “I honestly don’t knowwhatI figured. Ithought you might not want me to call. After we said this shouldn’t happen. And then it did, twice.” His brows pulled together, like he had to physically restrain himself from rambling on. “I thought you might be regretting it.”
I couldn’t help but huff in amusement, leaning against the closed door behind me. “You’ve never been one to question your actions. Or lack thereof.”
Henry’s head shook harder, and his eyes batted open to connect with mine. He took a step toward me, hesitant and slow. “That’s never the case when it comes to you. You make me nervous, remember?”
I swallowed thickly. “Right now?”
I felt the door against my back and watched him take another step toward me. So close, my neck craned up to keep our eyes connected. “Yes,” he said, barely breathed the word. “Very much so.”
My lips twitched, just once. “Why are you here, Henry?”
“You texted.”
“And you didn’t reply,” I reminded him.
“Because I was on my way to you.”
His words hung between us, and I tried desperately to grasp for a response that kept my cool mask of nonchalance in place. But I was a very chalant girl, and I couldn’t help the soft smile on my lips when I asked again, “Why?”
The porch light above us flickered, and it seemed like Henry had just remembered his own reasons. His eyes darted across my face, taking me in, noticing my red eyes, the stress-induced circles under them.
He frowned. “You seemed about two minutes away from a breakdown.”
“Oh.”Well…“You’re about two breakdowns too late for that?”
The reminder roughly threw me out of Henry-land, where problems were secondary, and I hadn’t just written anokayprofile on him.
He considered me for a long moment, and I could tell he was trying to find a way to fix whatever was wrong. Even if he didn’t have details, and even if he hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t fix everything—that there were things outside of his control.
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself before giving it a try anyway.
When Henry threw me across his shoulder, I yelped. Loudly. Then held onto his torso upside down like my life depended on it. Clutching and grasping until he opened a car door and slid me into the passenger seat.
He leaned into the car, over the seat I dumbfoundedly sat on, hands on either side of my legs. “Wait here?”
And before I could answer, he kissed me. Again, and again until I followed his lips when he’d tried to draw away, and then whined when he really did bring distance between us. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He pleaded like I might really disappear if he blinked one too many times. He waited for my nod, then closed my door, jogged back to the house and disappeared into it.
My body slumped into the black seat the second he was out of sight, breath embarrassingly heavy as I tried to get the pit of my stomach under control—the heat between my legs to cool down.
It was too easy with him. Forgiving and forgetting and letting him carry me off into the night like nothing had ever happened between us. And I tried to remind myself that I should be cautious, that I should remember who he was and what he was.
Ex-boyfriend.
He did not give me enough time for the reminder to settle. Five minutes later, he was back with my phone and laptopbalancing on top of the pizza box in one hand, and one of Maeve’s light pink duffle bags in the other.
I wouldn’t have known where to look for mine if he’d asked.
He put the bag into the trunk without a word of explanation, then fell into the driver’s seat with a huff.
Henry placed the electronics on the backseat and gave me a kiss, put the box in my lap and gave me a kiss. Then, when he turned the key in the ignition, as if he couldn’t help himself, leaned across the console to give me another kiss. Lingering, and almost forgetting he’d started the car.
I could bear the silence for about five minutes, in which he’d put some distance between us and the house. “Where are we going?”
Henry’s eyes shifted from the road for a fraction of a second to look at me, but the lack of a response was not deliberate. His brows pulled together. He scowled. “I don’t know.”
The words lingered, the weight of them indescribable.
“You don’t… know?”
