Chapter 40
CHAPTER 40
NOW
I’d ordered Henry to my place. I’d told him to wait in my room, and I’d been sure I’d sounded angry because he’d done what I’d asked without a questioning word.
I was still angry when I stood in front of him exactly twenty-three minutes later. Pacing up and down the room, in front of my bed and the orange wall it stood against. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, dark blue button-down lazily tugged into them, he looked up at me.
“Paula?” he asked, looking worried and confused.
Different from the confusion I was currently experiencing. Which went more along the lines of Why? and When? And How could you do this to me?
I closed my door behind me, both hands behind my back when I leaned against it, feeling defeated before the conversation, the argument, the potential fight, had even started. My heart sank to the bottom of my stomach, when I asked, “How do you know Lacy?”
Because on my very brisk walk here, I’d remembered he had known her. That she’d greeted him like they’d spoken before. Like they were acquainted, at least. Right after our first interview.
Henry’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Hall Beck Post ,” I listed. “Hates me,” I added, snickering. “Ring any bells?”
His eyes trailed through the room, and the way they drifted to the upper-left corner of his vision told me he was trying to remember. Trying to jog his memory. Which seemed worse, somehow— that he had forgotten something that had essentially almost cost me my career.
His gaze jumped back to mine. “Halloway. Right?” he asked in confirmation. “Yeah, of course. Your friend from—” Henry cut himself off at the same time as it dawned on me.
When I realized my mistake in sync with Henry realizing his. “Did you say hates you ? ”
I cursed under my breath. My head fell back against the door with a groan. “I never told you, did I?”
Shaking his head, he took a step toward me. Still kept quite some distance between us. “Last year, a few days before you interviewed Mark.” He began. “I thought you gave her my number. She reached out, said she was supposed to set up the interview, but you forgot to give her the details. You were so busy she didn’t want to bother you, so I—” Henry blinked the memories away. “What did she do?”
“Fucked me over,” I figured. “Paid Mark to say exactly what I’d want him to say in the interview, only to go against what we printed after. Essentially getting me a registered complaint at the SPJ— Society of Professional Journalists ,” I explained at his questioning glance. I snorted at how obvious it was now. “Jesus, how would Mark even know to go to the SPJ? Why would he care so much about ethics in journalism—the man studies business, for God’s sake! There’s nothing ethical about—” Stop , I told myself. I was still in a room with a business major. “No offense,” I cringed.
“None taken.” Henry shrugged, but it did not seem like an explanation of the situation had made him feel much better. “Fuck, Paula,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “If I’d known… Fuck ,” he repeated. “That bastard wouldn’t have just been running around with a black eye for a few weeks. It’s one thing to get my girlfriend on the SPJ register, it’s entirely another to get her on there purposely . To meet you with the intent of fucking you over—”
But I was still stuck on his words— “A black eye?”
Henry snapped his head in my direction, like he just realized he hadn’t been holding an internal monologue but was very openly saying what he was thinking. No filter, just Henry. Who blinked at me, perplexed and a little apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed, running a hand over his face in… defeat? I’d never seen the emotion on him, so I couldn’t be sure. “When I saw your texts about what happened last year, I saw red. I’d just gotten out of a strategy meeting, and when you didn’t answer the phone, I saw… redder, I guess. I figured you were with Maeve, so I got in the car. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, honestly. Next thing I knew, I was at Harvard, though.” Henry took a deep breath, and his eyes returned back to mine across the room. “A two-hour drive, and I was still so angry. With myself, mostly, but so much more with Mark.” He started in my direction, then stopped himself. “I swear I meant to talk to him. Ask what the fuck happened. My fist just… slipped. Accidentally.”
My breath came in ragged bursts at the new information, loud and heavy as I put the pieces together. “Slipped,” I repeated. “Against his face?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He finally overcame what had felt like miles between us to stand right in front of me, the intensity of a thousand suns in his eyes. “Because he hurt you, Paula.”
Because he hurt me . Henry Parker Pressley had lost his bearings, driven to Boston and punched a guy in the face because he’d hurt me, apparently. Without the plan to do so and without writing it into his calendar first—purely on instinct.
Probably the same way he’d taken me to the Hamptons on instinct. Because I’d been stressed, and I’d looked like death and he’d wanted to fix that. Giving Mark Lager a black eye hadn’t fixed much last year, but it had probably felt pretty fucking great.
I looked up at him, mere inches away, not quite sure what would come out of my mouth until it did. Barely a whisper. “ You hurt me, Henry.”
Just a few hours after he’d punched someone for the same offense.
