Lessons in Forgiving: English Edition by LYX E-Book

Selina Mae

• Herausgeber: Lyx.digital
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 472

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

WE HAD TO BE REASONABLE. FOR THE SAKE OF THIS PROFILE. FOR THE SAKE OF MY ABILITY TO WRITE ABOUT HIM WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT THE WAY HE KISSED ME.

»WE CAN TRY«

Paula Castillo is determined to get her life back on track. And after a long time on the metaphorical writing-bench, she thinks a profile on an upcoming HBU-soccer legend will at least roll her plan »Restore Journalistic Reputation« into motion. The problem: Henry Pressley hasn’t only signed a million-dollar deal with an MLS club in the past year, he also broke up with Paula. Although she promises herself not to get caught up in the whirlwind of Henry that almost cost her everything already, one-on-one interviews and unexpected nights together force them to face their past. Between the pages, it becomes apparent that the broody soccer player still seems to have a soft spot for his lucky charm ...

»Selina Mae perfectly balances heart and humor in stories that are as delightful as they are addictive!« Ana from malfoyuh

English edition of LESSONS IN FORGIVING by WATTPAD-superstar Selina Mae featuring the popular LYX-Paperback-format

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

About the Book

Dear Reader

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Author’s Note

The Author

Books by Selina Mae published at LYX

Imprint

SELINA MAE

Lessons in Forgiving

A Novel

English Edition by LYX

ABOUT THE BOOK

Paula Castillo is determined to get her life back on track. Graduate, become a journalist, confess to her parents back in the Dominican Republic that she’s been lying to them for years. And after a long time on the metaphorical writing-bench, she thinks being tasked with the profile on an upcoming HBU-soccer legend will at least roll her plan “Restore Journalistic Reputation” into motion. The problem: Henry Pressley hasn’t only signed a million-dollar deal with a prestigious MLS club in the past year, he also broke up with Paula. And they haven’t spoken since. Although she promises herself not to get caught up in the whirlwind of Henry that almost cost her everything already, one-on-one interviews and unexpected nights together force the two to face their history, and Paula is the first journalist granted an exclusive look into Henry’s tragic past. Between the pages, it becomes apparent that the broody soccer player still seems to have a soft spot for his lucky charm, and that maybe the second time’s the charm instead.

This book contains explicit content.

For more detailed information, please see here.

Disclaimer: The content warning includes spoilers for the entire book!

We wish you the best possible reading experience.

Love,

Selina & LYX

To those who love hard and fast and never really stop. Thank you.

(P. S.: Do not get back with your ex. They’re not fictional, and you deserve so much better.)

CHAPTER 1

THEN, August: three years and seven months ago

For the past eighteen years of my life, I’d learned to become an expert at reading my parents like an open book. Predicting their whims, knowing when to ask for something and when to keep my mouth shut—when to push a topic and when to drop it.

Right now, I could tell they regretted this.

From the way María Castillo’s brows pinched together, and the concerned tilt of Juan Castillo’s lower lip, I could tell. My parents were seconds away from dragging me onto that plane, back to the scorching, familiar Caribbean heat.

They’d lasted a whole two days longer than I’d given them credit for.

“It’s… big.” Trying to fit into the English-speaking environment, Mom’s accent was thick. She gaped up at the high ceilings, eyes raking over the rising rows of seats in the lecture hall. With one last lingering look at the families around us, she turned to me.

Oh yeah. Big-time concern was written all over María’s face.

“Don’t worry, mami.”

I tried not to freak out at the prospect of her freaking out, so I waved her off, pretended like I didn’t wholeheartedly agree with her. Which made me feel stiff. Robotic.

Dad mirrored the sentiment. “Mi vida,” he muttered, trying to swallow his own worries. His hand rested in the small of her back, nudging her out into the hallway. When his eyes flitted in my direction, one thing was clear.

We were on the same page.

And he was desperate to get Mom there, too; tried to convince her of how sure he was I’d find my place here. “Estoy seguro de que nuestra Paulita se integrará—”

But Mom’s head shot in his direction so fast, he swallowed his Spanish before she’d even said anything. Her withering glare probably helped.

“Coño, Juan. Por favor. English!” With one glance down the hallway, she made sure no one had heard the accidental Spanish slip.

Not that anyone cared as much as she did.

But if there was one thing María couldn’t stand, it was sticking out. If there was another, it would probably be not knowing what her only daughter was doing at any given moment.

So, the prospect of leaving me in a foreign country, where I’d most likely not fit in had clearly been more appealing on paper. Proudly telling cousins, aunts and uncles that her daughter was going to study in America until they’d started avoiding her on the streets, had been fun—but she did not seem to be a fan of the reality it had become.

Her brows furrowed, she chewed on her red-painted bottom lip, and I had about two seconds to convince her that this is where I’m supposed to be.

At Hall Beck University. In the United States. About 1,600 miles from the Dominican Republic. Home.

Harder than it sounded when I wasn’t fully convinced of it myself yet.

“Look,” I began, tentatively nudging her into one of the smaller rooms we’d passed on the orientation tour. Gone were the rising rows of chairs and the intimidating podium where professors held hour-long lectures. Entering a simple classroom that would hopefully shake my parents out of their shock-like state, my shoulders sagged with a little bit of relief. “It’s not so different from Universidad Tecnológica de Santiago.”

Which was where I’d probably end up if I didn’t sway this situation in my favor. Fast.

Mom shook her head, a disapproving tsk passing through her teeth. “Don’t lie, Paulita,” she huffed. Looking at the wall of windows, the whiteboard and the tablet on each seat, she was probably right when she said, “This is nothing like it.” She sighed. “I… don’t know. Maybe you should come back with us after all. What do you think, Juan?”

