Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
NOW
I went to HBU’s next game, and I didn’t think I’d ever dreaded watching a match before. This one, though, I was terrified. For no reason, really.
Henry had no idea I was there because I didn’t tell him I would be. After all, I was supposed to watch him in his natural habitat—and no one acted naturally when they knew a journalist writing a profile on them was nearby.
So, I’d rummaged through my accessories until I found the one baseball cap I never wore, threw on a tee and jeans, and was on my way to the game. With the season over, it was just another friendly. On our home pitch this time, with the spring sun feeling terribly summer-y. It was so close, I could smell it in the air, see it in the sky and the trees. Feel it through the sun on my skin.
And I couldn’t wait.
As opposed to summers at home, which were too hot and itchy and loud, summer on the east coast felt warm and calm and quiet. No cicadas outside your window keeping you up at night, and no cockroaches on the floor keeping you from getting out of bed in the morning. I hugely preferred that.
Squinting against the spring sun, I watched Henry jog onto the field. Judging by the way he sprinted to his position, I could tell he’d been itching to be put in.
Apparently, Coach had only deemed it necessary in the second half, when the score had already been 0-1 against us, for thirty minutes.
Not ideal when you were supposed to write about a player, and he wasn’t playing.
As if he did know I was there—impossible, as I’d pulled my hat further over my features the second he’d emerged from the bench—Henry made sure I got something to write about, regardless.
The energy on the field shifted the second he touched the ball for the first time. Opponents didn’t get as close to our box anymore; the game was mostly played on the other side of the pitch and Henry was determined to get the few balls that made it onto ours, away from the opposing players.
He was big for a soccer player, which made it easy to track him, even if I wouldn’t have known his number. For playing defense, he was quite far from our goal now, the ball always by his feet as he ran further into the middle of the pitch—seemingly catching the Brinley Tigers off guard, as he simply dribbled through their lineup. Right up until number three put a stop to it.
I was confused by the sight—a man taller and wider than even Henry, running toward him, and looking very intent on getting that ball away from his feet and back onto our side of the pitch. Henry looked around to pass it the second he noticed him.
The only number he had a free shot at was seven: Dylan McCarthy Williams.
For a moment, I honest to God thought he’d rather give up the ball than assist Dylan with a goal. But that wasn’t Henry—he’d been raised to do nothing but winning. It was his thing.
Whatever rivalry the two had off the field, right then and there, with the ball between and the odds against them, you couldn’t see any of it. They worked in perfect sync. Harmony.
Henry passed the ball smoothly across the field, right to Dylan’s feet. The latter made a run for the goal before he’d even secured the ball, then lined it up perfectly, and didn’t hesitate before he fired it into the net.
With ten minutes to go, Dylan scored the equalizer to make it 1-1.
The relief and gratitude washed off Henry’s face just seconds after the goal, and he glowered at the boy like they hadn’t just worked perfectly together. Like they’d shared a single braincell and used it to get that ball into the box.
The game ended in a tie, and I was already crafting possible sentences about it in my head by the time I was leaving. Without my laptop, I was wildly typing into my notes app. My eyes glued to my phone, my focus on the structure of the profile and how I could incorporate today’s game into it seamlessly. Henry this and Henry that—every second sentence started with his name.
Which was fine, and not creepy at all. This profile was about him, after all.
A hand on my shoulder shocked me out of my head—made me realize I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings at all. Five seconds away from running into the lamppost I was now staring at. I whirled around.
Henry. His tall frame blocked the setting sun behind him.
I couldn’t say I was surprised.
His name was all over my life at the moment—literally, judging by the document on my laptop and the note in my phone. I couldn’t avoid him forever.
No matter how much I wanted to.
“Knew that was you.” His hand fell from my shoulder, and I hated the eerie cold it left behind.
I frowned up at him from below the blue baseball cap. “How?” I asked. “I’m masked.” I gestured to the hat, tapped it once. I had brown curls, not neon pink hair. The back of my head wasn’t unique enough to spot from a mile away and recognize.
