Page 87 of Lessons in Forgiving
Water sloshed against the edge of the pool, drawing my eyes to the sound right as Henry placed his hands onto the deck. “Well, not everyone can be Henry Pressley.”
Muscles in his arms strained and stretched as he heaved himself out of the water, revealing everything else he had to offer, dripping wet in nothing but a pair of swim shorts.
The sun reflected in the drops of water clinging to every crevice, shifting as the light dancing across his body drew my attention to all kinds of places. Collarbones, forearms, fingers. My stomach tightened. He was close enough to make out the veins in them now and I—
Water. Cold and wet.
I squealed as I shoved Henry off me, bringing as much distance as I could between me and his dripping wet hair, which he continued shaking out in my direction, laughing loudly before planting himself on my sunchair.
With a glare, I watched him grab my phone, unlock it (I should’ve probably changed my passcode after we’d broken up) and press record when he’d found his way into the voice-memo app.
“Sh!” he hushed then, grin audible in his tone. He placed the device on the small table between the loungers. “This is a professional interview, Miss Castillo.” He’d said it like he hadn’t wrapped his wet arms around me a second later, like he wasn’t pressing his wet torso and wet chest against my body—previously all warm and dry from the sun.
I groaned, unable to do or say anything else with the way he’d used my own weapon against me. I grew accustomed to his cold, wet limbs quickly, though, and he seemed to love how warm mine were—wanted less distance between us—when he scooped me up in his arms, laid back on the chair, and somehow positioned us so that we both fit perfectly on it. My head on his chest, one leg draped over his lower body, arm behind his neck.
“So you do this often?” I asked, mindful of the recording to our heads, my phone on the small table. “Bring girls to Long Island and charm them with your… money?” I wish I could’ve delivered the question as stoically as I’d planned.
“I don’t need the money to charm the girls.” He huffed. “Do I?” I felt him tilting his head, glancing at me—so comfortable on his chest I never wanted to leave.
“Depends on the girl,” I conceded. Unfortunately, he needed essentially nothing to charm me. Just words and a smile, and I’d find myself in the exact same situation.
I’d been in it before, years ago—seconds away from falling for him. Maybe I’d never really gotten up.
That same pesky voice in my head chimed in again. I called herReason,and shechanted the words in my head over and over again, reminding me that not much had changed between us.
Henry was still a busy man, and he’d probably be more so very soon. Henry’s priorities were still his career, and I was trying to focus on mine, too. He’d broken up with me.For a reason.
Despite all of it, I was still in his arms. Laughing and blushing and sighing contently. I shouldn’t be, but detaching myself from him required willpower I knew I did not have. Henry took up so much space in my life, he had his own gravity. And I continued orbiting around him, unable to stop, even if I’d wanted to.
Figuring out what was happening between us had to wait until I’d gotten what I’d needed for this profile. I couldn’t possibly do it any other way anymore.
“What aboutthisgirl?” His hand smoothed over my curls absentmindedly, and it brought me back.
When I looked up at him from my corner of his chest, the light reflecting in his green eyes made them sparkle. Like,actually. The small smile in the corner of his lips fit perfectly.
“She…” I trailed off, eyes flicking to my recording phone. “Does not reveal her secrets that easily.”
Henry rolled his eyes.
“And.” I added. “This interview is not about her. So tell me, Mr. Pressley.” His nose crinkled but he did not laugh. I could tell he wanted to. “No parties? Alcohol flowing from fountains?” There had been on New Year’s Eve. “Girls?”
Which had been one of those topics I’d steered clear of in our first round of interviews. Out of respect for his privacy, his boundaries. As a journalist, of course I’d respect those.
But only once he’d tell me—I couldn’t assume what he’d be uncomfortable with anymore. I wouldn’t avoid questions I might not want answers to.
So, parties and girls.
“Well.” He thought of his answer, affirmed it in his head with a nod. “We celebrated New Year’s Eve here,” he said,presumably for the record because I knew that. “Once. Before that, we’d always done it at one of the New York apartments. My sister and I always throw this bash on the 31st. So, that’s a party,” he assessed. “As for the girls…” I only noticed his eyes on me when I looked up at the lingering silence.
“Yes?”
He cleared his throat, eyes trailing off. “My parents met at college.”
I almost choked at the mention of them. They, too, were on that list of topics I had avoided as best I could—because I knew how little Henry liked talking about them. To hear him bring them up? On the record? I tried not to reveal how big of a deal it was to me, how much I appreciated his opening up for the sake of my career. So I stayed very still on his chest and listened.
“I always thought I might get that. You know? Highschool sweethearts seemed overrated—I didn’t even knowmyselfat sixteen, never mind getting to know someone else on a level like that.” He waved the thought off, moved on. “I thought… well, I thought if there’s one thing I wanted to do like they had, it wouldn’t be soccer or business or whatever else they’re known for.” He let loose a breath. “I’d want it to be love. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But my parents were great at love. By far, they were best at that.”
“And?” I pushed.
