Chapter 36
CHAPTER 36
NOW
Maybe a change of scenery had been what I’d needed. Looking out into Henry’s rose garden certainly made the whole process easier.
With all the new material from yesterday’s final interviews, I’d reconstructed— reimagined the entire profile. Themes, mentions, the when’s and how’s that turned a well-curated profile into an unputdownable PR-piece. Three hours into the day, and I was looking at a completely different story.
I sighed. “I can feel you staring at me.” My eyes reluctantly drew away from the screen. Henry sat on the opposite couch. Instead of scrolling through his phone, it was in his lap, the screen black and his attention on me.
“Good.” A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “My plan worked. Now you can come here.” His arms spread, inviting me into his lap. I wish I could, but—
“I can’t.” I nodded to the screen. “I need to finish this.”
We’d been in a similar situation before. Almost exactly a year ago. Where I had work to do, and he’d asked me not to do it. Begged and pleaded until I’d given in. When I’d been trying to figure out what felt off about Mark, and Henry had told me I was being paranoid.
And I had been. Even if I’d scoured the Internet for another three hours that night, I wouldn’t have found the thing that would cost me my good reputation two weeks down the line.
I still hadn’t, almost a year later.
And I’d never stopped blaming myself for closing that laptop.
After our breakup, I’d just blamed him, too. For introducing me to Mark, for distracting me, and for making me jeopardize everything I’d worked for, while he hadn’t risked anything for me at all. I wasn’t sure if it had been fair, but it had made me feel better, and Maeve had said that’s all that mattered.
A year later, my first project after the debacle, and I’d found myself in the same situation. Working, writing and researching in the presence of Henry—who could so easily distract me.
I promised myself a million times over that I wouldn’t let it be the same again. Chanted the words in my head like my own personal mantra whenever I got a whiff of his cologne, or he made a sound from across the room.
Not again. Not again. Not again.
Turned out that’s harder when everything around you screamed Henry Parker Pressley. When I could hear him make a call in the other room, move around the house, tell me from the other end of it I found some vegan places that deliver! What do you want, sushi or burgers?
Sushi, obviously.
But I’d powered through and made it to the end of that second draft by early evening. I’d be lying if I said getting back to Henry hadn’t been one of the motivators making me work faster.
So, being in his arms, in his bed, felt like a reward of some kind.
“You know,” he said, his fingers trailing along my back. “This isn’t very friends of us.”
The way my chest pressed against his abs. The way he held me. The way not even a piece of paper could fit between us.
Yeah , I thought. It wasn’t really friends of us at all.
I sighed, shrugged. A half-amused huff made it past my lips. “In the good way or the bad way?”
Henry shifted underneath me. “I can’t imagine a world in which this would be bad.” I could feel him contemplating. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing.” Many things, actually. “Just…” I hesitated.
To address the elephant in the room or not?
“Back then.” I began. “What we had wasn’t so bad. Was it?”
Henry sat up now, leaned against the headboard and drew me up with him. His green eyes searched mine for just a trace of humor, but I couldn’t find it in me to pretend for him.
“You’re saying that like I’d think it was,” he figured. I grabbed the first shirt I saw from the foot of the bed, and he followed my movement when I slid into it. It happened to be his. He didn’t comment on it. “Why?”
And I couldn’t believe he was asking me why I’d ever assume he thought our relationship had been bad. With a tone that almost seemed insulted by the insinuation. My eyes twitched, flickered across the confusion on his face.
“Maybe—” I couldn’t help the flat delivery. “ Maybe because you broke up with me.”
My attention drew away from him. To the big windows that reached the floor, showed the entire garden with its pool and statues and roses. To the desk that stood in front of one of them, small lamp, pens, and paper on top of it. To our clothes scattered around the room—his sweatpants by the foot of the bed and my shirt in the doorway. I was looking anywhere but at him.
Henry laughed, the sound dry and devoid of humor. “If I remember correctly, you seemed just fine with that.”
My head shot back in his direction. “You can’t–-” I settled when I began too loudly, too defensively. Tried again. “You can’t seriously believe that.”