Panic. It zipped through my body, white and hot, at the questioning look she directed at Dad. For the life of me I could not remember a single instance in which Juan Castillo had denied my mother a single thing. And sharing a glance with the man who had advocated for my degree in the States so hard, it did not seem like he was about to start now.

I could see him slip. He was probably already calculating the cost of an extra ticket back to Puerto Plata tomorrow.

“No!” My intervention kept him from so much as a nod that would set their decision in stone. “Why? Think of how good this school will look on my CV! You’ve already told Aunt… all of the aunts about it. And the cousins! Can’t forget about the cousins.” All twenty-three of them. “What would they think—?”

But her head continued shaking, and I was losing momentum here. “No.” Her eyes drifted to me again. “I don’t care about that.” Lie. “We just want what’s best for you, Paula. I don’t know if that’s here. I mean… have you… adjusted?” Concern found its way back into her brown eyes. “Have you made any friends yet?”

I was not surprised by the fact Mom’s only worry was how well I’d fit in—how popular I’d be.

And I did not feel guilty about the lie that flew out of my mouth, either.

“Yes!” I had not. “Of course.” Hadn’t even met my roommates yet. “Is that what you’re worried about, mami?”

“No.”

Yes. Yes. Yes! She was lying, too, and I could work with that.

“Oh,” I swooned, slowly guiding my parents away from the spot in which they’d almost made a decision that would’ve jeopardized my entire future. Just in case it would remind them of it. “I’ve met amazing people. They’re all so… chatty here!”

“Americans do love to talk.” Dad agreed gruffly. “Loudly, too.”

“Really?” Not quite sure whether she’d asked me or Dad to elaborate, I took over. Finally, there was a glimmer of hope. Light at the end of the tunnel. María Castillo looked relieved, and I could build on that.

If all I needed to fake was an outstanding social life for the next four years, I’d call that a win.

“Really,” I assured them, throwing all the conviction I could into my gaze. It stayed on them, even when we continued making our way out of the room. “We spent all day together yesterday,” I lied as I walked backward. “And—”

I couldn’t build on my lie when I backed into a solid… something. Then, startled, felt myself slip.

I prepared to hit the floor face first. Or maybe the back of my head would make contact instead? Either way, my parents would realize I wasn’t fit to take care of myself (because I’d landed myself in the hospital with a head injury two days into my independence journey) and I’d be forced to agree with them because… well, I did land myself in the hospital. Mentally, I was already back in the Dominican Republic before I’d even made it to the ground.

I never did.

Instead, I felt a cool hand curl around my wrist, yanking me upright and keeping me there until I managed to find my footing.

I did not faceplant, only stumbled into Dad’s chest when the stranger’s grip around me loosened. And instead of my parents realizing I was in no condition to take care of myself, I heard an ironic, “Eyes up. Or you might hurt someone.”

Followed by Mom’s curious voice. “Do you two know each other?” She sounded… excited, and suddenly I did not care who I’d just run into. They would have to do.

I turned just in time to silence him with a look, his lips already parted to give the obvious answer: No.

“Yes!” I blurted, ignoring the confused furrowing of his dark brows. Ignoring how beautifully they contrasted his green eyes more. Wincing, I mouthed a Please. Then added a Sorry.

I swallowed thickly before turning to my parents, taking a step back to stand beside the brunette stranger, his hair a few shades lighter than my own brown curls. “Of course!” I doubled down, cheerily. Too cheerily? “This is…”

With the way he winced, I might’ve gently nudged my elbow into his side a little too forcefully. But it must’ve done the trick, conveyed my desperation accurately, because he straightened beside me and extended his hand.

“Henry Pressley. Pleasure to finally meet you.” His eyes only flicked in my direction for a second before he went on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

How much could I have potentially told him in the two days we’re supposed to have known each other?

I was surprised to hear Dad speak first.

“Pressley?” He repeated the name under his breath, barely loud enough for me to pick up his next words either. Like they weren’t intended for the audience he had. “¿Dónde fue que escuché ese nombre?”

Instead of answering where Dad could’ve heard the name before, Mom lovingly rammed her elbow into his ribs at the second Spanish slip of the day.

“Henry!” she cheered a little louder, smile forced, and eyes glued to the boy. Probably to distract from Dad’s Spanish and to compensate for his whispering. “No wonder Paula talked so much about you.”

I hadn’t, obviously. And in any other circumstance, I might’ve been embarrassed by the—although false—revelation. But the fact Henry’s appearance had made her forget that I hadn’t mentioned anyone until two minutes ago was worth the little color in my cheeks.

“Has she?” His eyes slid to me again before he huffed, the sound low and kind of pleased, then looked back at my parents. “Only good things, I hope.”

“Of course.” Mom waved him off, again forgetting I hadn’t talked about him before at all. She seemed too blinded by the possibility of her daughter actually making a friend. Like she couldn’t believe it.

Awesome.

“Pressley!” Dad blurted, completely out of nowhere, only realizing he hadn’t used his inside-voice when his head snapped up. His eyes widened. “Triste—no! Sorry! Sorry.”

I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing to Henry for the outburst or to Mom for the Spanish. His gaze darted between the two so quickly, I couldn’t be sure. At last, they settled on the stranger, and, a little calmer, though still rattled, he said, “You’re Felix Pressley’s son. The soccer player.”

The shadow that moved across Henry’s face was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Like it was nothing, he put on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “That’s right, sir.”

I smiled, too, because I knew Dad’s favorite thing about Americans was that they regularly called him sir.

“You a fan?” Henry asked.

And I’d never had a particular problem with my family’s bluntness, but when Juan Castillo shook his head and went on to say “Not really”—language barrier or not—I wished they had a filter for moments like these. The smile on my face fell.

