11 | Henry
SHE LOOKS SO cute writing in her notebook. When I first got to the field this morning, I stood back a few hundred yards, watching her take in the enormity of the arena. She tilted her face towards the sun, breathing deeply, and watched as the flags blew in the wind.
I was mesmerized.
It took nearly five minutes for me to gather the courage to walk across the field and greet her. I didn’t expect her to be happy to see me. But, as I approached, she already seemed distraught. I couldn’t tell you how I knew, aside from maybe the slightest hint of uneasiness in her expression. But I knew. She didn’t seem like herself.
“Where did you say the 50-yard line was again?” Georgia asks, jotting notes along the margins of the page in front of her.
She glances towards me, the sage hue of her eyes glowing in the morning sunlight.
“Uh–”
Answer her question, dumbass.
“It’s right there in the center – see where the TU logo is in the middle of the field? That’s the 50-yard line.”
She nods, scribbling down “50” within the tiny football field diagram she’s drawn in the corner of her page.
It’s been nearly two hours since we arrived at the field, with her asking me basic questions about the game I’ve spent my life playing and then dutifully writing down my responses. There’s something about this moment that makes me feel important. I love that I’m the one she needs to rely on for this information – even if she hates me.
I wouldn’t mind sitting here a few more hours–
“Alright, I think I’ve got what I need,” Georgia concludes, abruptly, as she slaps her journal closed in one quick motion.
“Already? Are you sure?” I look at my phone screen – 10:27 a.m.
“Yeah?” she says, her expression cloaked in annoyance. “I have class at 10:45.”
“Let me drive you,” I insist, before I have a chance to consider her reaction.
“What? No. I can walk. Thanks.” She starts to pick up her backpack, throwing it heavily over her delicate shoulder.
“My truck is right outside, Georgia,” I say, my voice low and almost vulnerable. “Let me drive you. Please. It’s 100 degrees out and the Liberal Arts building is all the way across campus.”
She looks behind her towards the entrance of the arena, biting on the nail of her perfectly manicured thumb.
“Fine,” she says, her tone uncertain.
She says nothing as we walk the few hundred yards towards the arena’s entrance, with the heat of the summer sun growing stronger with every minute. She’s a few yards ahead of me the whole time, facing forward, without glancing back.
“Is there a reason you can’t look at me, Campbell?” I call to her. She glares back at me, and I wink confidently. “Like what you see too much?”
“Shut up, or I won’t let you drive me.”
I shake my head, chuckling at how such a tiny woman could have such a ferocious anger problem.
“I take it back,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear me. She doesn’t acknowledge it.
We walk a few more yards in silence, just barely reaching the threshold of the arena door, when she stops.
“Georgia? What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer, instead choosing to stare through the glass door towards the largely empty parking lot. I match her gaze and realize that, to my frustration, there’s a man I recognize – though I can’t say from where – leaning against the passenger door of my truck. He looks young, maybe a few years older than I am, but significantly shorter and skinnier.
I don’t hesitate to curve around Georgia’s shoulder, placing myself in front of her in order to confront this random dude. I’m prepared to ask him why he’s leaning against my property so smugly, so comfortably, like it belongs to him – but Georgia stops me.
“Shh,” she says, reaching one delicate hand out to the side of her and hovering it gently over my abdomen. She doesn’t touch me, but I can still feel her warmth radiating from her olive skin. I try to swallow and find my mouth has run dry.
If I move a single muscle, she’ll be touching me.
I look down and notice that her soft hand, resting along the outermost layer of my t-shirt, is trembling.
“It’s Patrick,” she says, her voice barely creeping above a whisper.
“Your boyfriend?” I ask, my voice low to match her own. “Why are we whispering?”
She closes her eyes and inhales slowly, holding the breath for several seconds before releasing it. Without another word, she opens the door in front of us and begins to walk towards him.
“What the fuck have you been doing?” Patrick yells, his face set in a deep scowl.
What the hell? She isn’t even out of the doorway yet.
He looks over to me as I approach them, first a quick glance and then, once he’s registered who I am, a fiery glare.
“Whoa, whoa,” I say, gently pressing my hands outward in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Is everything okay here? Georgia, are you alright?”
“Who the hell are you?” he commands, his mouth set in a snarl.
I look to Georgia, whose tears have begun to stain her rosy cheeks. Her mouth, normally set in a graceful pout, is turned downwards as she holds back her tears.
“Anderson. Henry Anderson.” I respond impatiently, my tone brusque. I feel my jaw clench as I notice Georgia’s slim shoulders jerk slightly between silent cries.
