Page 88 of Lessons in Forgiving
“And,” he said—humor getting rid of some of the previous tension in his tone. He sobered quickly. “I thought I had it. For a moment there, I really thought I did.” I could feel his eyes on me, burning into my profile. I didn’t return his look. “And then I realized no matter how much I told myself I wasn’t like them—that money and fame and career weren’t more important than the rest of my life—when it came down to it, I was just like them. Identical. Prioritized the wrong things, hurt the people I shouldn’t have. Left them behind to fend for themselves.”
My breath was shallow at the raw honesty in his voice, and when I sat up to look at him, I saw things in his gaze I never thought I would. Hurt, heartache, grief. They felt like a punch to the gut and made me hate what I had to do next.
My hand trailed to his, and I squeezed it tightly. To let him know I was here, then once more to let him know I’d stay, too. If he would have me.
I’m sorry,I thought at him. As hard as I could, and hoped he might hear me—could read the words from my face.
“You say your parents were great at love?” I repeated. I almost sighed in relief when he didn’t seem offended by my question. When he just nodded, like he’d been wondering when I’d bring them up. When I’d finally double down. “How so?”
And Henry was right. They seemed great at love.
Handwritten-notes-without-occasionsGreat at Love.
Handwritten-letters-when-they’d-be-apart-for-longer-stretches-of-timeGreat at Love.
Dancing-in-low-lit-kitchensGreat At Love.Badly, Henry had emphasized with a smile on his lips.
Flowers. Date nights. Trips.
“Their last trip,” Henry started, and something in his face shifted. The same way clouds had drifted in, covered the sun and its warmth. I’d shrugged into Henry’s loose sweater halfway through the interview. He’d put on sweatpants. “Felix planned it as a very belated anniversary thing. The twentieth, I think. And he thought it’d be a nice addition to leave the kids at home, give Mom a break. I guess. Not that Athalia and I were very demanding children. We were happy with nanny-hopping. By the time we were fifteen, we’d gotten used to their absence more than their presence.”
He got up, and for a second, I was scared that I had breathed the wrong way or stirred when I shouldn’t have, and that it meant the end of his vulnerability.
But Henry held out his hand for me to take, with a smile so sad it almost broke me. “Let’s get inside,” he said, nodding up at the ever-graying sky. I followed, phone in hand and still recording.
“And you blame him?” I cleared my throat when the words were more of a croak. We made our way across the garden, back to the house. “Felix, I mean. Is that why you…”Hateseemed like a strong word for a deceased parent. “Aren’t very fond of him?”
Henry gestured for me to step back into living room, then followed and closed the French doors behind us. He shrugged. “I guess.Yes,” he corrected. “Partly? That’s what my therapist alludes to, anyway.”
His pained expression was enough to make me grant him a break. To change topic, go off the record and let himbefor a while. At least until tonight, when I’d go for round two.
“Stephanie,” I remembered his therapist’s name out loud. “I should’ve gotten her on the record about you, then.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a crime.” And he seemed glad about the shift between us. Happier to talk about his therapist than the reason he had one, in the first place.
“Tomato, tomahto.” I waved him off, glad to see him reciprocating the amused twitch of my lips. Making sure he could see, I ended the forty-two-minute-long recording.
Henry visibly relaxed, and I threw my phone onto the couch, right next to his. Which buzzed with a notification at the exact same time.
I didn’t want to look.
Really.
My eyes jumped to his face pointedly, actively suppressing the urge. Half because I didn’t want to intrude on his privacy, half because I was kind of scared of what I might see once I would. He’d said there hadn’t been other girls, sure. But thatdidn’t mean he wasn’t kissing them, texting them. It only meant he hadn’t slept with any of them. Yet?
I lasted about three seconds, which was when my self-restraint ran out, and my eyes flicked to his phone regardless. A notification pinged at the bottom of his lock screen, I could make out the green icon, the flame emoji in the message, and—
“Don’t read that!” he spluttered, basically jumping for his phone on the white couch.
Too late, though.
DUOLINGO
> Hey, Henry! Losing that 360-day streak would be a bummer. Get some Spanish in now!
Henry’s ears had turned pink by the time he slipped his phone into the pocket of his sweats. “I’m gonna shower. The chlorine—” He tried to justify his quick exit, already making for the staircase he’d carried me up last night.
“Hey.” My hand caught his just before he’d successfully fled the scene, and I could tell he was mortified when he turned back to me. “Has estado aprendiendo español?” I asked slowly. His eyes snapped to mine, like he hadn’t expected to understand my question.
