24 | Georgia
“YOU KISSED HENRY Anderson?!” Eleanor squeals, grinning from ear-to-ear.
We’re parked in her car just outside Henry’s apartment, where I agreed to meet him to finish our interview.
“Yes,” I admit, unable to hold back a smile.
“How did this happen?! How was it? God, he’s so fine. I need every detail.” She grabs my hands and faces me towards her, her eyes glimmering with excitement as she awaits my response.
“Well… I was asking him my typical interview questions and he sort of switched it up on me and asked me about myself. I told him about my parents and he was just so sweet about it… so I kissed him.” I shrug, attempting to seem nonchalant.
“And was it good?”
I nod, a smirk forming across my lips.
“We didn’t get to finish the interview… which is why he invited me here.”
“GOD,” she snorts, throwing her head back against the seat. “The kiss was that distracting, huh? Ugh, I’m so happy for you, Georgie. What are you waiting for? Your prince is in there!”
She gestures maniacally for me to leave the car and head into Henry’s house.
“Call me when you’re done!” she yelps, reaching across the passenger seat and shutting the door behind me.
Unlike the night of that party a few weeks ago, the front porch is now empty and quiet. There are no chaotic sounds of music, or dancing, or laughter. Henry’s truck is the only one parked outside – I recognize it from the day we found Patrick waiting beside it outside Mason Field.
Patrick.
My heart rate quickens at the thought of him stepping out of the apartment next door, seething in anger. I glance in the direction of the parking lot and notice that, thankfully, his car is nowhere to be found.
You’re fine, Georgia. Just go inside.
I take a deep breath and knock quietly before stepping away from the door.
Why are my palms sweaty? It’s just an interview. So what if I kissed him. God, get it together, Georgia. You’re a professional columnist for the TU Tribune and–
“Hi, beautiful.”
Henry’s muscular frame fills the open doorway as he looks at me, a soft smile across his face. The dim light of the streetlamps illuminates his skin and hair, highlighting his chiseled features with shades of gold.
“Hi, Henry,” I reply, rolling my eyes as my cheeks burn under his gaze.
A beat of silence forms between us, and I can hear the soft chirping of the Central Texas crickets flow through the warm and humid night.
Henry’s arm is out of his sling now and, for the first time, I see the full extent of the damage. From the top of his shoulder down to his elbow is a large purple bruise, intertwined with shades of green, yellow, and blue.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says quietly, as if reading my thoughts. “Do you want to come in?”
He opens the door wider for me and I nod, stepping slowly over the threshold of the apartment. The living room, which before had been packed with beer cans, sorority girls, and EDM music, is practically unrecognizable. A large, overstuffed couch is pressed against the wall, with a vintage cedar coffee table and a few dim lamps illuminating the space. Textbooks of all different subjects are stacked on the kitchen counter and the side tables near the couch. The tidy room smells like lemon cleaning spray, fresh and comforting.
“It’s cozy in here,” I remark, breaking the silence.
“Thanks, I try to keep it clean. The guys like to throw the parties… like the one you saw. But normally it looks like this, if I can help it.”
He leans against the counter and grins at me comfortably, dimples forming in his cheeks.
“So… for the interview,” he begins, “would you rather work down here or in my room? Wherever you’re more comfortable.” He puts his hands in front of him, palms outward, leaving the choice to me.
“When will your roommates be home?” I ask, glancing at the kitchen clock that lets me know it’s just past 8 p.m.
He sighs, a gravelly laugh escaping as he replies. “Jonah’s a bit of a… party animal. He’s my teammate, and a big reason we have people here all the time. But he has Danny with him tonight, so they could be back early.”
“Danny’s not a big partier?”
I venture into the living room, admiring the numerous pieces of artwork hung along the walls.
“Not unless there’s anime involved.” He gestures towards the various posters of Japanese manga and anime framed around us.
“Oh my God, is that Jujitsu Kaisha? That’s like my favorite show!” I step a bit closer, examining the vintage sign depicting all three of the show’s main characters.
“It is! You’re an anime fan?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Eleanor put me onto it,” I admit. “I haven’t seen very many. But Jujitsu Kaisha is the first one she ever showed me back when I first moved in with her in high school. We’d stay up all night watching it during the summers.”
“That’s really sweet.” Henry shakes his head, chuckling. “These are all Danny’s posters. He loves to collect them, and I don’t have the heart to tell him they can’t be prominently displayed.”
“Have you seen any episodes?” I inquire, trailing my gaze across the various other framed signs, all written in neat Japanese characters.
“Oh, for sure,” he replies. “Danny organizes watch parties for the house. I’ve probably seen every episode of Jujitsu Kaisha in existence three times.” He laughs, and I can’t help but notice how melodic and calming it sounds. His laughter is hearty, but not too loud – slightly hoarse, but not grating.
Why do I feel like I could listen to that laugh for hours?
“Well,” he continues, running a hand through his hair, “should we get started?”
The ring of Henry’s phone pierces the air suddenly, causing us both to jump.