“Well, Henry Anderson, how does my whore girlfriend’s pussy taste?”
“What?!” I look at him, bewildered, and hear Georgia’s once-silent tears turn audible. She sniffles, hastily wiping at her dripping eyes before the tears can make it to her cheeks.
“Don’t play dumbass jock with me,” he sneers. “If I see you come near my girlfriend again, you’ll be lucky to pull up to the next game in a wheelchair.”
I laugh – I don’t mean to, but I do. Patrick is a good six inches shorter than me and probably 50 pounds lighter. At six-foot-three, there’s hardly anyone at Texas University who could actually challenge me physically – and Patrick isn’t one of them.
“Okay, big guy,” I say, taking a step closer. “I think you ought to let me take Georgia to class. Doesn’t seem like you’re in the best mood, and she’s clearly upset. Nothing happened between us. God as my witness.”
He scowls at me, his eyes darkening. “She’s coming with me.”
He grabs her wrist, his grip much too strong against her delicate arm, and begins to pull her across the parking lot towards a running car.
“Georgia, wait. Are you– Georgia!” She looks back at me for a brief second, her eyes welled with tears, but says nothing.
Meet me in the Liberal Arts building at 4 o’clock.
It had been 3 days of silence since the fiasco with Georgia’s boyfriend, until her text popped up on my screen early Monday morning.
“God damnit,” I grumble, haphazardly rubbing my tired eyes.
“Still no answer?” Danny says, his gaze focused on the anime playing on our living room TV.
I rub my hands down my face, stretching my eyelids and cheeks in frustration.
“No, nothing. You should’ve seen the way that dude talked to her. It was like an episode of Jerry Springer.”
“Did you do anything? Say anything?” Danny asks, breaking eye contact with the TV for a brief moment.
“There was nothing I could do! I asked if she was okay and she wouldn’t answer me. Not then, and not now.”
“That’s tough, dude. I never hear them fighting next door or anything. Maybe it was a one time thing?”
I look at him, my eyelids heavy from exhaustion. I’d gotten little sleep since that incident in the Mason Field parking lot, which was days ago.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
“You should’ve called me, Cap. I was helping Mom at the garden again, but I would’ve gotten there as quick as I could.”
“Thanks, dude,” I reply, attempting to smile at him. “I appreciate it.”
I check my phone screen again, hoping to see GEORGIA CAMPBELL flash across my screen.
Two new voicemails from MOM.
“Jesus,” I murmur to myself, my cheeks flushing in irritation.
I head upstairs to my bedroom for privacy, leaving Danny to the newest episode of his favorite show, Jujitsu Kaisha.
“Hi, pookie, it’s Mom. I haven’t been able to reach you, and Donald and I have been worried…”
“Ugh,” I grunt, rolling my eyes in disgust.
“I know you’ve been playing your games, and I’ve heard you’re on your way to the championship! Sarah told me. Give me a call back when you can… love you, pookie.”
Delete.
New voicemail.
“Hi, pooks, it’s Mom again. Just making sure you didn’t change your number, haha. Donald and I are thinking of coming down to TU, maybe paying you a quick visit. Let me know what you think… we both love you, honey. Give your mom a call!”
I slump my aching body onto the bed, throwing my phone onto the floor in the process.
Donald and I… Donald and I….
I grimace. Donald Perkins – my father’s best friend since childhood. Born and raised on the same street in Beaumont, Texas, Donald and my father were inseparable. They were both on the Texas University football team together, both co-captains, and both married to Texas University cheerleaders.
I had grown up around my “Uncle Donald” and his wife, Terry. They had no children, but that didn’t matter, because Donald himself always acted like a kid. He’d play basketball with me, teach me new football drills, and helped me learn to ride a bike. He came to all my childhood games, sitting side-by-side with my parents.
Until my dad got sick.
Dad was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was 17. By all accounts, it was a completely curable cancer. He went through three rounds of chemotherapy and made it out the other side as healthy as ever – for a few months. He passed away within a few weeks of the cancer returning, when I was 18.
By Christmas, my mom was shacked up with the freshly divorced Donald, who’d left his own wife the second my mom expressed interest in him. I can still remember how my little sister, Sarah, begged me to take her with me to college to avoid moving in with Mom’s new husband.
“I’ll sleep in the closet of your dorm!” she’d always say, half-joking, half-serious.
I knew she didn’t want to live with Mom and Donald, that she was still grieving my dad’s death. But I was only 18, freshly signed onto the TU Titans football team, and I knew I couldn’t take care of her properly. She was only a kid.
My stomach turns, nausea overtaking me as a migraine builds at the base of my skull.
I’m not calling her back.