I expected the same reaction from Henry. But instead of offended gasps, insults thrown, and my little lie revealed, his smile seemed to be genuine. “Yeah.” He snickered, sounding relieved more than anything. “Me neither.”

And then they bonded.

For a solid fifteen minutes, it was obvious to anyone in our vicinity that my dad knew the guy beside me—or his father, for that matter—better than I did. But as long as Mom had a smile on her face, seemed delighted by the conversation and wasn’t catching on to my lie, I was happy.

When my parents finally headed outside, the idea to take me back home with them seemingly all forgotten about, my sigh was so loud, it carried through the corridor. “You might’ve just accidentally saved my ass, Henry.”

“Well, Paula.” I could hear the grin in his voice. I didn’t have to look at him, and in fact, my eyes were still glued to the double doors that just closed behind my parents. “Always happy to help a friend out when she’s…” He trailed off, hoping I’d fill in the blanks. “When she’s what, actually?”

“Oh, you know.” I waved him off halfheartedly, my own smile audible. “Just trying to convince her parents she has a raging social life two days into college, before they change their mind and make her go to school back home.” I realized then that I was speaking about myself in third person, which was probably weird. Weirder than my explanation.

So, I cleared my throat, finally glanced his way, and gave a sheepish shrug when our eyes connected. “No biggie.”

“Of course.” The amusement in his voice made me hopeful that speaking about myself in third person hadn’t been as off-putting as I’d feared. “Should’ve guessed that one myself, actually. My bad.”

To really look at him, my head craned upward. He’d tamed his light brown hair in a casual-enough middle part, white T-shirt tugged into tailored pants and fitting snugly around his biceps. I blinked once.

I’ll be damned. Just my luck; Henry Pressley is irrefutably and undeniably… hot. Mind-blowingly gorgeous.

And I’d just spoken about myself in the third person to him.

When my eyes snapped back up to his dark green ones, he raised an eyebrow comically. “For what it’s worth,” he mused. “I think my performance might’ve changed their minds.” He nodded in the direction of their departure, though his gaze stayed fixed to mine. “Hope I’ll see you around?”

And I had a feeling I would.

“Here’s to hoping.”

CHAPTER 2

NOW

Two things occurred to me at once.

1. I was chasing my editor out of the building—something I definitely shouldn’t be doing.

2. I should, however, really work on my cardio.

“Ed, please!” Between labored breaths, it was all I got out, hoping I’d catch up to the man responsible for my entire future career before he would make it out of the building. “You know I need this,” I added. “More than all of them. You know I do.”

Instead of looking back at me, realizing I was right (and giving me the damn article), Eddie just shook his head. Continued his way down the stairs like he wasn’t crushing a piece of my would-be career with every step.

When he started taking two at a time, he muttered, “I’m sorry, Paula.” Half-heartedly, more focused on shoving the large wooden door open to escape into sunny freedom. “Really—”

Which was when I’d fully intentionally jumped the last four steps to throw myself in front of him. I only winced slightly when he bulldozed into me, and we almost went down on the stony ground in front of the building.

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie dusted off his beige sweater once he caught his footing. “Really?” He shook his head in so much disbelief, his blond hair flopped left and right. When his eyes leveled with mine again, and all I could do was blink at him, he took a deep breath. “Look, I know you want this story,” he said, unsure what to do with his hands—if he should comfortingly pat my shoulder or keep them swinging at his sides or scratch his head. He decided on the latter. “But I can’t give it to you. It’s too important, and after everything that happened last year—”

I could not hear about my failures again, so I quickly cut him off.

“Eddie.” A hesitant laugh. “Ed. Look. You don’t understand.” I swallowed thickly. “I need this article to graduate! Any article!”

I couldn’t possibly hand in one of the stray horoscopes he’d made me write as the only assignment that I still needed to graduate in a few months. That extra-curricular project was worth twenty-five percent of my final grade, and it would’ve been easy enough a year ago—when I was still getting article after article, and I hadn’t yet tarnished my journalistic reputation with one stupid mistake. But alas, it wasn’t last year anymore, and the piece of writing had to be from the current semester.

Unfortunately, in the last year Eddie had given me exactly three articles to write. All about what each star sign could expect that month. Absolutely nothing I could submit to be graded.

If they were to test my ability to go on coffee runs or make exceptional copies, though, I’d pass with flying colors.

“Eddie—” I tried again, which seemed to have been his last straw. He snapped.

“You don’t deserve it!”

While regret immediately seeped into his features, it didn’t really matter. I could tell he hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but his harsh tone hung between us now.

Eddie shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Paula. Really. After everything that’s happened, I just can’t give this one to you. It’s going to Lacy, as discussed.”

I think I might’ve flinched at the insinuation, his harsh words and that all-too-familiar name, before I shook myself out of it. “You’re not giving any of them to me, though. None. Nada. Niente. How am I supposed to graduate if you keep every viable topic to write about away from me?”

Ed pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. When he looked back at me, the trace of regret in his expression was gone, and he looked like a man who had made up his mind. Somehow, I knew it wasn’t in my favor.

“Don’t worry about that, okay? I’ll get you something soon. Just not this one, Paula.”

It’s the same excuse I’d heard a million times, but it didn’t sting any less. With graduation fast approaching, I wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could leave me hanging.

Eddie went back through the massive hardwood doors of the building that held the Hall Beck Post’s offices. Which brought me back to realization number one.

I just chased my editor out of the building.

I groaned so loudly, he could’ve probably still heard it in his office a floor above. Because just like that, on a beautiful Friday afternoon, my career died. Again. Over before it even began. I hadn’t even made it out of the college paper!

If I couldn’t make it at the HBP, how was I supposed to succeed in the real world? Between real journalists? What was I supposed to say in job interviews when they’d inevitably ask about the huge gap of publications in my writing-resume?

