18 | Georgia
I STEP INTO my living room, a puddle of rainwater forming around my feet.
“Whew,” Eleanor says, letting out a low whistle from her spot on my couch. “Did you swim here?”
I chuckle. “Something like that.”
“Is that Anderson’s jersey?” she asks, her eyes narrowing and a smug smile forming across her lips.
“Long story,” I mutter, yanking the soaking garment over my head.
She gives me a funny look just then, her mouth twisting to the side, as if she’s keeping something from me. I gaze at her curiously, attempting to read her emotions, before suddenly noticing the neat stacks of moving boxes surrounding the living room furniture.
“El… what’s going on?” I ask, my voice breaking on the final word.
“I have something I need to tell you, Georgie.”
Bang, bang, bang!
My fists ache from the impact as they pound against Henry Anderson’s door. Tears stream down my face, each breath catching in my throat and causing me to choke.
Bang, bang, bang!
“OPEN UP, HENRY!” I yell, my strained cry silenced by the sounds of pouring rain.
Bang, bang, bang!
The door yanks open, my fist still in mid-air, ready for the next strike. I look up to see a short-haired blonde woman, about my age, dressed provocatively in a leather mini skirt and corset top. Her heels click against the ground as she adjusts her feet, shivering from the evening chill.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her words slurring slightly. I notice the red plastic cup in her hand and glance behind her, where crowds of football players and half-dressed girls instantly become visible.
I huff, quickly wiping my tears with the back of my hand.
“I-I’m looking for Henry Anderson,” I sputter, craning my neck to see behind her.
She rolls her eyes and slowly pushes open the door, immediately turning her back to me to rejoin the party. I enter, suddenly aware that I’m sopping wet and donning nothing but the dingy workout clothing I wore to Mason Field. Tears still steadily streaming down my face, I push my way through the darkened room, my shoes sticking to the beer-stained floor.
“Henry!” I call angrily, straining my voice to rise above the deafening music.
“Henry!”
“He’s upstairs, for God’s sake,” snaps a tall brunette, drunkenly dancing against the team’s wide receiver, who I recognize from Henry’s football explanations. “Second door to the right.”
I take note of how stunning she is, with incredibly high cheekbones and icy blue eyes.
I don’t even want to know why this model has his room location memorized.
I push my way back through the crowd, eyeing the stairwell located near the front door and ignoring my racing thoughts about all of the girls here, who are unmistakably hotter than I am right now.
I take the steps upstairs heavily, still choking back tears, and find myself in a quiet hallway. The pulsing music has dulled to a low hum, with the only noticeable sounds being periodic bouts of laughter from one of the drunken sorority girls downstairs. I step quietly, as if I’m afraid someone will hear me.
I shouldn’t be here. Go back to Eleanor’s place – don’t do something you’ll regret, Georgia… just leave it. Ugh, I know I can’t.
I knock on the door, quickly and gently, as if it were hot to the touch.
Why did I do that?
“Henry,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “Open the door.”
No answer.
I press my ear against the painted wood, listening for signs of movement, but hear nothing. Hesitantly, I grab the doorknob and slowly turn, allowing the warm light from the hall to immediately flood the small room.
Henry lifts his head from the desk hurriedly, immediately raising his palms to wipe tears from his cheeks. His eyes are swollen, their red hue visible even in the darkened room. His overgrown hair is messy, unkempt, with soft tendrils falling across his forehead, so boyish and gentle-looking.
“Georgia, I– what are you doing here?” he asks, a confused expression painted across his features.
You’re angry, Georgia. Tell him how angry you are.
“Why did you do it?” I hiss, my tone sharp as a dagger.
He looks at me, incredulous. “Do what?”
His tone is different than ever before – darker. More hurt.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Henry?!” I cry, allowing the tears to flow freely down my cheeks. “You attack my boyfriend and then pawn me off to Eleanor. And you knew!”
His lip begins to quiver and he swallows hard, preventing further tears.
“What did I know, Georgia?” He stands up, his broad figure swiftly towering over me. “Tell me what I knew.”
His tone is low and unrelenting, devoid of any of his usual cheerfulness.
“You knew this morning – and you didn’t tell me.” My voice breaks as I speak and I roll my eyes in frustration.
I sound pathetic.
“Georgia, you hate me–” he starts, and my breath catches.
Is he right? I don’t know anymore.
“–I couldn’t be the one to tell you what happened. I figured you’d be more comfortable with your best friend…”
“You punched him!” I interject, my voice growing louder.
I wait for him to yell back, to storm my direction and grab my still-bruised wrists, to seethe in anger.
“To protect you,” he whispers as his jaw tightens, looking into my eyes with such tenderness that the pounding of my heart momentarily goes silent.
If he can hurt Patrick, he can hurt me.
“I don’t need to be protected, Henry – especially not by you.”