“Oh, shit – I gotta take this.” A concerned frown forms a crease between his eyebrows as he turns into the kitchen.
“No problem,” I reply, waving my hand casually. “Take all the time you need.”
Henry nods at me, answering the call as he does so.
“Hey, everything okay? I… have a friend over.” His voice is quiet, determined, and he glances over at me when he says the word “friend.”
Is that what we are?
I can hear a woman’s voice faintly on the other line, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“I get that,” Henry seems to interrupt her, his tone slightly terse. “But now’s not a good time.”
His body is tense, his wide shoulders emphasized with the flexing of his muscles. His knuckles are practically white from the way his hands are balled into fists, the veins in his arms becoming more prominent with his every move.
“The game isn’t for 2 more weeks. I don’t even know yet if I’ll be playing for sure–”
He stops to listen. The woman’s voice is slightly louder now than before, and more frantic, though I still can’t decipher what she’s saying from my place on the living room couch. I glance across the room, pretending to still be admiring the anime posters – definitely not eavesdropping.
“Okay. I’ll see you at the game, then.”
See who?
“Sorry about that,” Henry remarks as he walks back into the living room. “Did you decide on my room or the living room?”
Stay cool. Don’t make it seem like the only thing you want in this world is to know who the hell was on the other line of that phone call.
“Uh…”
Pathetic.
He smiles, a chuckle escaping his slightly parted lips.
“We’ll stay down here tonight,” he decides. “You’ve already gotten comfy.”
He flops his weight down on the couch beside me, causing my whole body to rock with the motion of the cushions.
“I forget how short you are,” he teases.
“Petite,” I correct him as I steady myself, “not short.”
“Sorry – I forget how petite you are.”
He makes eye contact with me, his forest green eyes sparkling dimly in the soft light of the living room. His cheeks are flushed as tendrils of his chestnut hair sweep across his forehead – with some pieces more dry than others, as if he just stepped out the shower.
You have an interview to do, Georgia. And you just broke up with a man you lived with. What is your goal here, exactly?
“So, uh,” I stutter, breaking the silence and his gaze. “You’ll be playing in two weeks?”
He breathes deeply, crossing his arms behind his head and stretching. The hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, exposing about an inch of his chiseled abdomen and causing my breath to catch at the back of my throat.
“According to Coach, yes. I met with him earlier today and he says I should be all healed up by then and ready to play. It’s an important game – one that qualifies us for the playoffs. And then the national championship. You know, they just can’t survive without their best player.”
He winks at me and I instantly look down to hide my flushed cheeks.
Game in 2 wks, I scribble onto the open page of my journal, big game important 4 playoff.
I drop my pen on the last word, flinging it just beneath the coffee table in front of us. As Henry instinctively reaches to pick it up, he stops abruptly and inhales sharply in pain.
“Fuck – god damnit.” He groans, leaning back and cradling a muscular hand across his wounded bicep.
“Oh my god, Henry, are you okay?” I ask, quickly leaning forward and grabbing the pen myself.
“Yeah, no, sorry – I’m fine, Georgia. Really.” His jaw is set tightly with discomfort, his expression strained.
“Let me get you some ice.”
Without waiting for a response, I jump off the couch and make a beeline towards the kitchen. I’m greeted by the fresh scent of lemon, stronger here than at the doorway. The oak cabinets appear to all have been recently dusted, the granite countertops expertly cleaned.
“Sandwich bags?” I call to him, opening drawer after drawer to find a receptacle for the ice.
“Small drawer all the way to your left… your other left.” He laughs, and the cheery sound echoes across the room.
“Got it!”
I fill the bag to the brim with small cubes of ice before enveloping the pack in a few paper towels.
“Here, this should help,” I murmur, delicately pressing the ice against his inflamed bruise.
He inhales through his teeth.
“Cold,” he explains, and I nod.
I’m still standing, though I’m so close to him that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. The refreshing scent of his shampoo – like linen on a summer day – surrounds me. I trail my gaze down his arm, which is tanned golden brown from hours of practice in the Texas sun. I notice, for the first time, the small freckles painting the length of his bruise from shoulder to wrist. They are hardly noticeable against the deep tan of his skin and are further hidden by the intricate marbling of purple, yellow, and green bruising mesmerizing my gaze.
“You have freckles,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
He follows my eyes to his arm and smiles.
“Yep, grew them myself.”
“They’re pretty.”
His smile fades slightly, and, for a brief moment, I panic that I’ve said too much.
“I used to get made fun of for them,” he admits, shifting uneasily in his seat.
“What? Why? What did they say?”
I can’t imagine anyone making fun of Henry Anderson. Even from just an objective standpoint, he is quite literally perfect-looking.
“Nothing too serious. Kids called me a few names. Ginger, mainly – which is weird, because I don’t have red hair. It was more the way they said it than what they said. Like I was ugly, or they were better than me.”
He pauses for a moment, thinking.