Oh, that’s just Eddie’s fault. He rightfully wouldn’t give me anything good for a year because I messed up. Really, really badly. He just didn’t trust me anymore, but don’t worry about it!

My hands curled into fists at my sides before crossing on top of my head, and I halfheartedly started moving again. I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut.

I’d run back and forth between this building and my place for deadlines and forgotten lunches so many times, I could walk it blindly. And I didn’t care half as much about how high the risk of running into a lamppost was.

I had bigger things to worry about.

Next week, I’d talk to Eddie again. Explain the situation, make my desperation clear…er. Although he’d essentially benched me for an entire year, as the Hall Beck Post’s head editor, he was obligated to give me…something for that extracurricular project. And I wanted it soon, before deadlines might be too tight to—

“Eyes up.”

The familiar voice made the blood in my veins run cold. I froze, hoping and praying I might’ve misheard, but—“Or you might hurt someone.”

Undeniably, that was Henry Parker Pressley’s voice, coming from the direction I was heading in blindly.

My stomach lurched in recognition, and I missed one of my steps. So badly, I almost face-planted on the pebbled road. Right in front of my ex-boyfriend.

I caught my footing just in time to see our paths cross and for my cheeks to take on an embarrassing color I hoped he didn’t spot. Mortified—that being me—we passed each other, and he didn’t turn to look at me again. No smile. No hi, how have you been? I miss you, Paula.

Just the teasing tone in his voice like we hadn’t not spoken in almost a year. My stomach turned at the rich lull in his voice, like we’d never broken up at all.

It took everything in me not to groan a second time.

Pull yourself together, estúpida.

I’d made it an entire year without running into him on campus. Without talking to him at all. My best friend had taken our No Contact very seriously. And out of all the places, the Fine Arts and Communication building was the last place I’d expected that streak to end. However childish it sounded, this was my little corner of campus. He could have the rest if he wanted to.

The business school. The Athletic Center named after his dad. The library and cafeteria if needed. Just not the Hall Beck Post—or the building its office was in.

What was he doing here?

Every fiber of my being knew I shouldn’t turn around. Screamed and fought against the urge, and I still did it anyway.

Henry stood in front of the same building I’d run out of minutes ago, seemingly contemplating the same question (“What am I doing here?”). He threw his head back, hands disappearing in brown hair that looked lighter now that the sun danced through it.

When he shook himself, that had been my cue to leave, right? Before he could spot me still looking at him. I shouldn’t be doing that either, and it became much more apparent when he turned, our gazes met across a two-hundred-foot distance, and it was too late to seem cool and disinterested. Suddenly, I wanted to scream Please take me back! across the courtyard.

I’m totally over him, by the way.

I kept repeating that to myself. When I turned on the spot and made a run for it. When I tried not to interpret the way my chest still felt tight in his presence.

I’m totally over him.

Dios mío, I could hear Maeve’s words before I’d even made it home.

Paula, get yourself together. It’s been a year. Then, We said no contact for a reason, darling. That includes not longingly staring after him when you happen to pass him on campus.

My best friend and I lived together—had been sharing our house with two other girls (and my cat) since our first year, which had made for the cheapest accommodation at the time. When I got there, Maeve took up the entire sofa, red hair spilling across the cushions while Laila and Riley lounged on the floor in front of it. Pip snuggled between the two, sleeping peacefully, for once.

Behind them, the counter separating living room and kitchen must’ve just been cleaned by one of the girls—probably Laila—because it was empty, save for an equally empty wooden fruit basket.

I hadn’t even opened my mouth, barely managed to slip out of my sneakers and oversized leather jacket when Maeve’s eyes jumped in my direction. One look, and she held up her hand, effectively shushing me.

Reminder: I hadn’t said anything yet.

“I can tell you have something to share,” she said quickly. Her eyes drifted back to the TV. “But not now, P. The girls are about to come back from Casa Amor!”

With a snort, I wiggled my way through the girls on the floor, and Maeve was so engrossed in Love Island, she didn’t even complain when I hurled myself onto the small, teal-colored couch and forced her to scoot over. One of the pink throw blankets fell off the armrest it had been hanging on for dear life, and the whoosh-sound was enough to make Maeve Sh! in its direction. Like somehow the fall had been my fault.

The inevitable cliffhanger came a mere three minutes later, Maeve and Riley groaned loudly enough to fill the entire house with the sound, and Laila simply threw her head against the couch behind her, blonde hair almost tangling with my socked feet.

“Alright.” Maeve finally sat up to scan me intently. “I sense reluctancy from this side of the couch.” She gestured at me with a laugh, drawing Riley and Laila out of their cliffhanger-conversation.

Surely, they’d be my best shot for back up here.

Maeve, with a knowing smile, said, “What don’t you want to tell us but will, anyway?”

My eyes narrowed at her brown ones. “How do you know?”

“My psychic abilities.” Her lips curled deeper. “And the fact you wouldn’t have shut up when I told you to otherwise.”

One thing about Maeve Peterson: Her assessments were always scarily accurate, bordering on actual precognition. More than a few times, I had wiped my thoughts clean just in case she really could read minds.

“Alright,” I said. “You’re not… wrong. About the reluctance.”

“Shocker,” Riley snickered. Laila nudged her with a shush, smoothing a hand down her pin straight hair, the way she always did when too many people suddenly focused on her.

I cleared my throat. “Remember how I’m really bad at making decisions?” The one time I’d made one, it had literally changed the trajectory of my entire life, and I’d been lying to my parents ever since.

Maeve nodded. “Hard to forget, love.”

“So, you help me decide which clothes to buy, what movies to watch. Which… exes not to call.” And there was only one ex I could be referring to.

Alarm spread through my best friend’s features like wildfire. Riley dramatically gasped from the floor, only to underline the situation with some sort of humor—not because she was actually shocked. “I didn’t call anyone!” I clarified quickly.

