Page 15 of Spiral
“You think I have time to sit on a goddamn football field all day, Georgia? If I did, I’d play the game!” He gestures maniacally to the piles of study materials and textbooks in front of him.
A small tear forms along the brim of my eyes. Not from sadness, per se, but from frustration. I attempt, in vain, to wipe it away discreetly.
“Are you crying?” Patrick asks, his voice noticeably softened.
He stands, maneuvering around the coffee table to engulf me in a hug. “Baby, you know I don’t mean to hurt you. I’m just looking out for you. You never know what the intentions of these dudes are.”
I shuffle on my feet, uncomfortable with the physical contact.
Why do I feel this way about my own boyfriend?
“I get it,” I reply, sniffling quietly, allowing my weight to sink into his chest.
“That’s my girl,” he coos, before abruptly pulling me away from his chest and holding my shoulders at arm's length. I meet his gaze, his dark brown eyes shifting quickly between my own. His expression darkens.
“Just don’t act like a slut.”
It’s about 10,000 degrees outside when I make it onto Mason Field. With no trees in sight, the Texas sun blisters my skin with every movement. I squint, one hand against my brow to block the sunlight, and survey the quiet loneliness of the empty stands. A slight breeze blows through the dome of the arena, erupting the numerous Texas University flags into a soft and slow dance.
I sigh, realizing that the peaceful nature of the empty field does little to calm the sting of Patrick’s words which, despite my best efforts, are still ringing in my ears.
Just don’t act like a slut.
His hurtful demand replays again and again in my head as I stare up at the impossibly clear sky peeking through the top of the arena.
Just don’t act like a slut. Just don’t act like a slut. Just don’t act like a s–
“Hi, Georgia.”
I turn to face him, the glaring sun momentarily blinding me. Streams of morning light glimmer from behind Henry’s body, darkening his face while simultaneously illuminating his broad and muscular figure.
Was he this tall yesterday?
He’s dressed for a football practice: a tight t-shirt stretched over his taut abdomen, with the curvature of his muscles just barely visible through the fabric. His gray sweatpants cling tightly to his muscular thighs before tapering away into a loose bootcut near his ankles.
Eyes up, Georgia.
“Hi,” I reply curtly, working hard not to meet his gaze.
He smiles at me as he places his filthy duffle bag onto the turf, and it crosses my mind that he’s probably never washed it. His hands, calloused and muscular, pass through his messy hair absentmindedly. I notice in that moment just how tanned his arms are, no doubt from being on the practice field daily, as well as how crimson his cheeks flush in the summer heat.
“So… I saw your boyfriend leaving your apartment last night.”
Oh right, we’re neighbors.
“What’s his name again? I wanted to introduce myself but didn’t want to be rude.” He smirks at me, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Patrick. Don’t introduce yourself – he doesn’t need to know you.” I check my watch, noting the time as 8:11 a.m. “And by the way, you’re late.”
Henry chuckles softly.
“I had a late night. Football afterparty.” He winks at me, lifting his joined hands into the air above him to stretch the muscles in his arms and back. The hem of his t-shirt lifts with this movement, exposing a happy trail that perfectly outlines a deep “V” on along the edges of his abdomen…
EYES UP. You hate him, Georgia! Remember what he said about you?
I clear my throat.
“We should get into the questions now.” I sit down roughly on the turf, simultaneously digging in my bookbag for the pencil and brand-new journal I bought for notetaking.