Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
NOW
What happened in New York, stayed in New York.
And Henry and I took our agreement from last night very seriously. No stray touches, no accidental brushing of fingers or hands or hips. Just Henry, always at least five feet between us.
Until his hand had slipped from the armrest between us to my leg, thirty minutes into the flight. He’d been asleep for twenty of it. I’d tensed, tried not to let my eyes trail from the document I’d been updating with the weekend’s material, and pushed through.
Pushed through the way his touch scorched through the fabric of my jeans.
Friends , I’d reminded myself. We’d slipped into old habits last night and shouldn’t have. We both agreed we would try.
To forget. To stay away from each other.
From behind the wheel of his car, I could feel his gaze on me, just briefly. We’d almost made it back home.
“Thank you,” he said unprompted. My brow furrowed. If anything, I should be the one thanking him. Right? Despite that hiccup last night, I’d gotten great material and even greater connections over the weekend. Stuff I’d never have without him.
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Coming with me?” It was a question more than anything else, and I wasn’t quite sure if he knew the answer.
“You didn’t even want me to come,” I pointed out with a snicker, my head against the window as we rolled past street names I was starting to recognize.
“That’s—” He contemplated, hesitated. For a second, I thought he might’ve been close to letting his guard down, to saying something without thinking thoroughly about it first. Unheard of! “Not true.” He settled on. “It was nice, you know? Having you around. Even if you weren’t supposed to be there.” He frowned at that.
“Henry Parker Pressley!” I gasped, lips twitching despite myself. “Did you just admit that things can be good even if you haven’t planned for them?”
He stopped the car next to the curb and threw me an exasperated look. “I’m being serious,” he pressed, not really looking the part. “I’m glad you came.”
Henry got out of the car to jog around it, then opened my door. And when I watched his smile grow, suspecting I was the reason for it, I couldn’t help but think I’d made a good choice.
With the profile. With going to New York. With being all in —whatever that meant.
Those were the first good choices I’d made in a while. After a string of bad ones (or just one really bad one), that put me off ever making them again.
I came to a halt by the walk-up to the house, beckoning him to hand me my stuff. Reluctantly, he let it slide to the ground by my feet. Frowning, his eyes snapped up to mine. “The bag’s really not heavy,” I argued.
“Still.”
My eyes rolled theatrically, but I smiled. “Thank you.” Remembering his words in the car, I added, “I’m glad I came, too.”
And I really was. Not just because it’s what had left us standing so close now, I had to tilt my head up to connect our eyes. Something glistened in the green of his.
Henry huffed, the sound hesitant. He was aware that this was the moment he should turn around and get back in the car. Where I should wave goodbye and get inside.
We did neither.
And although I wasn’t sure what I’d wanted instead, I knew that I didn’t want to move. That I didn’t want to miss the proximity of his tall frame or the soft smell of citrus the breeze blew my way.
Despite what we’d said last night, I didn’t want him to leave. Maybe it was the way the sun played in his hair, the way it almost seemed a dark shade of blond in the light. The way he squinted, nose scrunching and lips quirking. The way he seemed like my Henry, just for a moment.
I diverted my eyes quickly. My cheeks were at least a shade darker when I finally turned my head and Henry cleared his throat like he didn’t know what to do or say next, either.
I wanted to scream Leave! but I didn’t really want him to.
My gaze wandered around our surroundings, trying desperately to find another anchor point that wasn’t six foot one, played soccer on the college team and was still looking at me. So, it jumped across his car, the tree a few feet down the road, skipping him entirely and continuing to admire—well, notice that we should tend to our garden and its wildlife better. The flowers to the side of the house were wilted, the bushes in front of the windows lacked leaves, and three pairs of eyes stared back at me through the glass.
Wait what?
My eyes started back to where all three of my roommates’ heads popped out from behind the curtains. They did not move, even after prolonged eye contact. Even after I’d sent them a glare that should have made it obvious they’d been caught. They stayed right where they were. Watching us through the window.
And now that my attention had latched onto them, Henry seemed curious to see what had caught it. He turned their way.
I couldn’t have that.
I moved without thinking, and suddenly my arms were around his torso and my head on his chest and my eyes so wide they might pop.
So much for keeping away from each other.
I turned his back toward the demon girls mid-hug.
Very awkward hug.
“Oh.” Escaped his mouth, and I was surprised to feel his arms around my shoulders, anyway. “Are you this grateful?” he asked mockingly, then rested his head on mine. It made me want to combust—being pressed against his chest, feeling his hands on me, his strong arms around my body, forced to inhale his scent.
Pinewood, citrus and bad ideas. Always those .