“First of all.” He began, his head tilting in amusement. “I don’t know how great you think your disguise is, but you just look like Paula with a hat on to me.” Outrageous , I thought. “Second of all. That’s my cap.”
My eyes widened. As if he could read my thoughts—that were full of Couldn’t be s and No way s—he snatched it off my head and turned the back toward me. It read Parker. “That’s my name on it,” he stated matter-of-factly.
My head shook. “That’s not your name.”
At least not legally. His full name was Henry Parker Pressley, and if it didn’t say that on the hat, he couldn’t prove it was his. There was probably a brand out there called Parker , right?
“Plus, I gave all your stuff back.”
His eyes rolled at the technicality, widening the strap on the back and placing it on top of his head. It did look better on him.
“My aunt preferred my middle name,” he reasoned. “Which is why I hate my middle name, and the reason I gave it to you. I told you that.”
I tried to ignore the slither of a memory in the back of my mind.
I shook my head, fiercer this time. “Nope.”
I grabbed for it once more, got on the tip of my toes to reach it, only to be stopped by Henry’s hand. Around my wrist. Again.
I blinked up at him. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
And I didn’t mean to whisper the words. The air just felt thick, and that invisible string supposed to keep us a safe distance from each other since our agreement in New York much thinner. About to snap.
I might.
I know I’d said I had enough self-control when it came to Henry. And I’d really been convinced I could keep my hands to myself, urges and wants and needs constraint to my own head. Until now I had been.
What I hadn’t added to the equation was this.
The way his throat worked, lowering our hands but not letting go of my wrist. The way his skin felt on mine, the way his touch made me tingle . I felt I might combust under the weight of all those possibilities swimming in his eyes. Swimming in mine.
“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t draw back. His gaze flicked to my mouth, and he closed his eyes—squeezed them shut tightly and exhaled loudly. “I’m really trying,” he whispered, strained and desperate.
“Trying?”
“To stay away from you.” His eyes batted open, connecting with mine. “To give you space. After New York.”
“Are you?” My gaze flicked between us, the lack of distance apparent. A slither of humor made it through the charged air between us. “This is the first time you see me, and you’re not… away.”
Not that I minded.
Henry huffed against my nose, minty scent still lingering from his toothpaste. “You would think this is the first time,” he said unhelpfully, cryptically—teasing. “I saw you four days ago. In the library, typing away. Twice yesterday, actually. At Daisy’s in the morning, and then again on campus.” The corner of his lip curled upward, affectionate and sweet. “But you’ve never been very aware of your surroundings, charm.”
I swallowed thickly, tried to blink whatever must’ve shown in my eyes away. “And you were always better at watching people,” I agreed half-heartedly.
“Watching you,” he amended.
He said it so quietly, it might’ve slipped out of his mouth when he didn’t mean it to.
Henry’s tongue flicked across his lips, and he hesitated a moment; his lazy grip around my wrist twitched. Just once, very quickly, and then he let go. Took a step back, cleared his throat.
“I made up this thing in my head where I told myself I needed to talk to you.” The words slipped out, like he didn’t know what else to say but didn’t want the conversation to end.
“What reason did you come up with?”
It seemed we were both on autopilot at this point. Because if I had anything to do with it, if my conscious mind could get a word in, there wouldn’t have been a flirty lull in my tone. I wouldn’t have tilted my head; my eyes wouldn’t have trailed to his lips.
None of that would’ve happened. Probably. It shouldn’t have. We’d agreed to it just last week.
And yet he asked, “Let me give you a ride home?”
Bad idea. But autopilot.
“Sure.”
At least in the car, there was a console between us. Seatbelts keeping us from jumping the other. Henry’s undivided attention on the road, and not me anymore. I might not survive the latter again.
So, how’s it going?” he asked as he rolled to a stop in front of my house. “With the profile, I mean. Have you started writing it?”
I shook my head. “No. About to, though. I think all that was missing was watching a game.” Which led me to add, “Congrats, by the way.”
“On not losing?” he asked, unconvinced.