Maeve blinked at me, less amused than she was a minute ago. “Spit it out, Castillo.”

“Well.” I swallowed, eyes trailing across our living room to avoid her hard gaze. The TV beside the front door showed a freeze frame of the Love Island intro, our coffee table held few coffee table books, but instead, was covered by magazines, newspapers and three of the novels Riley rotated between. An empty glass vase stood on the sideboard to our left, and on the framed print behind it were our house rules written in a primary blue.

1. Shoes off!

2. Laugh loudly

3. Cry freely

4. Dance badly

All in all, not much to see—not more than usual, anyway. “I was just leaving the paper, talking to Eddie about… my next article—”

“Oh!” Laila squeaked from the floor. “He finally assigned you something that isn’t a horoscope?”

And bless her, I knew she did not mean for it to sound as… sad as it did. When I deadpanned a “No” her face fell.

I wasn’t sure which I hated more: the pity or the disappointment. “Not yet,” I corrected before getting back to the point. “Anyway, so as we part in… mutual ways, you’ll never guess who I ran into.”

“Ran into?” Riley again.

“Almost ran into,” I amended.

Maeve, of course, sighed theatrically before I even mentioned a name.

“Oh, Paula,” she muttered. “You talked to him, didn’t you?” Another sigh. “Remember that No Contact rule? Talking most definitely falls under contact—”

“I did not talk to him, thank you very much.” The prolonged silence, and my friends’ expectant looks, forced me to elaborate. “…Just looked at him. For a little too long. Until he looked back at me, and we kind of had this eye-contact thing going on, but he was so far—”

I was trailing off, and Maeve’s grimace told me I sounded too excited. So, I cut myself off. “Until I looked away first and bolted.” My best friend threw her head back, letting it fall against the back of the couch and shaking it with yet another sigh on her pink lips.

“Jesus Christ, Paula,” she huffed, hands running across her face. Riley and Laila stayed quiet. “For the record.” She continued. “Longingly staring after Pressley counts as contact. You’ll never get over him like this, darling. It’s been a year.”

Her tone had taken on a comforting note, the small smile screaming Pity. Again.

“I know, I know. You’ve already said that!” I groaned. She was about to disagree with me when I realized: “In my head! You’ve already said it in my head. And I know. And it makes sense. I want to get over him. I am, kind of. But ay dios mío, Maeve, look at him! It’s impossible.”

“He is a catch.” Riley agreed thoughtfully, twirling a single black box braid around her finger.

“Thank you!” I swept my hand in her direction for emphasis. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting he’s a… catch.” Riley gave me a wink when I glanced at her. “And admiring what makes him so catchy. From afar.”

Maeve tilted her head, gaze flicking across my face. My tan skin, brown eyes, the curls framing them. “No,” she hummed. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And I love the guy—don’t look at me like that, I do! But look at you. You locked eyes with him once and fell right back in love.”

Again, that sympathetic tone in her voice, pity residing in the brown of her eyes.

“That’s an exaggeration.” My gaze cut to Riley, then Laila, feeling the need to clarify. “She’s exaggerating,” I doubled down.

Riley snickered, “We know, babe.” Raising a suggestive brow, she continued innocently twirling one braid between her fingers. Like she wasn’t insinuating what she was insinuating.

Laila, her voice as airy as always, jumped in. “Guys,” she pleaded. “Paula doesn’t need Henry. She’s got Jack.”

I didn’t mean for my face to do that thing, but I scrunched my nose, furrowed my brow and physically cringed at the mention. I immediately felt bad.

While Maeve and Riley wiggled their eyebrows, I groaned. “Do I?”

“You could!” Riley half-yelled, half-screamed, the way she always talked when she was still busy laughing. “You have that poor man wrapped around your little finger. No need to shake your head, it’s true. If he’s coming tomorrow, you’ll see.”

“Tomorrow?” Maeve asked.

“Michael’s thing, remember?” Translation: A party. It was always a party with Riley. “He invited me, and I know I mentioned that I’m dragging every single one of you with me.”

She threw a pointed look at Laila, who definitely did not want to go, but would most likely end up there regardless. The fact her girlfriend would probably show up was half the reason. Looking back at me, Riley added, “I assume Henry will be there, too.”

I didn’t mean to sit up straighter, but Jack was all but forgotten about when I asked, “You think?” and I realized too late that I had not even tried to be subtle about it.

“Good God,” Maeve sighed, face disappearing behind her hands. “You shouldn’t have said that, Rie.”

I gasped, as if offended by her accurate observation. “I just asked! I don’t care. It’ll be fine.” My eyes twitched into a glare, narrowing at my best friend. “I’ve gone months ignoring him, and I can do a few more before we graduate. Thank you so much for your vote of confidence, though, Maeve.”

Her hands shot up in playful surrender, lips quirking in sync with the motion. “I love you?” she winced. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And I thought, Yes. I could manage.

Pretending to hate the only man I’d ever loved couldn’t be that hard, and it was kind of comforting to know I’d probably never see him again after this.

The heart-wrenching kind of comfort.

CHAPTER 3

THEN, September: three years and six months ago

“I’m sorry.” My head fell into my hands with a frustrated sigh, and I blew a stray curl away from my face when I looked back up at him. “This has quite literally never happened to me.”

Henry blinked, all green eyes and long, dark lashes. I hadn’t noticed the few faint freckles across his nose when I’d—quite literally—run into him, and I hadn’t noticed them when he had sat behind me in our first lecture a few days later, either. The one in which he’d leaned closer, breath fanning against my ear, and whispered, “I take it your parents think we’re best friends, then?”

Which referred to the fact I was still at HBU in the first place.