His brows pulled together, the crease between them growing with worry and guilt and a million other things before he dropped his gaze, like the reminder was a slap in the face all the same. “I know,” he forced out, then repeated the admission as it settled. “I know. And I’m so fucking sorry, Paula. I felt guilty, and confused, and… honestly a little scared. I wasn’t sure if Mark would go to the press for what I did, and I just… I thought we’d both be better off without my apparent newfound love for rash decisions. I put your future in jeopardy, then mine, and it just felt like I lost control over… everything, honestly.” He shook his head, trailed off. “I am sorry, though. Really. For hurting you. For letting Lacy screw you over. I should’ve told you she asked about him—”
I grasped for his hand between us, and the words died on Henry’s lips. “I—” He stuttered , and it took him about two seconds before both of his hands clasped around mine, holding on so tightly he might’ve been content with never letting go again. “This whole thing could’ve been so easily avoided if I’d just remembered to tell you about Lacy.”
And I guessed it could have been.
If I’d told Henry more about my life, and he’d been less busy with his, this whole thing would have been avoided. Our breakup probably would’ve been, too.
But there was nothing we could do about that now.
The anger I’d felt earlier—when I wasn’t sure how well the two knew each other and why my boyfriend had told my nemesis about my sources—died. The lingering resentment of our breakup did, too.
And I was only left with Henry. My hand in his, pulled against his chest and feeling his racing heart underneath my touch. With stinging eyes and a heart that was beating just as fast, in sync with his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my nose, as earnestly as every single one of his other apologies. When one hand left mine, and his thumb swiped across my cheek, I noticed I might not have been keeping my emotions at bay as well as I’d thought. Just a few stray tears, but enough for worry to crease his brows again. “I’m not worth a single one of these, Paula. Please don’t—”
I shook my head, fast enough for his hand to fall from my face and for my vision to blur for a moment. But I wasn’t sure if the motion had cut him off or if it had been my strangled breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
“I forgive you, Henry.”
My words hung between us for one, two, three seconds before he really understood. Before relief riddled itself into every single one of Henry’s features, and he exhaled so loudly it overcame the roaring in my ears.
This felt like a monumental moment. Like we might be about to get over everything that had come between us.
That article. Mark Lager. Lacy’s accusation.
And, my God, if I wasn’t just as relieved about it as he seemed. “I mean… you are still groveling, right?”
I didn’t know how well the joke landed with tears streaking my face and another sob—perhaps one of relief?—bubbling in my throat, but here we were.
His green eyes batted open a little wider, his lips parted in surprise, replacing the tense frown. “You’re not mad?”
“I’ve spent so much time being mad at you.” My arms locked behind his neck, his hands instinctively found themselves on my hips. Neither of us had to think about it. “I don’t think I could pretend for another minute.”
He huffed, tightened his hold around my body and hugged me. My nose pressed into his chest, pinewood and citrus taking over my senses.
And it no longer felt like a bad idea.
“Groveling, hm?” he hummed into my hair. “Any specific requests?”
I tore my face away from his chest to look up at him. The insinuation, the mischief in his eyes, and the way his hand slipped below my shirt to caress my bare skin beneath it told me he certainly had something in mind.
And he was very willing to make up for whatever he still blamed himself for.
Who was I to object?
“I always thought the point of groveling was that the… grovel er had to figure out how by himself.” But my tongue flicked across my lips, and my body betrayed me when I leaned into his touch, eyes threatening to flutter shut once his fingers danced across my back in feather-light patterns.
Henry’s lips twitched. “Good thing that in my head, I replayed all those things you liked almost every night.” He pulled me back with him, until his legs hit my bed and he sat. Looked up at me through heavy eyes. My hands were in his hair. I didn’t know how they got there. “Good thing that I never forgot what you begged and pleaded for. The way you sounded. No matter how hard I tried.”
His hands slipped to the waistband of my jeans. Our eyes stayed connected when he opened its button, moved to the zipper. Didn’t pull, just lingered. “Isn’t it?”
And I meant to agree. Nod vigorously until he wriggled me out of my jeans and showed me exactly how much he remembered. Showed me that there was much more than what he’d shown in the Hamptons. And the time after that. But something in the back pocket of my jeans vibrated, then started ringing.
Henry slipped my phone out, probably to throw it across the room and far away from what it had just interrupted. I groaned when I saw the caller ID, though. Unhelpfully, he said, “It’s your dad.”
Which meant if I didn’t pick up that phone in the next five seconds, my family would probably call the local police station all the way from the Dominican Republic to claim I was missing, got kidnapped or was lying in a ditch somewhere.
