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“A bit too late for that,” I comment, chuckling.
She gives me a half-smile but says nothing.
“Will I see you again soon?” I ask, attempting to sound nonchalant, though my heart beats quickly in anticipation for her response.
“We’ll see,” Georgia replies, her voice low.
She looks up, her eyes matching mine, and for one instant I believe she’ll run towards me, collapsing her weight into my arms and asking me to never let go of her. I imagine how good her weight would feel against my chest, how perfect it would be to lightly push the dripping strands of hair from her face and kiss her so softly, so gently, that she would know in an instant that I could never hurt her; that I’d die before I’d use too much pressure, or raise my voice, or grab her wrists in a parking lot.
But she doesn’t.
18 | Georgia
I STEP INTO my living room, a puddle of rainwater forming around my feet.
“Whew,” Eleanor says, letting out a low whistle from her spot on my couch. “Did you swim here?”
I chuckle. “Something like that.”
“Is that Anderson’s jersey?” she asks, her eyes narrowing and a smug smile forming across her lips.
“Long story,” I mutter, yanking the soaking garment over my head.
She gives me a funny look just then, her mouth twisting to the side, as if she’s keeping something from me. I gaze at her curiously, attempting to read her emotions, before suddenly noticing the neat stacks of moving boxes surrounding the living room furniture.
“El… what’s going on?” I ask, my voice breaking on the final word.
“I have something I need to tell you, Georgie.”
Bang, bang, bang!
My fists ache from the impact as they pound against Henry Anderson’s door. Tears stream down my face, each breath catching in my throat and causing me to choke.
Bang, bang, bang!
“OPEN UP, HENRY!” I yell, my strained cry silenced by the sounds of pouring rain.
Bang, bang, bang!
The door yanks open, my fist still in mid-air, ready for the next strike. I look up to see a short-haired blonde woman, about my age, dressed provocatively in a leather mini skirt and corset top. Her heels click against the ground as she adjusts her feet, shivering from the evening chill.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her words slurring slightly. I notice the red plastic cup in her hand and glance behind her, where crowds of football players and half-dressed girls instantly become visible.
I huff, quickly wiping my tears with the back of my hand.
“I-I’m looking for Henry Anderson,” I sputter, craning my neck to see behind her.
She rolls her eyes and slowly pushes open the door, immediately turning her back to me to rejoin the party. I enter, suddenly aware that I’m sopping wet and donning nothing but the dingy workout clothing I wore to Mason Field. Tears still steadily streaming down my face, I push my way through the darkened room, my shoes sticking to the beer-stained floor.
“Henry!” I call angrily, straining my voice to rise above the deafening music.
“Henry!”
“He’s upstairs, for God’s sake,” snaps a tall brunette, drunkenly dancing against the team’s wide receiver, who I recognize from Henry’s football explanations. “Second door to the right.”
I take note of how stunning she is, with incredibly high cheekbones and icy blue eyes.
I don’t even want to know why this model has his room location memorized.
