Chapter 41
CHAPTER 41
NOW
I was graduating today. And I still hadn’t told my parents about my degree.
What I did have was… about six more hours before I had to figure out what to do about the fact and how.
On top of that, the Hall Beck Post issue with Henry’s profile got dropped off this morning, and I’d already found a typo. Eddie—after my fourth phone call had finally woken him up—had tried to convince me that it was fine. These things happened. And I knew they did.
But even more so now that my ethics record was clean, I needed this comeback to be perfect. No typos, no mistakes. And perhaps I’d been overly focused on compensating for the fact that my parents still didn’t know about my degree. The only way to overcome that was… focusing on other things.
The typo. The stain on my robe. The profile out in the world.
The entire morning I’d run around campus and the office and my house like a frightened chicken, until Maeve had finally confined me to the bathroom because with all my nerves—I’d forgotten to shower.
Now, my hair was half a mess on top of my head when we got to the auditorium, which was gradually filling with students and parents and siblings. They helped set up, chatted animatedly after months or years without seeing each other—some students only stared at their phones, and exactly one sat in the front row, with an issue of the Hall Beck Post in hand.
My stomach still dropped sometimes when I saw Henry unexpectedly. When he randomly called or we ran into each other at Daisy’s. Sometimes when he opened the door to his apartment, and I hadn’t expected his hair to look that good or he’d only had a towel around his hips.
“Excuse me,” I muttered to my friends trying to figure out where to sit. They knew I wouldn’t contribute to the decision, so they had no problem with my disappearance.
I stalked to the front of the hall, probably a little sheepishly, and sat next to him. “Riveting read, I hear.”
Henry held his hand up, eyes scanning the last paragraph before finally snapping up to me. “This Pressley fella,” he said, tone mocking. “What a guy, huh?”
“I was told he’s a little full of himself.”
“Funny.” He huffed. “I heard he’s humble as can be.”
I snickered, letting my head fall on his shoulder with a loud exhale. “So you like it?” I asked, and there was no point in hiding the desperation in my question, the need for validation in my tone.
I needed this to be good. Or I might as well throw myself into more debt for that business degree, after all.
Henry hummed in agreement, smoothing a hand over my head.
And then, like he’d been having a completely different conversation in his head, he said, “You didn’t print it.”
He was holding the paper in his hands. I could see some of Hallie’s candids on the page, see the paragraphs I’d meticulously crafted. So it definitely had been printed—“What?”
“Those things I said.” He swallowed thickly, still looking at the stage in front of us. “About… Felix. The contract I almost didn’t sign—don’t try to deny it, I know you realized.” My mouth closed again.
I only hummed in understanding before my tone softened. “I printed some of it,” I reminded him.
“Not the parts I wouldn’t have wanted you to.” He glanced at me on his shoulder, I could tell by the way he shifted underneath me. Lifting my head, a small smile played on my lips, and I didn’t have to say anything else. He understood. “The parts I started talking to Stephanie about. Like… Dad.” Stephanie, his therapist.
Those things had been off the record. No self-respecting journalist would put them in a profile—a fluff piece, of all things.
Henry could tell his story when he wanted to, if he ever did. Maybe after retiring, maybe right when he’d won his first cup with the Blue Eagles and mouthed This is for you, Dad , into a live camera. We’d see.
“Where’s your sister?” I asked instead, changing the topic to clear the air. The air did not feel cleared when Henry groaned at the reminder, then fell back in his chair. It did feel lighter, though.
“I’m hiding,” he deadpanned. “Because she thought it would be a great idea to join forces with McCarthy’s family—my aunt and uncle did too, obviously.” Glancing my way, he added, “And I would rather not hear another person gushing about his commencement speech.”
“He’s doing that?” I should’ve held back on the curiosity in my voice. Henry sent me another glare.
“Of course he is.”
I snickered, nudged his shoulder with mine. “Did you want to do it?”
“No.”
I snorted. What’s the problem, then? I wanted to ask, but he cut me off before I could. “Where are your parents?”
I swallowed my laugh, and think I winced instead. The twenty-pound boulder worth of dread plummeted to the pit of my stomach. The parents who didn’t know about my degree yet.
“Late,” I offered. “Judging by the flight updates, they’ll probably get here right in the middle of the ceremony. Or after, if I’m lucky.”
That way, at least they couldn’t hear Paula Fernanda Castillo, B.?A. Journalism blasting through the microphone. Which… was at least one crisis averted. Only a hundred more to go.
“In that case,” Henry huffed. “You’ll only have to lie about what you do for the rest of your life after that. Easy enough.”
“That is not the plan.”
The plan was to find a job at a small paper, work my way up the ladder there—which would be decidedly easier than doing it at one of the big five.
