Page 30 of Spiral

Please be Georgia, please be Georgia, please be Georgia.

The mantra repeats in my mind over and over as I drag myself upstairs to my bedroom, eyelids heavy and muscles sore from the day.

1 missed call from MOM.

1 new voicemail from MOM.

“Fuck.” I audibly groan, rubbing my fingers against my temple.

“Hey pookie, it’s Mom. Congrats on your recent wins! Donald and I miss you so much. We’re thinking of coming down for a game soon – would love to know what you think. Talk soon. I love you.”

I listen to the voicemail three times, taking in the inflections of her speech, the melody of her voice. In theory, her voice sounds the same as before my dad died. The same upticks at the end of each sentence, almost as if she’s asking a question. The same sing-song tone as she says “I love you.” I remember when I was a little and, every night, I’d ask my mom to talk me to sleep. Not to read to me, not to sing a lullaby – just to talk. I’d make suggestions on a topic – dinosaurs, baseball, cars – and she’d tell me facts, some real, most made-up by her, about that subject until I fell asleep. In my childhood, I was convinced there was nothing more soothing than her voice.

And now there is nothing I dread more than her calls.

Hearing her talk about Donald – how happy she is with him, how much he misses me. Never once does she mention my dad or ask if I miss him. The day of my father’s death was the last day my mother ever acknowledged his existence.

I sigh.

Maybe Sarah’s right. Maybe I need to grow up, to move on.

I navigate back to the “missed calls” page and hover a trembling finger over my mother’s name.

Call her back, Anderson. It’s Mom, for Christ’s sake.

I linger over her name for a few seconds more, my heart pounding in my ears.

I can’t.

20 | Georgia

I re-read Coach Bryer’s email, a headache pounding in my temples.

“Can you believe this?” I ask Eleanor, turning my phone towards her. “I can’t believe Dr. Randie agreed to it. How can he force me to go to a football game?”

“Coach Bryer is like Jesus on this campus, Georgie,” Eleanor jokes, her smile soft and playful.

I roll my eyes.

It’s been two weeks since I last spoke to Henry Anderson. I’ve taken a different route to my classes each day, making sure I don’t run into him. I actively avoid the section of campus that houses my old apartment complex, too worried we’ll cross paths. Through sheer willpower, I’ve almost completely forgotten all details about him. How his blonde stubble looks in the morning light, the sweet smell of his clary sage cologne, the way a wet t-shirt clings to his firm muscles…

“You should call him,” Eleanor remarks, as if she can read my thoughts.

“No way,” I reply, shaking my head and quickly re-opening a tattered copy of The Moonstone, my newest assigned reading.

“Georgie, he didn’t mean to hurt you–”

She pauses as she registers my glare in her direction. Her expression softens.

“He only punched Patrick because he caught him cheating on you, red-handed. He was angry because Patrick was cruel to you.” A coy smile forms across her lips. “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

I raise a judgmental eyebrow. “You think a man with violent tendencies is sexy?”

“He doesn’t have violent tendencies, Georgie. He did what any man would do to protect his girl.”

“I am not his girl,” I mutter, my face buried in my novel.

“Well, not anymore,” Eleanor reasons casually. “I mean, you shouldn’t be worried about mixed signals with him going forward. I heard he ‘went upstairs’ with Natalia Bryer at a party a few weeks back. Apparently, they’ve gone together for years now, off-and-on. So, you can call him strictly professionally, to work on the articles.”