Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

Wren gave us the privacy needed for the inevitable. Henry’s ankle rested across his knee, bouncing as he sank further into our brown leather couch.

“I called Stephanie.”

His words caught me off guard. There were a lot of things I expected from this, but not our therapist’s name coming out of his mouth. As I watched him trace the sofa’s stitching, one leg still restless on the other, he seemed nervous enough for the both of us.

I tried my best to keep a blank expression when he looked at me from the other end of the couch. I wasn’t sure what would play on my face otherwise. Surprise about the admission? Compassion for how hard this conversation was going to be for him? Maybe I’d smile just because we were finally having it. It’d been long overdue.

So, my face said nothing. Neither did I.

And the words began tumbling out of him.

“About what happened, why I—” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes like he was trying to recite something he’d studied over and over again when his head fell back. “Why I feel the need to control your life whenever I lose some control over mine.” The words rushed out of him so quickly, I was almost tempted to make him say it again. His hand drove through his hair, and he sighed again. “I just want what’s best for you, and sometimes I forget that’s not always what’s best for me, too.”

My mouth dried, eyes shifting so I wouldn’t break at the first sign of affection from him. Rain splattered against the windows.

“Did Stephanie help you figure that one out?” I wondered, barely keeping my voice even. “You know, it shouldn’t need a professional who takes two-hundred dollars an hour to make you see that.”

His dry laugh filled the space around us. “I know,” he rasped. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lia—” His voice broke, and he didn’t even bother masking the slip up.

I’m sorry.

I repeated the words in my head, over and over again. My eyes stung.

But there was no feeling of accomplishment. I thought his apology was what I’d been aiming for. I’d wanted him to realize he fucked up. I’d wanted him to care. He seemed to be doing both now, and I didn’t feel any closer to him.

That had been the plan from the very start, right?

“Would you say something?” Desperation edged into his tone, and I swallowed thickly.

“For what?”

His expression puzzled. “What?”

“What are you sorry for, Henry?”

“Lia—” He wanted to argue, but the look on my face kept him from it. Resigned, he sighed. “For overstepping. For sending that email. I apologize for all of it. Why are you… laughing?”

“You really think I did this entire thing because you sent Shaw an email you shouldn’t have?” His brows drew together. I went on. “Was I pissed? Of course. You overstepped. Massively. Did it fuel it? Yes, probably, and you should work on that, but—” I shook my head. “This thing, dating McCarthy—it was the first time you actually seemed to care. We never talked about anything but school and grades until you stormed into my apartment with those statistic notes.” I was almost embarrassed to admit it. “And when you thought there was more between us… you cared . I’ve been wanting you to care since they died.”

He blinked at me, and I could tell he didn’t know what to say.

But I was on a roll. “I’m sorry for leaving without telling you. I never wanted to worry you like that. But you cannot blame me for wanting my brother back. Even if it means we’re fighting, at least we’re doing something . At least you thought about me—fucking talked to me.”

Seven years of suppressed feelings flooded out of me. The dam that had kept my cheeks dry, broke when my brother’s eyes started to glisten, when his teeth dug into his bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

For the second time that night, and for the second time in seven years, I found myself in Henry’s arms. They shook against my shoulders, and he squeezed me so hard, it felt like he was making up for the fact it had been that long.

“Fuck,” he breathed against the top of my head. “Fuck, Lia—”

“I felt so alone, you know? And you just kept moving further and further away. Until you were way out of reach.”

He swallowed hard, and he exhaled loudly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted you to feel alone. I just wanted to give you space. I didn’t want to keep you from making your own choices unless absolutely necessary. Like I would’ve wanted—” He cut himself off like he’d remembered something. “But I guess what I think is best for me, isn’t necessarily what you think is best for you.”

I smiled against his chest, sniffled. “I really love Stephanie.”

He brought some distance between us, hands steady on my shoulders. “Maybe she’s worth those two-hundred dollars an hour, huh?”

“Maybe she is,” I agreed. “What made you go back to her?”

“I really didn’t know what to do about you. I just wanted someone’s opinion who didn’t hate McCarthy as much as I do. And with the whole Hamptons thing—”

“What Hamptons thing?”

His gaze cut to mine. I saw the way he cursed himself for letting the word slip. When he didn’t say anything, I repeated myself. “What Hamptons thing, Henry?”

This time, he cursed out loud. “I didn’t mean to tell you.”

“We just talked about that—”

“I know, I know.” His hands shot up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you about the summer house because I didn’t want you to worry. I’ve got it under control.”

My stomach dropped. Plummeted by a thousand miles a minute. “The summer house?”

His face twisted into a grimace, probably because he noted the concern in my voice. “They were going to tear it down.”

I blinked at him.

The summer house? Our summer house? With its beautiful marble hallways and white sandstone columns? The rose garden and tiled pool in the backyard? The one where we’d spent every summer since we’d moved to New York?

I’d cried for days when our parents had sold it, eyes on a different property in the neighbourhood. Before they were able to buy that one, though—before we could make new memories there, and I could learn to love it just as much as the old one—they died.

And now someone was going to tear it down?

“What do you mean?” I asked, drawing back from him to study his expression. “You’ve got it under control . What does that mean?”

“It means I talked to Aunt Claire.” My face soured at the mention. He was back to tracing the couch’s stitching. “And it’s basically ours.”

“Ours?”

Henry shrugged. “Ours. Theirs. The Pressley residence, ” he joked before his face turned serious. “It’s our family’s again. We’ve got it back.”

I didn’t remember the last time I’d heard those words. Our family.

“I didn’t want you to worry. I know how much you love that place, and with all those memories attached to it… I wasn’t sure if the sale was gonna go through until a few days ago. It’s kind of the reason I’ve been on edge recently—losing that last part of our childhood not plagued by death and grief. For a while it felt like there was nothing I could do about that.”

Which, for a control freak like Henry, must’ve been almost unbearable. “I couldn’t stomach the thought of telling you, either.” His eyes flicked up to me. “And I’m not saying any of that to make me look better.”

I was glad for the little humor in his voice, and the way his lips turned into a sheepish smile. “Although, you’ve got to admit…” He trailed off.

I slapped his arm halfheartedly. “Shut up.”

He was right, though. What would make him look better, if not this? The fact he’d bought a piece of our childhood, cared enough about our childhood to do so—or at least nudged our aunt and uncle to. I didn’t think he cared half as much about that place as I did, but alas…

It’s where Henry and I had learned how to swim, right before he’d learned how long he could dunk my head underwater before I’d drown. Where I’d purposefully kicked at least a dozen soccer balls into the bushes when he wasn’t looking. Where we’d fall asleep in Mom’s arms every night for the one week she’d taken off work during the summer, where Dad had taught Henry how to ‘rainbow flick’. I remembered that, because it was the first time I’d seen Dad laugh since his team had lost that season.

“Oh God.” The alarm in his voice caught me off-guard. “Are you crying?” Concern filled his eyes. Henry could barely handle his own emotions, I wasn’t sure what he’d plan on doing with mine. “I haven’t seen you cry in…”

“Seven years.” The realization dimmed his features at the same time I’d voiced it, and I blinked heavily to keep the few stray tears at bay.

He sighed. His chest heaved. “I really am sorry,” he repeated.

And I believed him.