It shouldn’t have sent goosebumps down my neck, but had. I’d turned around, not meaning to blush when I looked up at him, and even then, he’d been too far away to make them out.

Somehow, now, sitting on opposite sides of a library table in the middle of the night, the lights low and our voices hushed, he was close enough for me to make out the crook of his nose, the faint scar on his jaw, the way it ran down his neck—and those freckles.

His head tilted. “What hasn’t?”

I snickered. “I’m going to sound like a dick.”

“Try me.”

And maybe it was the lack of sleep, the desperation creeping in, that made me confess. “I’ve never really been bad at… anything. School-related!” I added quickly, as soon as his lips quirked at the words. “I mean, I’m great at school. Learning, calculating, understanding. I don’t know what I am, if not good at those things. So why am I struggling?”

Henry nodded thoughtfully. “You do seem like a girl who’s never gotten anything wrong in her life.”

He stated it like he thought a lot about the kind of girl I was. Like it might keep him up at night, and he’d pondered about it so deeply, he was completely sure of his words. “And you just happen to be in the library after hours with a boy who never has, either. We’ll get there, Paula.”

“Humble,” I snorted.

“Hey.” His hands lifted in mocked surrender as he leaned back into his chair. “You said it.”

With a laugh, I agreed, “I did.” But I sobered quickly, head shaking again. “I’m sorry, though. You shouldn’t be stuck here, just because I can’t grasp the concept of Data Science.” When he’d offered to help me out, he’d said he could stay until ten.

It was midnight now, and Henry Parker Pressley still sat opposite me. Smiling and shaking his head like he’d never given himself a time limit at all.

“And Financial Reporting.”

“What?” I asked.

“You can’t grasp the concept of Data Science or Financial Reporting. Or Technology & Operations Management, actually.” He added after a pause, as nonchalantly as one might report the weather. Like he wasn’t listing every single one of my faults.

“Why thank you.” My nose scrunched. “For reminding me of all my shortcomings—”

“Which I am here to help you with. What is it you were good at, back in high school? When you were still at home?”

Everything! I wanted to scream. But despite the fact we were alone, this was still a library, and it would’ve felt wrong.

That I didn’t yell the answer back in his face didn’t mean it was any less true, though. I’d been great at school. Math. English. The sciences.

Grades were what I’d always measured myself by. When I’d gotten an A on a test, Dad would get me a treat from the corner store. When I got older—about fourteen—Mom would take me to get a manicure, and I’d walked around with bright pink nails for weeks.

When I got a B or a C, there were no treats and no manicures and fewer of the usual loving words from my parents. It was still Well done! or Not bad!

But never We’re so proud of you, Paulita! You’ll go so far in life!

And I didn’t think it was intentional, really, but the difference seemed to still stick with me now. If I couldn’t show off my grades after this first semester—if they weren’t good enough, then what?

I sighed. “English, I guess. And Spanish.” My best subjects had always been the languages. “I wrote for the school paper.”

There was a hint of surprise in the way his brows shot up. “And you didn’t think to study something related? Business seems like a big leap for someone whose favorite subject was English.”

I took a deep breath, head falling back. “I don’t think my dad ever considered I’d study anything other than business, to be honest. He’s got a little restaurant back in the Dominican Republic, so he thinks he’s a businessman—”

“Technically, he is,” Henry mentioned in amusement, and my hand swept in his direction to agree.

“Technically, he is a businessman,” I repeated with a glare I did not mean. “And he always liked when we had things in common, I guess.”

My parents started saving for my college fund when they found out Mom was pregnant. I assumed since then, they’d both known I’d study business, too. The idea had never even been discussed.

Henry nodded like he understood all too well. “English.” He hummed. “So, vocabulary, then. That’s doable.”

He said it more so to himself, eyes batting open and immediately connecting with mine. “We can be back here tomorrow morning. I’ve got practice till nine, and we won’t have a class until four. Gives us seven hours to study Data Science, Financial Reporting and Technology & Operations Management, but like vocabulary. Flashcards and everything. How’s that sound?”

I didn’t know what it was that made him so… eager to help me. But his brows rose, and his tongue flicked across his lips like he couldn’t wait for my answer. As someone who couldn’t make her own decisions to save her life, the way he just took over was so… relieving. I wanted to lean into whatever he decided more than anything.

My face soured. “I’ve got work. Eight to three.”

The coffee shop doubled as a flower store, and it was fine. The pay wasn’t great in a college town, but it was better than nothing, and I’d been grateful to find something so quickly. I’d only been at HBU a few weeks, and any job with which I could take some of that financial burden off my parents was good enough.

Even more important now that I felt like I was failing them.

“You work?”

I nodded. “At Daisy’s. Jack doesn’t like opening by himself, and someone else got sick. So, he asked me earlier to cover their shift tomorrow morning. I’m—”

“Jack?”

“Griffin. Jack Griffin. My coworker? He’s the barista. I don’t know if you’ve—”

Henry shook his head before I’d actually asked. “Haven’t heard of him, no. Fuck him for making you work on such short notice, though.”

I laughed, the sound somewhere between a snort and a cackle before my head shook. “Well, he couldn’t have known I’d much rather be in the library.” With you, I didn’t add.

Because Henry was smart and funny in that stoic way not everyone would appreciate. He was undeniably handsome, and I’d dreamed about him twice in the three weeks I’d known him—neither one platonic enough to write it off—and there was no way he’d feel the same way.

He’s only being nice. Because the first time we met I told him my parents were scared I wouldn’t find friends.

The thought brought color to my cheeks that I hoped the low light hid well enough.

“Would you?” Henry asked, brow rising in amusement. “Rather be here? Poring over books, while I just sit here and watch you?”

More color. Much hotter.

Still, I only shrugged, trying my hardest to keep my cool instead of blurting Gladly. “You’re surprised by that? My parents think we’re best friends, after all. What am I supposed to want more than to spend time with friends?”