“I should’ve taken you away more often, then. Hm?” He muttered the words into my hair, and I almost wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear them. But he was Henry Parker Pressley, and he always knew exactly what he was doing.
I also remembered he was my ex-boyfriend. That we shouldn’t be this close less than twenty-four hours after we’d decided not to be. It seemed impossible to stay away, though. Whenever I thought of it—him, away—my chest ached, and my stomach turned, and I realized I had missed him terribly. So badly, I might start crying if I don’t get those memories of us being anything other than friends and partners out of my head.
Of the way he’d play with my curls, wrapping each one around his finger after I’d washed them to make sure they set properly. Of the way he’d insisted I teach him Spanish, and he’d become adorably flustered every time he pronounced a word wrong. The way he’d held me when I got homesick; the way his fingers would trace along my back until I stopped crying, and the way he massaged my neck and pulled my hair when it had inevitably led to a migraine.
In all the ways a person could miss someone, I missed Henry.
Which was absurd, I was literally in his arms.
But that was ex-boyfriend/profile-subject/friend-Henry. Not boyfriend-Henry. Not pretend-boyfriend Henry from last night, either.
That made me draw away from him so quickly, I almost stumbled over my own feet. “Sorry,” I said quickly, clearing my throat and trying to keep it together, just until I’d make it into the confines of my own home.
Which was about ten seconds later, after I’d grabbed my bag from the floor and sprinted into the house with nothing but a shouted See you! over my shoulder.
I pressed my body against the door as if it might open otherwise.
“That was one steamy hug,” Riley whooped from where they’d watched the whole ordeal. And I really wanted to laugh at her comment.
What made it past my lips was more of a sob. A strange mix of a laugh and a cry that could only be interpreted as the former if you squeezed your eyes shut and plugged your ears. Maybe then.
Between tears, I could vaguely make out all three of my roommates jumping into motion, fussing and Oh ing and Maeve starting after Henry—presumably to punch him. Which wasn’t a great idea because he’d done nothing wrong except being a good boyfriend right up until he’d broken up with me—so much so that I still missed him a year after the fact.
I held her by her arm, shaking my head and trying to laugh through my tears to signal it ’ s not that serious! I must’ve looked ridiculous. We’d broken up so long ago and I decided to miss him now ?
It was at least partly due to the fact we hadn’t acted like we’d been broken up at all last night. Touched and almost-kissed like he was still my boyfriend.
“Oh, honey,” Maeve cooed, pulling me into a hug that only reminded me of Henry again, and squeezed another strange sob-laugh out of my throat. Still, I relaxed into her touch and finally let go of the bag I’d still been holding. “It’s okay,” she said. “You never really stopped missing him, did you?”
Her words punched me right in the gut, and instead of another earth-shattering cry, I groaned. So loudly I woke Pip on the couch, who started up and glanced our way with wide eyes.
“Why?” I asked, desperate to get over him—or back with him. Whatever it took for this stupid feeling in my chest to lift.
Maeve put some distance between us, her hands staying on my shoulders when she looked at me. A small smile tugged on her lips, and her head tilted. “You loved him, Paula. That doesn’t just go away.”
If I focused on Maeve’s brown eyes for too long—the compassion and understanding and love in them—I might break into tears again. So I watched as Pip jumped off the throw pillow on the couch, leisurely wandered past the rest of the girls, and planted herself right by my feet. She looked up at me curiously, meowed terribly loudly, and then brushed along my legs until I picked her up.
I swallowed thickly, last stray tear escaping my eye. Pip apparently found that very interesting. She tilted her head, eyes following the streak, and sniffed my face until I was almost offended by the insinuation before she leaned further into me. Her rough tongue licked my cheek. Once. Twice.
Cats did love their salt.
A shaky laugh escaped me, and I glanced to my roommates hesitantly. “Sorry,” I laughed, honestly a little awkward. “I don’t know where that came from.”
Laila looked about two seconds away from crying herself if I couldn’t get myself together. Riley’s lips pulled up in an apologetic smile before her head inclined in a slow nod, as if to say It’s okay. You’re good.
And Maeve just gave me that sad, knowing smile when she stepped aside to gesture up the stairs. “We’ll be with you in a minute, love,” she said. “Girls’ Night?”
Laila practically bloomed at the word. “Girls’ Night?” she repeated, sharing a hopeful look with the rest of us. “I could really use it,” she muttered to herself.
“What do you need it for?” Riley wondered, not accusatorially—just amused.
“You know I hate when any of you are upset,” she protested, her arms crossing in front of her chest like Riley should’ve known that. She did.
I huffed with a smile, Pip still in my arms when I nodded in agreement. “Girls’ Night.”