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” I warned, pointing a finger at Henry when his hand had lingered by my zipper. He raised both innocently, and I tugged my phone out of his grip before I threw myself onto my bed. He followed, and only closed my button again before keeping his hands to himself.
For ten minutes, my parents filled me in on the latest gossip of cousins and aunts and old family friends. Gasps and No’ s! and Sí’ s! flew back and forth between the line until they finally dropped the bomb. The reason they’d called.
“We’re coming to America!” They said in unison, accents thick. “To see you finish school.”
Henry must’ve heard them even with my phone pressed against my ear tightly because he smiled, like he knew how much this meant to me. That the last time my parents were here had been four years ago—on the same day we had met.
“Will you be wearing one of those blue sacks?” Mom asked, put off by the thought.
My cheeks were beginning to hurt, my words were muffled for the same reason: the smile on my lips. “Yes.”
“Do you have to?”
“Mami!” I protested and could hear her laugh on the other end of the line. Some rustling followed, and then my dad’s voice rang thought the speaker again.
“Paula, it’s me again,” he said unnecessarily. “We have to go—” Again, some rustling, then, a little distant “Ay! Claro que si, María. Es cara!”
He complained about how expensive phone calls to the US were for another minute—one that would actually cost him two-hundred pesos, about three dollars.
“Lo siento, I’m back.” It followed, sounding like he had the phone back by his face. “We’re so proud of you, carino. Our little businesswoman. Adiós!” In the background, I could hear Mom shout a Nos vemos ! before they hung up.
My smile had fallen since.
Businesswoman!
I’d been so focused on this profile and writing and journalism —I’d forgotten that’s not what my parents think I’m doing at all.
They were still of the firm belief their daughter was about to get a business degree from HBU. Why wouldn’t they be? I’d given them no reason to suspect otherwise.
“Fuck,” I all but muttered, lips pulling into a tight grimace. I missed the easy smiles and hurting cheeks from five minutes ago.
“Hey—” Henry noticed, of course. Had probably heard them over the phone and put two and two together. His hand squeezed my shoulder, brushed a curl behind my ear very sweetly. But it’s not what I needed right now. I couldn’t do this with just Henry.
A second later, I called my best friend’s name so loudly, the brunette beside me flinched. I winced, throwing an apologetic look his way before Maeve burst into the room like she’d been prepared to do it.
She really just skimmed over Henry, like the sight was so normal she didn’t have to adjust to it. “What’s wrong?” Maeve’s brown eyes twitched into small slits of concern.
“My parents are coming for graduation.”
Her lips pulled upward first, tension falling off her like she would jump on my bed with a yay ! And I could pinpoint the exact moment she got it. Everything in her expression fell. She muttered a “Fuck.” Sat on my bed instead of jumping and crisscrossed her legs.
For the half an hour after that, we’d tried coming up with a plan. Figured out the best ways to keep the lie going, to explain why it said journalism instead of business on my degree. That was the only solution here, after all.
I couldn’t just come out and tell them by the way, I’ve been lying to you for the past four years! You were paying a lot of money for a completely different degree! I ’ m a journalist now, surprise!
Regardless, Maeve suggested it. “Or… you know. You could just tell them the truth.”
I shook my head quickly, forcefully, if only to set my decision further into stone. “I cannot,” I huffed, letting my head fall onto Henry’s shoulder in defeat. Who was still here, when there was no kissing or touching or sex… ing involved.
He hadn’t said a single word yet.
“Paula,” Maeve whined, drawing my thoughts away from him. She looked and sounded like she’d been talking to a wall for the past thirty minutes. She kind of had. “You’ll have to tell them eventually! Might as well do it now?”
“Rip it off like a band-aid.” Henry nodded in agreement. My head lifted off his shoulder in betrayal.
“Thank you, Henry!” Maeve swept her hand in his direction. It was good to know she was aware of his presence—she hadn’t otherwise made that known.
At my glare, Henry’s hands shot up in defense, and he gave me a long look.
Maeve snickered. “Your boyfriend’s right.”
She’d only called him my boyfriend to make it weird. To tease and taunt me for not taking her advice. The knowing smirk on her lips told me. That and the fact that, well, Maeve always knew everything. Especially when it concerned me.
Before I could protest loudly and die of mortification and embarrassment, I felt Henry’s hand in mine. Really, he only let his hand brush over my skin, but it was enough to keep my mouth shut.
That seemed to surprise even her. Not for long, but she was caught off-guard regardless.
A small win in my book.
“Rip it off like a band-aid,” Maeve repeated in agreement. “Plus.” Her eyes shot back to me. “He has no choice but to agree with me. To get back in my good graces,” she explained.
