Page 38 of Spiral
“That fucker should be in jail,” Henry grunts with a look of disgust.
Another tear streams down my cheek, against my will.
Get it together, Georgia. This was years ago.
“Georgia, oh no, come here,” he insists, wrapping his hand around my head and pulling me into his chest. Henry kisses my hair as he holds me close, and I allow myself to fully sink into his body.
“I-It’s okay,” I stutter. “It was a long time ago.”
“It’s not okay, Georgia. He hurt you – look at me.” He places a calloused palm against my cheek, guiding my gaze towards his own. “I will never let anyone hurt you like that. As long as I’m your—” he hesitates, “—friend. Nobody will ever harm you. I promise you that.”
Are we friends? A few days ago, I considered us enemies. But now he’s holding me in his lap, looking at me with so much longing.
I don’t know anymore.
23 | Henry
GEORGIA CAMPBELL KISSED me. And now she’s snuggled into my chest, breathing deeply and holding her slender arms around my waist.
Georgia's vanilla scent overpowers my thoughts as she holds me close. I wrap my good arm around her, pulling her nearer to me, and trail my eyes over her petite features. Her pouty pink lips are still swollen from our kiss, her eyes and cheeks reddened from her tears.
I called her my friend?
I didn’t know what else to call her in that moment. Just last week, she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. But now she’s confessing her deepest secrets to me. She trusts me. And I can still taste the sweet flavor of her strawberry lip gloss…
“Is that your phone?” Georgia asks, her voice muffled as her face presses into my chest.
“Oh, shit. It’s my physical therapy reminder. My appointment is in 5 minutes at Mason Field–”
She scrambles off my lap, wiping her eyes and straightening her clothes.
“Um, yeah – okay. I’ll see you later.” She shoots me a half-smile, closing her scribbled-up journal and placing it in her bookbag.
“We didn’t finish our interview,” I reply, rising from Eleanor’s chair slowly. My arm and shoulder ache, but I try not to wince at the pain.
“Oh, um, well… another time. You really need therapy for that shoulder, Anderson.”
She slings her heavy backpack around herself, knocking her body slightly off balance.
“Why don’t you come over tonight?” I offer. “To my place. We can finish then.”
“Don’t you think all the party people might be a little distracting?” she remarks, a slight harshness to her voice.
“We don’t have parties every night, Campbell.” I laugh. “Danny and Jonah are gonna be out on Greek Row tonight. There won’t be any distractions. Promise.”
She thinks for a moment, a crease between her brows.
“Okay. I can be there at 8. Does that work?”
I smile at her and nod. “Can’t wait.”
PT fucking sucks.
It’s bad enough that I’m benched for the next few games, but Coach Bryer also demanded that I have physical therapy sessions while the team practices.
The physical therapy room adjacent to Mason Field is sterile and white, with a few light weights and stretch machines scattered around. Our team physical therapist, a 75-year old woman named Ms. Gretchen, is nowhere to be seen and, in her absence, I take a moment to analyze the framed photos along the walls.
The pictures range from black-and-white to modern-day color, with the smiling faces of nearly every TU Titans captain staring confidently into the camera, dressed in their full gear. My eyes scan along the printed dates beneath the pictures until I find the one I’m searching for: “1996, James Anderson.”