4 | Georgia
IT’S 9:47 A.M. as I drive onto the Texas University campus, with the smell of fresh paint still wafting through the air from summer renovations. It’s hot as hell outside and, even with the air conditioning blasting in my early 2000’s Mini Cooper, I still can’t keep from sweating.
My junior-year classes start this morning – a fact that looms over me as I remember I haven’t finished even half of the assigned reading. As an English major, it’s not uncommon for each professor to assign 200-300 pages a night for us to read. Not bad, until you remember you’re in 5 different courses. Lately, the work has gotten nearly unbearable.
I’m an excellent student. I don’t brag about it, but it’s an undeniable fact about me and the thing I am most proud of. I’ve maintained a 4.0 GPA since I first started at Texas University in my freshman year. It felt like the biggest accomplishment in the world, as a poor kid without any support at home, to be admitted to the best university in the state. Not only that, but I had the opportunity to continue on the tradition of the Texas University Tribune, a historic newspaper printed by our very own Liberal Arts department. Since my first day of freshman year, it’s been my dream to re-popularize the newspaper, a plan I hope to enact with the help of my very own literature column.
If only I could publish it.
I run through these thoughts multiple times in my head as I force myself to open up my latest assigned novel on a bench near the Liberal Arts building – Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. It’s one of my favorite novels, but I haven’t read it in years and the details have grown faint and murky.
I’ve only gotten a few pages in when I hear my name.
“Morning, Georgia.”
A slight Southern twang. I know who it is without looking up.
“Hi, Henry,” I reply sheepishly, tucking the corner of my current page into the book and saving my place.
I look up at him and, to my internal horror, find that he’s just as cute as he was yesterday. I don’t know what I expected – perhaps that he’d turn into an orc overnight? Or maybe I just hoped that I’d deluded myself yesterday, that he wasn’t actually that good-looking. But here he is, again, and there is no denying how gorgeous he is.
I’m not the only one whose attention he holds. A group of sorority girls passing us on their way to class have not broken their gaze on Henry in about 30 seconds. They snicker to each other quietly, blushing and looking away whenever he glances in their direction.
“Seems you’ve got some fans,” I remark, more confidently than I feel.
He laughs and waves his hand, as if to brush off the possibility.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He grins as he says it, squeezing himself onto the bench beside me without shame.
I look at him, not knowing what to do next.
Why is he sitting so close to me? Does he not realize we’re strangers? Do I say something?
Choosing the safe route, I reopen Jane Eyre.
“Danny reminded me that you moved in next door to us – with your boyfriend. Are you both adjusting okay to the apartment?”
Henry asks the question with such sincerity in his voice, I almost think that him paying me any attention must be some sort of cruel joke. Almost.
I sigh.
I don’t want to talk about Patrick. Like most mornings, he woke up in a horrendous mood. It appears the new apartment did little to suppress the trauma of his relationship with Rachel, as he’d hoped it would. He had yelled at me this morning before I left because I put a dirty dish in the left side of the sink instead of the right. Apparently, I’m a “stupid bitch” for that.
“It’s–” I glance at him, noting the soft smile carving dimples into his tanned cheeks. “It’s fine.”
I don’t know him well enough to tell him the truth. It’s too complicated for the people I do know.
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my limited answer.
We sit in silence for a few moments, me waiting anxiously for my class to be nearly starting before I walk in the building. Sitting beside me, Henry shakes his leg, almost nervously. I get the sense that the silence makes him uncomfortable.
“Have you lived with Danny for a long time?” I ask him, feeling a bizarre urge to make him less stressed, less anxious.
He grins at me, relief flooding his face as the silence is broken.
“Yeah – well, since freshman year. But I’ve known him since we were born.” He half-smiles, his dimples just barely showing.
“Oh,” I reply, “That’s really nice. To have a friend that long, I mean.”
I stutter on my words for a moment and look out towards the practically empty walkways of the TU campus. The air smells of freshly cut grass and aging buildings – a scent I normally love but, for some reason, now feels overwhelming.
“It is nice.” He shoots me a full smile, dimples and all. “Our parents were good friends. Since college, actually. Same with my other roommate, Jonah. We all grew up together.”
I smile at him – just barely – but say nothing.
“You know, Danny’s told me a lot about you.” He glances again at the sorority girls who are still staring in his direction, mouths practically agape in awe of him.
“Weird,” I reply, rolling my eyes slightly in embarrassment. “I haven’t even told him a lot about me.”
He chuckles at that – a soft, hushed laugh that feels like it’s meant for only me to hear. My skin prickles a bit, as though an ice-cold breeze had just blown through us, and my stomach flutters.
“You reveal more than you think, apparently.”
Doubtful.
“What has he said about me?” I ask, before I get the chance to consider if I really want to know the answer.
“He says you’re kind, and funny, and that you’re a snitch.” He says it in a joking manner, but it instantly darkens my mood.
“What?” I look at him, my eyes narrowed in irritation.
Henry swallows, realizing quickly that he’s said something he shouldn’t have.
“I, well, he told me…” His words drift off, his leg shaking nervously again.
“That I’m a snitch?” I hiss, the harshness of my tone surprising me.
“I didn’t mean it like that – he just said that that’s what people say…”
“Great, thanks.” I grunt, hoping he doesn’t notice my reddening face or the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I pick up my things quickly, stuffing Jane Eyre roughly into a pocket of my bookbag.
“Wait, Georgia–”
“Don’t talk to me anymore,” I interrupt, my tone harsh and impersonal as I check my watch for the time and realize my class is about to start.
Thank God.