“She’s right.”
“Will you two do nothing but agree with each other today?” I groaned, exasperated.
Maeve ignored my outburst. “No one wants their girl’s best friend to hate them. Right, Henry?” Her eyes narrowed as she doubled down, and this time it felt more like a test. Like she didn’t say it to piss me off, but to see his reaction.
Like a parent trying to figure out their daughter’s significant other’s intentions, before they’d take their little girl off to prom.
Henry’s lips split into a deep grin, and I realized he was just as aware of the fact.
“Maeve,” he said, leaning forward enough to poke her shoulder. She swayed slightly. “You could never hate me.”
“Do that again and we’ll see about that, Pressley.”
Whether she meant the poke or the breakup, I didn’t know.
Either way, Henry’s expression turned serious, solemn. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Which… was nice. And terrifying.
While we’d been enjoying each other’s company in more ways than just physical (though that, too. Definitely that.) we’d never spoken of the Hamptons again. Of his confession. Of mine. And of the fact that no matter how much I wanted to be with him, our circumstances had hardly changed.
I’d forgiven him just half an hour ago, yes, but he was off to play in the big leagues soon and I’d be doing… God knows what. Forgiveness was one thing, but the issue of time and priorities and schedules was not one we’d leave behind in college. A problem that hadn’t been solved.
I paled at the reminder of conversations to be had, and apparently enough for Maeve to slip off my bed. “You guys should talk.” It made me want to murder and thank her. “And just so you actually do, I’m leaving this door open.”
“Question.” Maeve was almost out the door when Henry piped up one more time. She glanced across her shoulder, a brow quirked. “You don’t seem… surprised by me. That I’m here.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “I’m not,” she deadpanned. “I know you’ve been at it like rabbits for… a while. Since the Hamptons, probably.” At Henry’s surprise, she unhelpfully elaborated. “Paula always has this glow around her when you’re involved.” And she left.
Right then, the only glow on my face was bright red.
“Aw,” Henry cooed. “You glow!”
“Shut up.”
“I will literally never let this go,” he stressed, gloating in that way of his when he repeated, “You glow!” Wide-eyed and happy, he couldn’t get the grin off his face, and he could not keep his eyes off me.
How could I not spend every second of my waking life wanting to kiss him?
“Door! Open!” Maeve shouted from downstairs, like she knew we were well on our way not to. “Talk! Now!” she added.
I sighed, letting my head fall back into the pillow. “I hate that girl,” I whispered affectionately.
“Well.” Henry mirrored me, laid his head on the same pillow and looked up at the ceiling with me. “She loves you.”
He felt for my hand on top of the covers, intertwined a single finger with one of mine. Fussed with them.
And I could feel it on his lips. The moment was so tangible, the template so perfect, I think I was holding my breath. Waited for him to say something like I do, too . Or, Maeve and I have that in common . Or, I happen to know what that’s like .
“Talk about what?” he asked instead.
I let go of my breath, and I couldn’t help the snorted laugh. The disappointment settling in my stomach.
“You’re the man with the plan,” I said. “Tell me, what does your schedule look like after graduation?” Do I still fit in there? Or is it bursting with appointments and responsibilities already? “What’s in your calendar on May twentieth?”
The day after we’d officially graduated.
Catching my drift, he paused. His hand went very still against mine, our fingers still locked around the other.
“Oh,” he offered unhelpfully.
“Yeah.” My head turned, and I noticed his eyes had been on me for a while.
The green of them was only a slither away now, so close I could see the brown around his pupil, could make out the way they were lighter in certain parts. “So? What’s it say?”
I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t the least bit curious despite the fact it would ruin me—set in stone that we were not meant to be.
Our breaths mixed between us, air thick with the weight of the unsaid. Although he hadn’t given an answer, I could imagine what it was.
Run. Shower. Drive up to New York. Get home. Unpack. Training at the stadium. Dinner with his teammates.
His life was about to change fundamentally. The very foundation of what he knew would be uprooted, rebuilt.
I didn’t think I fit in there. Into a busy schedule like that. Into New York City. God, who could afford to live in New York?
And why was I thinking about moving to New York?
My head shook to cut my thoughts short, and Henry swallowed thickly. “I can’t tell you,” he finally whispered, looking… mortified? The confused frown on my lips urged him to say, “It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” It was the last word I expected to hear. Private, full, none of your business —all things I’d been bracing for. But embarrassing ?
Henry nodded. “Very much so.”
Half a laugh on my lips, my eyes rolled. “Maeve just told you I glow when you’re around.” I hated to remind him, but, “I’m sure it cannot be worse than that.”
