Page 83 of Lessons in Forgiving
He seemed as surprised by the statement as I was. A little helpless, too. In all the time I’d known the man beside me, not once had he… not known something. He always had a plan. And a backup plan for the plan. Sometimes another one just in casethatfailed, too.
Henry Pressley’s life was foolproof. And yet, he’d shown up at my place unannounced to drive off intoI don’t knows.
“I came over because you seemed stressed. In the texts.” He backtracked his thought process. “And then you were there, and youlookedstressed, too. So I said—” His brow furrowed.
“Fuck it,” I offered, like he might’ve forgotten what had pushed him to literally carry me off into the night.
“Yes.” His eyes jumped to mine, connected for a second. “Fuck it.”
Fuck it, like his busy schedule hadn’t always caused problems in our relationship. As if the fact he couldn’t be spontaneous, couldn’t do things without planning them through and a month in advance hadn’t been the fuel in… many of our fights.
I’ve been getting better at prioritizing.
I didn’t ask for specifics. Just enjoyed his company, the music from the speakers, thewhooshwhen we passed other cars, and the pizza I devoured. And I think I might’ve fallen asleep the moment I swallowed the last bite.
CHAPTER 33
NOW
Something was different when I woke up. The music had switched to lazy, rhythmic beats instead of catchy lyrics, the pizza box was in the backseat, and Henry’s hand rested on my leg. His fingers drew absentminded circles on my thigh, dipping between them because he’d made the circle too big—or maybe his hand was just too large to draw a small circle?
I blinked my sleep away, watching him nod along to the music, his eyes on the road—which had turned from grey highway into beautifully cared-for front yards, white picket fences and fancy houses. I stretched, sat up.
“You do have a destination in mind at this point, right?” I yawned, a little surprised we were still on the road at all. The clock of his car showed something past three in the morning.
His hand gave a small squeeze in acknowledgment of my words, but he kept his attention on the street. “Ah, she’s awake,” he said. “I do.”
He seemed proud of the fact, like the lack of plan and control earlier had only made him think of one harder and faster now. “And you woke up just in time to see it in all its glory.”
The road in front of us turned into a long, winding drive-up and ended with a house in the way. “Oh.” I searched for any kind of navigational system that would confirm Henry had taken a wrong turn, but he must’ve been driving by memory. “There’s a house in our way,” I said like an idiot, brain still half-asleep.
It was so dark I couldn’t make out the details of it. Only that it was large. And beautifully ornamented. Columns holding a rounded balcony up above what should be the entrance. Stairsled to it from two sides, flower beds in the middle. It seemed… familiar, for some reason.
Henry snorted at my assessment and turned the engine off. Silence grew between us until he said, “It’s only been a few months since you were here, Paula.”
And it clicked.New Year’s Eve.
I had been here before—considerably drunker with Maeve and Riley and Laila in tow. When Riley had been so excited about the invitation, she drove all the way from Hall Beck University to the location the Pressleys had rented in the Hamptons.
But it still didn’t explain why we were here now. “You didn’t actually rent out a house for us to stay in, did you?” I asked, because it was the only plausible explanation for why we’d stopped in front of it in the middle of the night.
“Rented?” Henry snickered in amusement. “It’s mine.”
My head snapped in his direction. Then back to the most gorgeous house I’d ever been in. With the rose bushes to the side of the property, the flowers in the big pots making it feel almost cozy—merging nature with the delicate work of humans.
“What?”
I knew Henry was rich. Everyone did, and he’d never been modest about it. Flaunted and taunted and used it to his advantage whenever he could. Sometimes tried to when he shouldn’t have. Butthis. A house like that—
I remembered the large stairway in the entrance hall, leading to the first floor from two sides. I remembered the chandelier, expensive floors and beautiful furniture. On New Year’s Eve, there’d been an actualbar.
“My parents’ summer house when we were young. They sold it just before—” He skipped the part, but I knew. “It was supposed to be torn down last year, so what’s left of my family bought it back. Started thinking about it almost exactly a yearago now, actually. I could barely focus on anything else back then.” And like the sentimental tone had never existed at all, he added, “But I made it.”
Exactly a year ago.Right before we’d broken up, then.
I realized how much I must’ve missed in the year we hadn’t been together. He’d bought a house. He’d made up with his sister. He’d signed contracts and met people I’d never hear about.
And I shook my head at the absurdity of what my life had become.