I shrugged. “That, too.” I guessed? “And the assist.”
Henry barked a laugh, unbuckling his seatbelt. His gaze trailed to me. “Thanks,” he deadpanned. “McCarthy will never let it go.”
My eyes rolled as he went on. “He never stops gloating. He never gets over things—or lets others get over them. Paula,” he pressed, serious. “He still thinks it’s hilarious to be close to my sister whenever I enter a room they happen to be in.”
I snorted a laugh, and raised my voice when he got out of the car, and jogged around it. “And you don’t think he might just want to be close to her, and get this , even when you’re not around? Because he loves her?”
“No.” My door popped open, and it revealed a scowl on his face.
“Ay dios mío, Henry,” I groaned lightly, teasingly. I lost the seatbelt and turned toward him. “Stop being a dickhead and start being happy for Athalia! She’s in love with the guy!”
Henry, naturally, did not share that sentiment. His hand curled around the hood of the car, resting his head against it and almost level with mine. “Who are you calling a dickhead, missy?” He challenged, an amused glare in his eyes. “Can’t possibly be me, right?”
“And what if it is?”
We’d been joking a minute ago, but the spring breeze had blown something else between us. A gust of tension, air filled with possibilities and bad ideas. Him, closer to me.
I didn’t imagine the way he filled the distance, did I? The way he leaned further into the car, leaving less space between us.
“I haven’t come up with a punishment yet,” he said.
“No?” I wasn’t quite sure what came over me when I added, “Do let me know once you have.”
It’s not something that would’ve come out of my mouth if I had anything to do with it. It was another one of those autopilot moments. Where I just said what I wanted to say, not what I should.
Maybe that we’d agreed to stay away from each other made it harder—made me want to be closer to him, instead.
Something in his expression darkened, the teasing lines of his smile disappearing slowly. His brows drew together like he was about to kick into autopilot, too. The way we had in New York, where he told me he still thought about how I felt. Where he confessed I made him nervous, then almost kissed me.
This felt similar. Only that I wasn’t thinking about why we should be reasonable anymore. That instead, all I wanted to scream at him was Kiss me . What’s the big deal?
We’d done it before. About a thousand times. We’d done so much more than share a harmless kiss in this car; there was no way one more could hurt.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!
My gaze fell to his lips approximately every .5 seconds. I couldn’t help it. Whenever it jumped back to his eyes, hoping I might manage to keep it up, he was still looking at me. His attention wasn’t wavering, wasn’t flickering between my lips and eyes wildly. It was fixed on the latter.
Like he was about to discover a new shade of brown in them. Honestly, I think they might just look dark, now that the sun had set. Just one shade of dark.
“Paula,” he rasped. And the string between us was about to snap again. I was about to snap again. I could feel it, the same way I could feel the rough sound of his voice in the pit of my stomach. The way I could feel his breath on my cheeks spreading warmth in them. The way I could feel him all over, when he wasn’t touching any of me.
Perhaps it was like phantom pain. When you still felt your leg even after it had been brutally severed from the rest of your body.
And perhaps that’s why I felt the ghost of his lingering kisses, his hands on my body, his fingers between my thighs—even if he wasn’t touching me. Even if he hadn’t since he’d been severed from the rest of my life.
“What?” When I finally answered, I couldn’t get it to be above a whisper. My tongue flicked across my lips, and the motion drew his eyes to them for the first time.
He swallowed thickly, and looked back at me. “Please don’t make me kiss you.”
“Why?”
“Because I won’t be able to stop,” he said. “Because I won’t want to.”
I thought I might be seeing stars when I felt him draw closer, felt myself inch toward him, too.
“You—” I began, but my lips moved, and they brushed his and it was a little too much, I thought, so unprepared. My breath stuttered in my throat, and Henry’s forehead fell to mine, bringing some distance between our lips.
Just enough for them not to touch when I said, “You managed before. You were so… reasonable that night.”
He’d been the one to draw away in the hotel. I didn’t think I could have.
“And it almost killed me, Paula.”
