Page 93 of Lessons in Forgiving
My phone must’ve died somewhere between my tenth text and now, then.
I wondered how awful I looked when I finally raised my head to connect our eyes. Mine bloodshot, mascara clinging to my lashes and cheeks, exhaustion settling in every pore.
Blinking, brow furrowing, I realized Henry didn’t look much better.
Not like he’d cried ten rivers or questioned his entire future for the past five hours, but exhausted all the same. Shaken. Confused. Worried and unsure. At least one of those I could probably blame on my own state. The rest, though?
“Are you okay?” I asked, wiping at my eyes for the first time, hoping I might get some of the mascara under them. My gaze flickered across him, his disheveled hair, the worried frown, his hand curling around mine, knuckles… bruised? “What happened?”
No big deal, he’d said. Fell at practice, skidded across the fake lawn. He’d mumbled the explanation, had taken me up to his apartment with half of his mind on me, and the other somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong until we’d made it to his couch—his hands in my hair, pulling gently to release some of the tension in my head—and I’d told him what had happened in greater detail than a few texts could have. His freshly bruised hand curled by his side at the first mention of Mark, the other continued massaging my scalp so gently you’d never guess. He’d listened and comforted me and blamed himself for what happened.I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have introduced you. But you’ll be fine, right?
I hadn’t really thought this mess to be his fault. And honestly, I’d shaken my head and told him I wasn’t sure if Iwouldbe fine.
Perhaps that was why, twenty minutes later, he said, “We shouldn’t do this.”
He’d been gnawing on his bottom lip, a frown forming on them. He’d stood against the kitchen counter, hands in his hair. His roommates had still been out. The whole thing was kind of a blur.
“What?”
Henry had repeated his words, explained what he’d meant.
This isn’t good for us. Distractions. A lot going on.
We should focus on our futures.
Which I’d always seen with him, I guess.
The more he spoke, the more distant it seemed. Like I was merely observing the situation— without actually being part of it. Completely checked out. Perhaps that way, I’d wake up tomorrow able to convince myself I’d dreamed the whole thing.
I’d rub the sleep out of my eyes, get dressed, tell Henry I’d had a nightmare, and in it he’d broken up with me. He’d kiss my forehead, tell me I was being ridiculous, and I’d believe him.
Apparently, it wasn’t all that ridiculous, though.
His mouth continued moving now, his tone soft and apologetic, eyes watery. I think. I couldn’t be sure, because,again, I’d checked out. Trying to conserve the last bit of dignity I had by accepting that another constant in my life had just been ripped out from under me, instead of trying to save it and failing.
So there was no fight. I might’ve been too tired for it. We could’ve talked for hours or ten minutes, and I couldn’t tell you which it was now.
I’d refused his offer to give me a ride home. Numb. Unfeeling. Not a trace of emotion in my voice. I couldn’t possibly have fought for another thing I’d cared about, only to lose. Not after trying with Eddie and failing at that, too.
And my world came to a halt again, one last time, when I’d sent Maeve a brief text on my way home. And—like she knew seeing them would tear me to pieces—by the time I’d gotten home, she had already taken down the few pictures of Henry and me on our photo wall in the living room.
CHAPTER 38
NOW
Henry hadn’t come back. I’d fallen asleep way past midnight without him returning, and woke up too early, unable to contain the worry settling in my stomach that had kept me tossing and turning all night.
You weren’t supposed to drive on high emotions.
But when I sneaked onto the balcony, the sun just having risen, looking out into the driveway, his SUV stood slap bang in the middle of it. I exhaled so loudly it hushed the birds out of a nearby tree.
“Scared I left you stranded in the middle of nowhere?”
My hand clutched at my chest, startling at his voice. “Jesus,” I gasped, more to myself. I cleared my throat. “Something like that.” I didn’t feel like mentioning I’d been scared for him more than anything.
He leaned against the doorframe, a cup of coffee in hand. Not black. “Now that would’ve been a great reason for a breakup,” he contemplated solemnly.
I tensed at the mention—at the sheer reminder of our argument. Henry leisurely pushed off the wall, coming to stand beside me. He did not look at me as he placed his cup on the thick stone balustrade.