Henry swallowed thickly, and he couldn’t hide the hint of a grin on his lips. When he leaned his forearms on the table between us, casting his face in shadows from the light right above us, something shifted.

Between us. In the way I breathed, and the way he looked at me.

“It’s cute that you say that.” I didn’t know why I held my breath until he continued. “But I don’t think we’re going to be friends, Paula.”

CHAPTER 4

NOW

I know I should’ve slowed down after the third tequila shot. In all honesty, I’d probably reached my limit after number two.

But Riley was handing me another one, yelling, laughing, singing along to the music, everything about her so magnetic, her mood so contagious… how could I say no? The decision was basically made for me when she gave me the cup.

Plus, I had almost completely forgotten about the man currently stood on the other side of the room.

Henry was propped against the back of the couch when we’d arrived, arms crossed in that way that made them strain against the confinements of his sleeves. His brown hair parted down the middle, and he was talking to someone female who wasn’t me.

Which made me remember I shouldn’t notice—didn’t have any right to notice—who he was or wasn’t talking to, and made me down that first Tequila shot so fast I almost coughed it all back up.

Now, I tipped my head back with the fourth one, liquor burning down my throat, soothing the unjustified jealousy still burning in the pit of my stomach.

Involuntarily, I might add. The girls cheered, and Maeve threw her arm around my shoulder, swaying us to the sound of a mediocre Abba remix blaring through the frat house.

It would be fine, I told myself.

Although I couldn’t count the number of times I’d stumbled, stepped on a foot, or reached for an arm for balance, and although my ex-boyfriend was somewhere in this room—most likely heavily flirting with a girl whose name I didn’t know—I’d be fine. Right?

I had my girls, my cat… and before I got the chance to ponder how pathetic I sounded, Riley handed me an empty cup. Just in time.

She filled it to the brim with some kind of alcohol concoction that could probably kill someone, and we all drank it anyway.

Really, I was just looking for a clock on the wall the next time my eyes involuntarily searched the room.

And surely, the way my stomach dropped was because I couldn’t find the time, not because I couldn’t find him. Henry was nowhere to be seen.

Not that I wanted to. See him, I mean.

“Girls,” I… panted? Dios mío, was the alcohol catching up with me that quickly? “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”

Laila jumped into Mom-Mode, concern riddling her tone, blue eyes wide in worry. “Do you need us? Are you going to throw up?”

She was the only one who had refused the second shot, instead opting for a sweet mixer that would let her wake up without a booming headache tomorrow. I was already way past that point.

My head shook, and unfortunately the world began spinning around me. “No.” Maybe. “Peeing.”

Apparently, I couldn’t muster more than one-word answers.

Although the bathroom upstairs put a steep staircase between me and release (in whichever form it came), I climbed it heroically to avoid the queue that had formed in front of the guest toilet downstairs.

Taking the last step, I let go of the banister reluctantly, already reaching for the opposite wall for the support I definitely needed.

Pretty sure I was feeling the world spinning on its axis right then, which reminded me we were on a ball in space in the first place. And we were spinning with it. And I honestly never quite understood how that worked. The thought made me feel sick.

“Fuck,” I groaned again, resting my forehead against my arm on the wall for… more support? I wasn’t quite sure, but with my eyes closed, I noticed less of that spinning globe we were all trapped on doing its thing.

Out of the void around me, someone asked if I was alright. I nodded as fast as I could, already muttering multiple variations of yes against the wall that were only answered with an amused snort, the beginning of a laugh that just sounded so, so, so… familiar.

My eyes snapped open.

Wide and horrified, I held steady eye contact with the wall I was still facing. The wall my forehead still pressed against. All to avoid looking at Henry Parker Pressley. Right next to me.

I could feel his presence now.

Low and behold—a single, cautious glance out of the corner of my eye later—and there he was. Opposite the bathroom, right next to me, Henry stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall as he waited.

For the bathroom door to open or for me to acknowledge him, I wasn’t sure.

I huffed into my arm, eyes closing again in frustration. And maybe some relief that he hadn’t left with the beautiful brunette after all.

I kept my eyes from dragging back to him as best as I could, still facing the wall to avoid whatever this was—could become. But as much as I tried to ignore him, I felt Henry’s gaze on me. Taking me in, raking up and down my body, the dress I wore. Maybe my bare legs.

And it was driving me mad.

“Mierda,” I cursed between gritted teeth, finally turning toward him. “What?”

Henry blinked at me. His eyes flicked up to mine, their piercing green a little disorienting. He seemed as confused, surprised, taken aback by my tone as I was.

I hadn’t expected whatever emotions were simmering in the pit of my stomach to make it to the surface either, but now that they were out, it felt kind of… great. And this was good! Wasn’t it?

If I just focused on how much I hated him instead of how good he looked tonight. If I reminded myself of all the reasons why I should hate him, instead of the fact we hadn’t been this close to each other since our breakup, and I’d almost forgotten those few freckles across his nose, then maybe this could work.

Henry Parker Pressley’s ego was big enough on its own. I didn’t need to inflate it more by making the fact I hadn’t quite moved on (yet) obvious, when he clearly had (e. g., beautiful brunette from earlier). I think I might’ve flinched at the reminder.

When I doubled down, I was, again, surprised by my tone. “Spit it out, Henry.”

He swallowed thickly, brows twitching before whatever hesitancy he had blew out of his features. When he huffed in amusement, there was no humor in the sound.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Simply concerned you might fall down the stairs just by standing too close to them.”

I wanted to roll my eyes at the (accurate) observation, throw some remark his way that proved him wrong, showed that I wasn’t half as drunk as I actually was. That I could stand straight and still.