“How couldn’t I?” he pressed. “A week later, Maeve brings me a cardboard box of my stuff, then demands one with yours. A month later, you’ve got my number blocked. And I don’t hear from you again.”
Because I had to! Because there was no way I could’ve seen you a week after we’d broken up. Because I’d been so tempted to call and text you, Maeve had to block your number for me.
I wanted to scream the words at him.
When I didn’t, Henry added, “You never even asked. Why I did what I did.” His tone got stronger, fiercer, like we might actually get into a fight. Right here. Right now.
Between the white sheets, birds chirping and the setting evening sun. With the trees ruffling in the breeze, on a beautiful spring day, Henry and I were getting into a fight.
He should know why I’d never asked, though. The insinuation that I hadn’t cared enough to want to know seemed… rude, above all else. Because he knew how much I did—that I’d centered my entire life around him, and I’d paid for that, in a way. I could barely remember the night he’d broken up with me because of how painful the thought had been. Even now, it hurt.
We shouldn’t do this.
“I know why you did what you did, ” I repeated his words. “I didn’t need you to throw all your reasons into my face when I’d already lost one thing that day. Are you kidding me? I didn’t need to hear any of it!”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
“Oh my God.” I wanted to throw my head back and belly-laugh at the proposition. Instead, I just began listing. “You’re you, Henry!” The way he quirked his brows only made it worse. Like he didn’t get what that might have to do with it.
“You were exactly where you were meant to be. Doing what you were supposed to do. I got in the way of that! Don’t shake your head like that, I did! You didn’t want to make time in your schedule. You didn’t even want to think about making time in your schedule! I was a distraction, so you cut me off like a useless limb. The way you do with everything else—”
His mouth opened, he wanted to say something, but I wasn’t done. “You know the worst part? That I was actually happy for you, in a way. I hated you, but I was happy for you. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do!” I repeated. “You know what you’re supposed to do. And you’re lucky enough for it to be exactly the path you’re supposed to take—the one your parents wanted for you, too. Literally the entire world wants you to do this, and I was so happy that at least you still got to do that. Without distractions.”
“Right,” he scoffed. He slipped out of bed so smoothly, I only noticed when he stood to the side of it, pulling on his pants. “It’s what everyone else wants from me. Of course it is! But has anyone ever stopped to wonder if it’s what I want? Just because Felix left a fucking legacy behind, because I happen to enjoy the one thing my father was known for, and because I happen to be really fucking good at it, too, that’s my life. Just decided for me! By papers and press—by anyone but me.”
His eyes sliced to his shirt on me, but he decided not to wrestle it off me to cover up completely. “My father’s corpse has more control over the trajectory of my life than I do. Is that what you mean when you say I’m doing what I’m supposed to do ? I love soccer, but do I only love it because everyone thinks I should? Do I actually enjoy it or is that just the control my dead dad still has over me?”
The question was rhetorical, but I could tell he wished I could give him an answer. “I’ve been trying to figure that out since the draft, and it almost made me lose everything I’ve worked for. If you hadn’t been there, I’m not sure if I would’ve signed those contracts in New York—” His head cocked sideways, and Henry snapped his mouth shut before, God forbid, something came out of it he hadn’t planned for.
I think it was the first time he’d voiced those feeling properly. About his Dad, the impact of his life—and death.
And I wondered if he’d felt better when he stormed out of the room. When he got into the car and drove off.
I did not. Just groaned as my head fell into the pillows, then groaned louder when they smelled like him. Fuck!
Hadn’t we been arguing about our breakup? Why he’d broken up with me ? He hadn’t denied my guesses. But he hadn’t confirmed them, either.
And yes, sure, what he’d said was true, and tragic and explained the ways of Henry Parker Pressley so perfectly. Explained why he did what he did, why he was the way he was. Why he thought he hated his dad and loved being in control.
But I wasn’t in the mood to be understanding. I was mad. And I decided, without calling Maeve or texting our group chat or doubting myself, that I was allowed to feel that way.
For the first time, I felt my emotions deeply enough not to question them.