I had three job interviews lined up for local papers, one in New York, two in Boston. And one of them would have to bite. Right? Once they did, I’d work my way up, be successful, rich… or at least not poor. Then tell my parents the truth.
That I hadn’t actually been interning at some made-up hedge fund.
By then, because I’d already have my real career to show for it, they’d all laugh at the funny little anecdote. Maybe someone would say they never thought I’d make it in the business world anyway, and I’d feel better about my decision, justified in my actions. That way, maybe I wouldn’t get that chancla to the head I’d been dreading since changing majors.
I’d had the past four years to perfect that plan. “And you know it,” I added as an afterthought.
Henry stood, his lip curling upward. I followed his lead. “Because you’ve always been so great at planning, dear,” he mocked. “I’ll leave you to it.” He kissed me, short and sweet. The way a boyfriend might kiss his girlfriend. “I’m hoping McCarthy has taken off by now. Went to rehearse his grand speech or something.” His eyes rolled theatrically when he left.
And I couldn’t help my eyes trailing after him until he’d made his way out of the auditorium.
I hadn’t been sure if I’d wanted my parents’ flight to make up for lost time or circle the airport once more before it landed. Now, when they burst through the doors, and the commencement ceremony was still in full swing, my name not yet called, I knew.
My heart skipped a beat and my legs wobbled. Anxiety induced, probably. Because their presence—mom’s wide smile when she realized they’d made it in time and every single emotion I could spot on dad’s face from the distance—meant that everything I’d kept from them for the past four years was about to come to light.
And still, I was glad to see them. Tears-in-my-eyes glad. Suppressing-a-sob glad.
We hadn’t been in the same room for a long time. Since I’d said goodbye to them at the airport, hugged them tightly and promised to make them proud.
The name before mine was called.
It made my gaze snap away from María and Juan Castillo in the back of the hall, holding their hands tightly between each other as they watched a girl whose last name started with the same letter as mine take the stage.
She shook the HBU president’s hand, got her degree handed to her, and left the stage on the other side. Polite clapping, a single cheer later, the room quieted down for the next name. I felt a little dizzy.
Knowing that this was the moment I’d worked toward for so long. This was what I had lied to my parents for. What I’d written articles for. When at times, it felt like I might not make it.
A last-minute major change, lying sources, jealous co-writers and a broken heart that had seemed beyond fixing later, and here we were.
“Paula Fernanda Castillo,” blasted through the speakers. I could hear Maeve cheer from somewhere behind me. Henry should be close to her, probably clapping, too. Dylan and Caden hollered from somewhere in the crowd of graduating students, and I almost felt proud. Then I remembered my parents, at the back of the auditorium—clapping, smiling, laughing.
My breath stuttered in my throat. Despite my Jell-o legs, I moved. Took one step, then the next onto the stage. Crossed to the middle of it. “Bachelor of Arts. Journalism.”
Mom’s proud smile fell. Dad’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. And my eyes closed as I shook the school’s president’s hand, not wanting to see them when they caught on. Once they realized the announcement hadn’t been a mistake, I didn’t know if I could still look them in the eyes at all.
I was ushered off the stage, to the much smaller pool of students with their degrees already in hand. I held mine tightly, probably wrinkled it with how tight. But it was my only anchor now. I couldn’t see my parents from here, and I didn’t know if I wanted to.
The entire commencement ceremony was almost two hours long. I cheered as my friends took the stage. Caden had walked before me, but Laila eventually followed, then Dylan and Riley. When Maeve crossed it and shot me a wink halfway through, I almost started crying.
When Henry walked after his sister, ever the picture of billionaire son, I couldn’t believe we’d found a way back to each other.
None of that, though, made me forget what was waiting on the other side of this. When the last person walked, shook hands and got handed their degree, I hated how fast those two hours had gone by.
My parents were the first to leave that hall, and I sent a helpless glance across the many students around me, trying to find—
“Looking for someone?”
I could pick his voice out of a million samples if I had to. Leaned into his body behind me before turning around—without having to, really.
“You,” I said.
Henry’s arms slung around my waist, his head on top of mine. “Where are they?” he asked, like he knew about the decision I had to make now.
To tell them or to lie. To spill the truth or blame it on a mistake.
I turned back to Henry for some kind of guidance. Remember? Making decisions was not my specialty. But his gaze said little in regards of potential next steps. He didn’t nudge me toward the exit to tell the truth, he didn’t reach for my hand to take me away and signal I should keep lying.
He just looked at me, with his green eyes and said, without a word coming out of his mouth; Whatever you want. I’ll be there with you.
My choice. And he wouldn’t judge or laugh, whether I turned around and told them the truth or faked a laugh and said I have no idea why they said journalism!
“Will you come with me?”
And I hoped perhaps it would lighten the blow.