Unfortunately, as if on cue, when I let go of the wall I’d been holding onto for support, I swayed. Probably just a step or two, I wasn’t sure because I caught my footing quickly, kind of proving him wrong? Somehow?

A proud smile sneaked onto my lips when I looked at him again. See, I wanted to say. I can stand upright.

Which was when I noticed his hand around my wrist.

A second ticked by, then another. My eyes slowly drifted to where he held me, right above my pulse point, and I hoped to God he couldn’t feel it kicking into overdrive underneath his touch.

I hadn’t caught my footing at all. Henry had simply caught me.

What I thought might’ve been actual concern drew his brows together when I looked back at him. Our gazes held for a moment, but whatever he was searching my eyes for, he came up short.

Henry cleared his throat, cautiously letting go of my arm, making sure I could stand on my own two feet without falling over like a baby giraffe. Great.

“Are you sure you’re fine, Paula?”

I scoffed. “Yes. Thank—” Angry, I remembered. I was supposed to be angry. Or at least not pleasant. “No.” There would be no such thing as gratitude. I was failing operation No Contact badly enough already. “Not thank you. In fact…” In fact what? “Nothing at all.”

Before I could stop the rambling of my own accord, the door to the bathroom unlocked, and a girl rushed out, leaving it empty for the next person. Which was Henry. “Would you just get in there, p— ?”

“Don’t say please.” Henry was clearly holding back a smile when he interrupted me. “You might regret your manners, Paula.” Before I could say Don’t say my name like that, it’s doing things to me! he stepped aside, gestured to the bathroom. “It seems you need to get in there more urgently.”

He was right. The second I locked the door behind me, I hurled into the bowl. Very glad the girl before left the lid up, and even more glad I’d made it this far—that it hadn’t been Henry’s shoes—I stayed on the floor of the bathroom for…a while. And as I hung there (head over the toilet, surroundings spinning, contemplating the last twenty minutes), I decided not to tell my friends about this encounter.

Which wasn’t the easy way out: I loved oversharing. Though if Maeve considered even looking at Henry a breach of our No Contact Agreement (NCA), talking to him—touching him!—would be a federal offense.

Luckily enough, I wouldn’t have to go against it again, because when I left the bathroom, Henry was gone. Perhaps he considered his odds downstairs better; with how analytical he was, I wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see me again.

The painful thump in my chest propelled me downstairs, where Maeve patiently held my drink, covering the top with her palm.

Freshly thrown up, I felt ready for another sip and accidentally emptied the cup.

My best friend eyed me curiously, gaze flicking between me and the staircase. And I knew that look. Psychic Maeve was back, and my plan not to tell her about what had just happened became significantly less likely to succeed. The redhead gave me a conspiratorial smile, took a big gulp.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

She knows, was my first thought. She’d probably seen Henry come downstairs, put two and two together. Maeve inconspicuously swayed to the music.

I shrugged. “I threw up.”

Laila bumped my shoulder with her own, mouth open in a soundless gasp. “You should’ve said something!” she squeaked. “Girls should never have to throw up alone! Who held your hair, Paula?” The blonde looked genuinely concerned, maybe even distressed, and I couldn’t help the giggle that fled my lips.

Maeve snickered in an equal display of amusement, though her gaze didn’t waver from mine as she emptied her drink. “Yeah, Paula,” she sighed. “Who could’ve possibly been up there to hold your hair?”

There it was.

I decided to ignore her knowing smile, instead turned back to Laila.

“I’m sorry, Lil,” I said, one hand on my heart, the other on her shoulder. “Next time, you can hold my hair.”

She huffed, though a smile replaced the frown on her lips. “Good.” She nodded, taking another sip of her mixer. “Thank you.”

One last time, Maeve’s attention drifted to the staircase before she seemed to drop her suspicions. For now, she didn’t have much of a choice, because Riley dragged us onto the makeshift dance floor a second later.

CHAPTER 5

NOW

Sunday wasn’t great. As expected, it kind of just passed by in a blur of painkillers and memories of Henry’s hand around my wrist, briefly interrupted when I chugged water or had that greasy breakfast at three PM.

Monday was where the real fun began.

The clacking sounds of fingers hammering against keyboards, the whirring of our no-good printer and a strong scent of coffee hit me first when I got to the office. That I-desperately-wanted-to-sit-at-my-desk-and-write-something-meaningful-again second. I needed to talk to Eddie. Until he either gave me an article or kicked me off of the Hall Beck Post because I’d annoyed him too much. At least then, no one could say I hadn’t tried hard enough.

A few heads emerged behind their screens to greet me with soundless smiles. Riley—who’d thought signing up to the Post might make a good addition to her event management degree—waved from where she was preparing what was likely her fourth coffee of the day.

Alfie, who probably hadn’t expected the desk next to him to be occupied today, gave me a surprised look from the furthest corner of the office, to which we’d both been banished to.

Lacy—I-get-every-article-I-want Lacy—acknowledged me with a nod in my general direction, too focused on her words on the screen.

Despite what had happened last year, a weird sense of belonging rushed through me whenever I was in here. Whether I was writing about the stars’ predictions, going on coffee runs or loudly arguing with the printer until he did what I’d asked of him, I could almost pretend everything was fine. Normal.

The people in this office still thought of me as a respectable journalist, even if I’d messed up one of Eddie’s most important articles—and hadn’t gotten one of those again, in the year since.

Alfie had made about a hundred mistakes in his one semester at the paper himself, and he’d reassured me that Mistakes come with being human. That they’re okay, maybe even encouraged.

I’d probably encourage mistakes, too, if my degree weren’t directly linked to them. More so if I’d still manage to snag an article here and there because my dad owned the damn place.

Unfortunately, mine did not. So, I was stuck with coffee and printers, for the most part. That, and the respect of my fellow journalists-to-be. Whatever that was worth.