Chapter 34
CHAPTER 34
NOW
I should regret last night. Technically, theoretically, I shouldn’t still think about the things Henry had done to me and wish he would again the second I’d woken up. To his brown hair tickling my nose, arm draped over my bare chest and a fuzzy feeling in my stomach.
And it should’ve been a big deal—sleeping with your ex-boyfriend, then waking up in the same bed.
It was!
I should feel nervous and confused and, honestly, a little frantic. I was not. My head was clear, my mind sharp, and maybe all I’d needed had been a good lay for the mist of fog around my brain to lift.
Because suddenly I knew what Eddie meant when he’d called the profile Okay .
I was still in Henry’s arms, cuddled against his chest when it dawned on me. When I replayed my editors feedback in my head and realized what had been missing.
All those things I hadn’t asked Henry because I knew what subjects he wouldn’t want to talk about. His parents, for one. And all the things I hadn’t brought up because I was his ex-girlfriend and perhaps asking about other girls and parties and whatever else successful college athletes might be up to in their free time, could be weird. Uncomfortable.
For him, probably even more so for me.
But another boundary between us had been crossed last night, when he’d groaned into my ear and told me how good I’d felt—something that had brought us closer to how things used to be. Back when I would ask him what I’d wanted to ask and hadn’t worried about his reaction. When I hadn’t worried what it might do to our relationship at all.
And when my phone was recording our conversations, I wasn’t Henry’s ex-girlfriend. Or his friend. I was Paula Castillo, unjustifiably shunned college journalist, and if he didn’t want to talk about a topic, he could tell me after I’d asked about it.
Henry stirred behind me, almost like he could tell I’d been thinking about him. A low sound escaped his lips, and his breath tickled the back of my neck. “Are you up?” he mumbled into my hair, arms slung around my body to pull me closer. “Can we just stay like this forever, Paula?”
His voice, rough with sleep and right by my ear, did things to me. And all the clarity I’d gained in the past five minutes, about the profile and my writing, threatened to disappear just with the way he’d said my name.
But wasn’t that exactly what had gone wrong last year?
When I’d prioritized Henry, and that feeling in my stomach whenever I was around him, over and over again until it had eventually come back to bite me in the ass? When I hadn’t quadruple-checked my source—his friend—because he’d been tired, and I’d been tired, and I’d never been great at resisting Henry.
So I turned in his grip now, watched his green eyes focus in on me, and shook my head. “You don’t have any other plans for today?” I asked in return.
Henry thought for a moment, and I was almost certain it was weird for him to say, “No.”
Because remember? Henry Parker Pressley always had a plan. Followed by a plan for the plan.
My lips pulled into a grin at the disruption of normalcy before I made it more glaringly obvious. “I do,” I said, and laughed at the way his eyes widened mockingly. “For both of us.”
“Who would’ve thought,” he gasped, then kissed my bare shoulder to hide his smile. “What do you have in store for us, Paula Castillo?”
“You still owe me answers to three deeply personal questions.” From when he’d forced me onto the treadmill. “And there might’ve been a few I skipped before.”
“If this is what it’s like to be a full-time journalist,” I sighed as I leaned into the sun-lounger, squeezing my eyes shut against the first warm rays of the year. Despite our rushed departure last night, Henry had packed me a bikini. Red and tiny. “Sign me up.”
Henry, arms propped on the edge of the pool, snickered. “It’s not.” His clarification popped my momentary bubble of bliss. “Only when you’re interviewing people as popular, rich, and nice to be around as I am.”
“And humble” I added. “All four? That’s rare.”
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 her Reason, and she chanted 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 about this girl?” 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 31 st . 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 know myself at 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.
“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-occasions Great at Love.
Handwritten- letters -when-they’d-be-apart-for-longer-stretches-of-time Great at Love.
Dancing-in-low-lit-kitchens Great 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…” Hate seemed 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 him be for 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 that didn’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 espanol?” I asked slowly. His eyes snapped to mine, like he hadn’t expected to understand my question.
Have you been learning Spanish?
“Un poquito.” The pink spread from his neck and ears into his cheeks now, and he cringed at his own words, the pronunciation of them and whatever else he was clearly overthinking. I wasn’t paying attention to any of that; only the fact that I spoke Spanish, and that he understood me.
“Para mí?”
“You.” He nodded in affirmation. “And your parents.” Henry thought for a moment, drew his wrist out of my grip to interlace our fingers. “And my ego, a little bit.”
I laughed—soft and open. Not because of his joke, but because I was happy. I recognized the fuzzy feeling in my stomach, the tender pull on my heart. The way I couldn’t stop smiling. I was so so happy.
Henry did not share the sentiment, probably because he still had a horrible accent when he spoke, and he was doing something— trying something he hadn’t immediately been perfect at. Still trying, after three-hundred-and-sixty days.
I drew him to me, his lips to mine, and tugged and pulled until my back hit the wall right by the bottom of the staircase.
The smile on my lips was wide enough to coax one onto his, too. Mid-kiss, my head shook, and I pulled away again. Looked at him. The way his green eyes fixed on mine, pupils wide, cheeks still flushed and damp hair darker than usual. The few freckles across his nose were more prominent after a day in the sun.
“Three-hundred days?” I asked again, disbelief and awe playing in my tone.
Henry gasped playfully. “And sixty!” he corrected. “How dare you bury my achievements like that?” He laughed, then kissed me again.
Almost a year. And for ten months of it, we hadn’t even looked at each other, never mind spoken a word.