Page 36 of Spiral
“HE WAS!”
“WAS?” Georgia raises an eyebrow at me, jotting down a few notes on a page in front of her.
“HE DIED WHEN I WAS 18. CANCER.”
The air conditioning shuts off suddenly, and my ears ring in the silence.
“I-I’m really sorry, Henry,” Georgia says, her smile fading.
“It’s okay.” I shrug and give her a reassuring look. “It was a long time ago.”
She nods slowly and her voice softens.
“Is your Mom around? Or any siblings?”
“My mom’s alive, but I wouldn’t say she’s ‘around.’ I have a little sister, Sarah. She’s not so little anymore, though. She’s about to graduate – and she watches every one of my games on TV.”
“That’s really sweet.” Georgia smiles at me, her toughened exterior made gentle in the intimate conversation.
“Yeah, I try to make her proud. So,” I glance around the room, taking in the various newspaper headlines that plaster the walls. “This is the headquarters of the famous TU Tribune? Not quite as glamorous as I’d imagined. I pictured a 1950’s boss in a mahogany office, wearing a pinstriped suit and talking like James Stewart.”
She chuckles softly, but I notice a flash of concern in her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask her, my brows furrowing.
She tightens her lips and jaw, as if debating if she should respond truthfully or not.
“Yes, it’s just… are you sure you’re okay? That looks like it hurts.” She points to the top of my sling, where a dark purple bruise is just barely visible beneath the collar of my t-shirt.
“Well, it does hurt. But I’m okay, Georgia – don’t worry about me.”
“But I do.” She pauses, a nervous expression on her face, as if she’s said too much.
“Lucky me.”
22 | Georgia
HE SHOOTS ME a lazy smile and leans back into Eleanor’s chair, wincing slightly as his injured shoulder grazes the edge of the desk.
Natalia isn’t his girlfriend. She’s not his anything. And he saved m–
“What about your family?” Henry’s voice is low and soft. He leans forward, as if he’s intrigued by whatever my answer will be.
“Oh, um, they aren’t really in the picture. But this is your interview, Henry. For the paper…” I explain, blinking away the thoughts of how good he smells leaning close to me.
He raises an eyebrow at me, not out of judgment, but out of concern.
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m here to listen. No judgment,” he promises, drawing a cross over his heart and raising the hand that isn’t bound by his sling.
I look at him, his hair tousled in that boyish post-practice way. His strong legs are splayed apart in his seat, just enough to where the edge of his shoe touches my own. He’s dressed in a form-fitting navy t-shirt, wrinkled from being balled up in his duffle bag. His cheeks are still flushed from the run up to the Tribune office.
He rushed to get here.
“W-well, um,” I stutter, averting my eyes. “My mom was a drug addict who never finished school. She left us. I don’t know where she is.”
He nods slowly, taking in the information. His expression is soft and understanding.
“My dad was her dealer, and he’s been in jail since I was five. I lived with Eleanor’s family for most of high school, after my mom disappeared. We think she’s living on the streets in Houston somewhere. Anyway, I don’t talk to either of them – and I don’t want to. Eleanor’s the only real family I’ve got.”