19 | Henry
THE ROOM IS quiet and dark without her. I rake my hands through the front of my hair, releasing a low guttural growl of frustration.
She hates me. She hates me. She hates m–
A light knock at the door interrupts my racing thoughts and, for one brief moment, I hope with everything in me that it’s Georgia.
Maybe she came back. Maybe she realized that I had good intentions, that I didn’t mean to upset her–
“Hey, big boy.”
Speaking in a sultry whisper, a tall brunette woman peeks her head around the corner of the door, her blue eyes meeting my gaze.
Natalia.
She’s dressed provocatively in a tight, silver mini dress that effortlessly hugs the curves of her waist and hips. The neckline is deep and sloped, enhancing the soft roundness of her cleavage. Her dark brown hair is curled and long, with the ends gently grazing her waist. She steps confidently into the room, immediately removing her stiletto heels and placing them in the corner. Sauntering in my direction, Natalia’s sapphire gaze never breaks. Even without her heels, her modelesque stature still allows her to be face-to-face with me.
“Happy to see me?” she says, a soft smirk forming across her full lips. She reaches out a delicate hand and places it against the front of my jeans. “Sure feels like it.”
“Natalia, stop–” I wrap her hand in mine and remove it, releasing myself from her touch.
“Why should I?” she asks, a strong scent of alcohol wafting from her parted lips.
“I don’t want any more hook-ups with you. We’re not together anymore, remember? From what I heard, you’re dating Todd Watson now. The same guy you cheated on me with freshman year.” I take a step back from her, furthering the distance between us.
“The wide receiver?” She scoffs, raising one eyebrow. “No, he’s just a plaything… you can be my plaything, too. You’ve always had fun with me at these parties.”
Her half-lidded eyes sparkle with mischief as she shoots me a drunken smile, placing both of her hands against my chest and moving her hips forward to connect with my own. She wraps an arm slowly around my neck, cradling my body close to her chest.
“I know you want it,” she whispers, lightly pressing the edge of her lips to my ear.
“I don’t,” I say, my tone low and sober. I untangle myself from her grasp, my face twisted in aversion.
She chuckles maliciously.
“Is it that little girl?” she asks pointedly, her tone harsh. “The one sobbing at a fucking party? Pathetic.” She rolls her eyes, her dark brows furrowing.
I stare at her, my breaths labored with anger.
“She’s not pathetic, Natalia–”
“Are you seriously rejecting me right now, Anderson?” She glares at me bitterly, as if challenging me to answer.
I nod, my jaw tightened.
“Didn’t realize the TU football captain was such a fucking pussy,” she sneers, snatching her heels from the floor and shoving them back on her feet.
She pauses for a moment in the open door frame, adjusting her breasts and moving her hair behind her shoulders, before shooting me one last biting glance.
“You’ll regret this, Henry.”
“I told you not to fuck the coach’s daughter,” Jonah groans.
The party is over, with the three of us now trudging around the soiled first floor holding trash bags and picking up discarded beer bottles and cups.
“No, you fucking didn’t,” Danny interjects, his words slurring from his lingering drunkenness. “But for real, though – she’s hot. I mean, I’d tap th–”
“Aye-yo,” Jonah interrupts, his mouth agape in feigned shock. “You can’t talk about Henry’s girl like that, Danny.”
“She’s not my girl.”
They don’t hear me, their bickering continuing over the sound of crunching plastic cups and sneakers sticking to the beer-stained floor. My phone quickly buzzing offers a much-needed escape from the filthy downstairs, the arguing roommates, the pounding headache.
Please be Georgia, please be Georgia, please be Georgia.
The mantra repeats in my mind over and over as I drag myself upstairs to my bedroom, eyelids heavy and muscles sore from the day.
1 missed call from MOM.
1 new voicemail from MOM.
“Fuck.” I audibly groan, rubbing my fingers against my temple.
“Hey pookie, it’s Mom. Congrats on your recent wins! Donald and I miss you so much. We’re thinking of coming down for a game soon – would love to know what you think. Talk soon. I love you.”
I listen to the voicemail three times, taking in the inflections of her speech, the melody of her voice. In theory, her voice sounds the same as before my dad died. The same upticks at the end of each sentence, almost as if she’s asking a question. The same sing-song tone as she says “I love you.” I remember when I was a little and, every night, I’d ask my mom to talk me to sleep. Not to read to me, not to sing a lullaby – just to talk. I’d make suggestions on a topic – dinosaurs, baseball, cars – and she’d tell me facts, some real, most made-up by her, about that subject until I fell asleep. In my childhood, I was convinced there was nothing more soothing than her voice.
And now there is nothing I dread more than her calls.
Hearing her talk about Donald – how happy she is with him, how much he misses me. Never once does she mention my dad or ask if I miss him. The day of my father’s death was the last day my mother ever acknowledged his existence.
I sigh.
Maybe Sarah’s right. Maybe I need to grow up, to move on.
I navigate back to the “missed calls” page and hover a trembling finger over my mother’s name.
Call her back, Anderson. It’s Mom, for Christ’s sake.
I linger over her name for a few seconds more, my heart pounding in my ears.
I can’t.