My head shook against his. Maybe to clear my thoughts, maybe because I had hoped the movement would accidentally let my lips brush his again. They didn’t, and when disappointment settled in my stomach, I thought, fuck it .
Let that string between us snap.
Fuck reasons. Fuck Breakups. Just for today—for now.
I reached for his face, clumsy, needy, and said, “If you kiss me, you won’t have to stop—”
So he did. Or I did.
I wasn’t quite sure who’d finally done it, in the end. Only that his lips moved in sync with mine, and that the noise he’d made when they finally connected hadn’t been in my head.
A sigh of relief, a groan, a plea.
The way he’d sounded a year ago whenever I’d trailed kisses down his neck, chest, stomach, hips—until he’d gotten impatient, and I’d finally wrapped my lips around him.
Only that instead of whispering sweet, encouraging words and praise into my mouth or neck or hair like he always had, he was quiet now. Like he didn’t want to miss a single thing or any of his words to interrupt what was happening.
My lips parting, our tongues reuniting, the broken moan about to slip past my lips when his hand interlaced with mine on the seat, and I could feel how much he wanted me by the way he was squeezing it—holding tight like he might spontaneously combust, if he couldn’t have me.
I might, too—so much so that, when my name was yelled across our front yard, I’d been tempted to ignore it.
“Paula?” It came again, and pulled me back to the reality of the situation.
In my ex-boyfriend’s car. His lips on mine. Him, half-way on top of me. Us, about three minutes from that point of no return. In the middle of an open street. With neighbors around—and nosy roommates.
I froze in the same moment he did, but the space between us hardly existed. Barely enough not to still feel his lips on mine. Like a lingering touch, the end of one kiss and the start of the next. My breath hitched, eyes wide.
Henry swallowed thickly, and his gaze flicked behind me, through the window on the driver’s side that faced my house. He cursed, the sound low and intimate against me.
“The windows are tinted, right?” I whisper-yelled, almost into his mouth.
When he nodded, he finally put some distance between us.
It was the right thing to do, but it felt wrong beyond words. Worse, once he straightened and appeared above the car again, revealing himself to whichever of my friends stood beyond it.
“Oh.” And I could finally assign a face to the voice. “Henry. Didn’t see you there,” Riley said.
He cocked his head sideways, shooting the girl a look that implied she should’ve expected him. “It’s my car,” he explained.
“Good to see you too,” she deadpanned, completely oblivious to the reason for his dismissive tone.
Which was her. Her, and her cruel interruption.
I heard Riley’s footsteps echo on the short walk-up from the house, and before she could round the corner of Henry’s car to find out just how close, how compromising, our position had been, I got out of my seat to meet her halfway.
Even if I’d tried, my last look at Henry couldn’t have conveyed everything I had wanted it to.
I missed you, above all else.
“Ah,” Riley mouthed when I finally jumped into view. “Thought that was you. We saw the car pull up through the window.” She nodded toward said window behind her, coming to a halt. “So when so much time passed, and you still weren’t there—”
Her eyes trailed to Henry behind me, and I knew she blamed him. Rightfully so, I guess. “Almost missed Taco Tuesday,” she chided, some humor back in her tone.
Henry only thought it fitting to comment, “It’s Sunday.”
Which Riley and I both ignored.
“Sorry.” I smiled as I caught up with her. “Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
That was a lie. The reason I’d miss Taco Tuesday any day of the week—although the Sunday ones were my favorite—stood feet away, eyes probably on us. “Although I do miss Dominican food,” I quipped on the porch, lingering in the front door as Riley disappeared inside.
For a fickle second, I thought perhaps I shouldn’t turn around. Spare myself the embarrassment in case Henry had already gotten back in the car and wasn’t even paying attention to me anymore. Was halfway gone wishing the past ten minutes hadn’t happened and cursing himself for how much he’d regret kissing me.
But the attempt was useless.
Henry stood where I had left him. On the passenger side of his car, door still open, one hand on it, the other probably in his pocket. Eyes on me. Typical half-smile on his lips that told me perhaps he wasn’t regretting it at all.