His head shook, but at least it was with a smile this time. “It’s not the same,” he said. “That’s cute! My schedule on May twentieth is… serial killer-esque.”
I did not understand why that made my stomach flutter. It kind of concerned me.
“Tell me,” I said in a sing-song voice.
Henry groaned, turned back to look up and feverishly avoid eye contact.
I reached for him. My hand only lingered against his cheek before I guided his head back in my direction and our eyes met once more. My fingers continued their way along his jaw, trailed across his cheeks, and I watched as he became really still—like he didn’t want to miss any of my touch by accidentally breathing too hard or moving too much.
His eyes fluttered shut, my hand disappearing in his hair before he sighed, more content than I’d seen him in… a while. Ever? I think I could watch him for the rest of my life, I realized. Without getting bored or wanting to do anything else.
“Please?” I asked, voice soft.
Henry’s eyes remained closed. “Just you.” He barely said the words at all—he breathed them, and I read them from his lips. “Just your name. On May twenty.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and when his hand found mine again, his fingers trailed up my arm and left a wake of goosebumps behind. He hadn’t opened his eyes.
“Henry.” I couldn’t interpret the way I’d said his name either. I’d never sounded the way I just had. “Surely you have to get to New York that day. Settle in?”
“I’ll do it the next.”
The words stretched between us. And I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I wasn’t. Thinking. At all.
There was this loud, thunderous booming in my head, and it might’ve been my heartbeat. I didn’t know what I would say until it came out of my mouth.
But I guess we had to address the elephant in the room at some point. This seemed as good a time as any.
“And—” I swallowed thickly. “Has anything else changed? Since last year?”
“Everything.” He seemed sure. But my head shook.
“You’ll be busier than ever after you graduate,” I reminded him, but it was half-hearted. My brain trying to come up with reasons why this was a bad idea, when my heart had swelled to the size of my entire chest already.
Henry shook his head, still sure. “It’ll only be soccer after graduation. No more exams to study for, no more papers to write. It’ll be soccer, and you.”
But—“You’ll move to New York. You’ll be traveling for games. You’ll be away a lot.”
“And I’ll be with you whenever I’m not. Wherever you decide to go. You won’t have to fit into my schedule, I will manage to fit into yours.”
“You seem to have thought about this a lot,” I figured.
“All the time,” he agreed. “Every day.”
I huffed. “So you have a solution to every single problem I bring up?”
“I’ve got two, Paula. Three, for some.”
And I believed him. The fact he’d cleared his schedule on what had been supposed to be his busiest day showed that, right? The fact he’d made time instead of expecting me to, did as well.
I took a deep breath. “You still owe me those deeply personal questions.”
I hadn’t used them in the interviews—everything I’d asked, he’d given up willingly. Without the need for an ace (or three) up my sleeve. I could only think to use all of them on the one question now.
“I do,” he agreed.
“So—”
“No.” He huffed a laugh, the corner of his lips quirked. When he finally opened his eyes, gone was the embarrassment and sheepishness—replaced by what I knew of him. Mischief. Humor. Adoration. “That’s the answer to your question. I do. I love you. I honestly don’t think I ever really stopped.”
I only blinked at him. Stomach turning, cheeks heating.
“That’s what you were going to ask, right?”
I had been.
And only not to jump him, I tried to play it cool. I was obviously failing.
“I was actually wondering about your favorite breakfast food?” I smiled, cheeks hurting, deciding to climb on top of him, straddle his lap instead of jumping him the way I had wanted to.
I looked at Henry and thought that man loved me.
He loved me.
He loved me.
He loved me .
Again.
Henry snorted a laugh, unapologetic and beautiful. “I take it back!” he scoffed. He did not take it back.
Instead, his hands found their way to my waist, and his eyes gleamed in that way I thought they only did when he talked about soccer. But he looked at me that same way now, and I wondered if it had ever really been about the sport or just the fact that it was me he was telling about it.
Selfish? Conceited? How couldn’t I be—at least a little bit—when Henry Parker Pressley loved me.
I smiled at my thoughts, at him and everything else in this world that was beautiful because I loved him, too. Of course I did. And I told him with a kiss, and my hands in his hair and then my words. Over and over again. “I love you too,” I repeated.
Which was when my cat hissed from the hallway. Another reason the door was usually closed when he was around. Henry deflated below me, and I rolled off him with a huff.
When he sat up against the headboard, he held steady eye contact with Pip, her teeth still showing, but her back not arched the way it usually was in his presence.
“We’re going to have to do something about this, though.” And he sounded scared at the prospect.