Page 23 of Spiral
“Are you sure? Like, 100% positive it was him?” she asks, her words spilling out almost faster than she can articulate them.
“I got a pretty good look when my fist connected with his face. Clearly, I didn’t know how sharp glasses could be,” I grumble, holding up my busted knuckle as evidence.
She nods, her hand still cupping over her mouth as she paces in a small circle, thinking.
“I-I need you to tell Georgia,” I whisper, breaking the tense silence.
She looks at me, her eyes darting between my own.
Is she angry with me? I can’t tell.
“I’d do it myself,” I sputter, “but you’re her best friend. I don’t think she’d want to hear it from me.”
She breathes deeply, appearing lost in thought.
“What if she doesn’t believe me?” Her eyes meet mine, seasoned with worry. “Believe us?”
“She wouldn’t believe me – that’s another reason I called you. Georgia hates me…” I trail off for a second, feeling the sting of those words in the center of my chest. “But she trusts you.”
16 | Georgia
IT’S 9 A.M. on the dot as I walk into the arena of Mason Field. The temperature inside the arena is low, much lower than our last session together. I look up to the visible sky, far above the empty seats and sturdy yellow goalposts. The clouds have covered every inch of blue, their coloring gray and hazy.
I glance across the field, my eyes scanning for any signs of life. In the silence, I recall how the meeting with Dr. Randie yesterday went about as well as it could, given the fact that she had scrapped nearly a week’s worth of my writing.
“I’d like Georgia to focus her remaining articles entirely on you.”
Henry had smirked with delight as Dr. Randie spoke those words, his lips curled at the edges in a frustratingly handsome curve, only to be met with a scowl as he looked in my direction. In that moment, his eyes suddenly softened, and for one instant I saw the same look of vulnerability and concern that he’d had when he stood in my doorway that morning.
I shudder, making a last-ditch effort to forget the memory of Henry’s inappropriately concerned gaze.
It’s 9:02. Where is he?
Eleanor had called me early this morning, when the sun was still barely rising above the horizon.
“Can I come to your apartment tomorrow afternoon?” she had asked, her voice speckled with worry. “Can you make sure we’re alone?”
I repeated her words again and again in my head, until they had morphed into meaningless noise. It wasn’t like Eleanor – the shaky voice, the uncertainty. She refused to tell me what was wrong on the phone, saying she’d explain everything when I see her. For now, I try to focus on the topic at hand: a headline piece about Henry Anderson, first draft pick for the Lone Star Mavericks.
If he ever shows up.
A few minutes pass before I notice him: completely across the field, leaning against the opposing goal post. His outline is barely visible under the darkened sky and I briefly wonder how long he’d been there without my seeing him.
“You’re late,” he smirks at me, boyish dimples adorning his cheeks.
“I couldn’t see you!” I reply, emphasizing my words with a frown. “Why are you all the way over here?”
“To set this up,” he states, his voice low and almost vulnerable.
He gestures towards the turf, where two football helmets and jerseys lay neatly. The fresh scent of leather, radiating off of the brand-new football placed gingerly between the two jerseys, engulfs us.
His eyes meet mine, and I’m taken aback by the tender look of concern that has returned to them with full force. The confident smirk he held in Dr. Randie’s office has faded, replaced by relaxed features and a delicate smile curving at the edge of his lips. Under the gentle light of the cloudy sky, his traits have softened completely. His green eyes, normally vivid under the blazing Texas sun, now burn with apprehension as dimly as embers. His stubble, normally illuminated into golden strands and sharp along each follicle, now resembles velvet. I glance at his body, still leaning against the yellow goal post, dressed simply in a gray t-shirt and maroon athletic shorts emblazoned with the TU Titans logo. A single beam of light, shining through the momentarily parted clouds, highlights the strong curve of his biceps and ignites something deep in my chest.
Heartburn, I reason, through slow and labored breaths.
“What are these for?” I manage to murmur, still distracted by the smoothness of his features under the gentle sunlight. The 6-foot-3 football captain, known by all accounts for the fortitude of his muscles, the roughness of his skin, the broadness of his frame, now appears in front of me as delicate as a summer breeze.
He answers me softly, his tone caring.