Page 17 of Spiral
It’s been nearly two hours since we arrived at the field, with her asking me basic questions about the game I’ve spent my life playing and then dutifully writing down my responses. There’s something about this moment that makes me feel important. I love that I’m the one she needs to rely on for this information – even if she hates me.
I wouldn’t mind sitting here a few more hours–
“Alright, I think I’ve got what I need,” Georgia concludes, abruptly, as she slaps her journal closed in one quick motion.
“Already? Are you sure?” I look at my phone screen – 10:27 a.m.
“Yeah?” she says, her expression cloaked in annoyance. “I have class at 10:45.”
“Let me drive you,” I insist, before I have a chance to consider her reaction.
“What? No. I can walk. Thanks.” She starts to pick up her backpack, throwing it heavily over her delicate shoulder.
“My truck is right outside, Georgia,” I say, my voice low and almost vulnerable. “Let me drive you. Please. It’s 100 degrees out and the Liberal Arts building is all the way across campus.”
She looks behind her towards the entrance of the arena, biting on the nail of her perfectly manicured thumb.
“Fine,” she says, her tone uncertain.
She says nothing as we walk the few hundred yards towards the arena’s entrance, with the heat of the summer sun growing stronger with every minute. She’s a few yards ahead of me the whole time, facing forward, without glancing back.
“Is there a reason you can’t look at me, Campbell?” I call to her. She glares back at me, and I wink confidently. “Like what you see too much?”
“Shut up, or I won’t let you drive me.”
I shake my head, chuckling at how such a tiny woman could have such a ferocious anger problem.
“I take it back,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear me. She doesn’t acknowledge it.
We walk a few more yards in silence, just barely reaching the threshold of the arena door, when she stops.
“Georgia? What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer, instead choosing to stare through the glass door towards the largely empty parking lot. I match her gaze and realize that, to my frustration, there’s a man I recognize – though I can’t say from where – leaning against the passenger door of my truck. He looks young, maybe a few years older than I am, but significantly shorter and skinnier.
I don’t hesitate to curve around Georgia’s shoulder, placing myself in front of her in order to confront this random dude. I’m prepared to ask him why he’s leaning against my property so smugly, so comfortably, like it belongs to him – but Georgia stops me.
“Shh,” she says, reaching one delicate hand out to the side of her and hovering it gently over my abdomen. She doesn’t touch me, but I can still feel her warmth radiating from her olive skin. I try to swallow and find my mouth has run dry.
If I move a single muscle, she’ll be touching me.
I look down and notice that her soft hand, resting along the outermost layer of my t-shirt, is trembling.
“It’s Patrick,” she says, her voice barely creeping above a whisper.
“Your boyfriend?” I ask, my voice low to match her own. “Why are we whispering?”
She closes her eyes and inhales slowly, holding the breath for several seconds before releasing it. Without another word, she opens the door in front of us and begins to walk towards him.
“What the fuck have you been doing?” Patrick yells, his face set in a deep scowl.
What the hell? She isn’t even out of the doorway yet.
He looks over to me as I approach them, first a quick glance and then, once he’s registered who I am, a fiery glare.
“Whoa, whoa,” I say, gently pressing my hands outward in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Is everything okay here? Georgia, are you alright?”
“Who the hell are you?” he commands, his mouth set in a snarl.