“I think the worst one, though, was this girl my senior year of high school. I was asking her to prom. I thought she’d say yes because, well, I was a varsity football player and she was one of the most popular girls in school. She was my lab partner and I’d always thought she’d been pretty flirty with me. But, when I asked her to go to the dance with me – I had set up some big elaborate sign at her parent’s house – she told me she couldn’t take prom pictures with a guy who looked like he’d been shit on. That one hurt.”
“Jesus,” I gasp, “what the fuck is her problem? That’s awful.”
“I know,” he responds, his jaw clenching. “I think the worst part was it happened while my dad was in hospice.” He runs a hand through his hair, a look of frustration on his face. “He died the next day. So, no matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget it.”
“I’m so sorry, Henry. I-I don’t even know what to say... I’m just so sorry.”
“It’s alright,” he assures, a sheepish grin forming across his lips. “I took her best friend to prom instead – who was even hotter.”
I scrunch my face at him and push the ice pack gently into his bruise. “God, you can be such a jock.”
“Ow, fuck,” he laughs, exaggerating a painful grimace. “This is abuse!”
He swings his leg over suddenly, pushing into my knees and knocking me into his lap.
“THIS is abuse!” I screech, choking back laughter as I attempt to wrestle myself away. His grip is too strong, even with one arm, and I can’t rise back to my feet.
“No, it’s revenge,” he retorts, a lazy smirk across his lips – as if holding me back doesn’t even take 1% of his strength.
“Let go, Anderson!” I squeal, jokingly thrashing my body to break his vice grip.
“Never, Campbell.” He rests his head against the back of his couch. “If you’re done, we can start the interview.”
His good arm is still wrapped around me, pressing me against his athletic frame. If his muscles are straining by holding me back, he doesn’t show it.
“We can start the interview when I’m freed.” I wrap my fingers around the top of his forearm and push – to no avail.
“I don’t think you’re in any rush to get up. Even if you pretend to be.” He smirks at me mischievously, his eyes shimmering in the warm light.
“God, you’re so cocky.” I rest for just a moment, but don’t allow myself to sink into him.
“That’s good – write that in the journal. ‘Henry Anderson, dashingly handsome captain of the TU Titans, is cocky.’”
“Case in point. And how am I supposed to write when you’re holding my arms?”
“Make a mental note.”
He shrugs and rests his head on my shoulder, the rhythm of his breath rising and falling against me as our bodies press together.
What are we doing? I’m here for an interview!
“Henry, I–” I start, unsure how I’ll finish the sentence once I’ve begun it.
Henry lifts his head at the sound of my voice, his chiseled cheek reddened from the contact with my shoulder. His eyes shimmer warmly as he suddenly notices a stray hair falling across my face and softly tucks it behind my ear, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. His fingertips linger on my skin, tracing a delicate path along my cheek, his gaze locked with mine.
God, he’s so pretty. No, wait. Georgia, you need to focus. If you don’t get this column written, the TU Tribune – the same one you’ve worked for years to help build – won’t exist anymore. All those years wasted. Dr. Randie would be devastated. Eleanor would be devastated. You would be devastated. You can’t let that happen.
“I–” I stutter, hesitating as I notice his scarlet lips pouted in that perfectly boyish way.
Damnit, I want to kiss him again.
“What is it?” Henry mutters, his palm tracing from my cheek down to my upper arm as he awaits my response.
“I-I just think we really need to focus on this interview.”
He smiles at me softly and leans back against the couch, releasing me from his grip entirely.
“Ask away, princess.”
Sitting on his lap suddenly seems much more intimate when we aren’t wrestling and joking, when his body isn’t pressed against mine. I realize just how close I am to him, just how much of his body I can feel beneath me. I stand, clearing my throat and gathering my journal and pen.
Flip to an open page, Georgia. Start writing. Don’t think about Henry’s–
“You know the cap’s still on your pen,” he remarks, smirking smugly as he rocks his hips forward to adjust his sitting position.
My cheeks redden. “Thanks. So, my first question is–”
Before I can finish, Henry stands and crushes his lips to mine.
I’m instantly lost in him. His rugged arms wrap around my torso and lift me, pressing the whole of my body against his own. He breathes in sharply as my chest makes contact with his bruise, but doesn’t pull away. As he gently bites my lower lip, a groan of pleasure escapes my throat, and I instantly feel a smirk curl against his lips as he kisses me.
God, he’s so arrogant.
The thought is fleeting as I feel his hand restlessly travel up my back and grip the base of my hair. Our bodies fully entwined, I notice his heated erection digging into my stomach and realize just how desperate I am to feel him.
I haven’t felt like this over a guy in years. Or… ever? Yeah, ever.
My nails rake down his back as he gropes my ass, lifting me off the ground with one arm and allowing me to wrap my legs feverishly around his taut waist.
He sets me gingerly on the couch, pressing his weight into me and pinning me against the soft cushions. He kisses me hungrily, a desperate moan escaping his lips as I press my hips into his erection. He pulls away, trailing his swollen lips across my cheek and down to my neck.
“Fuck, Georgia, you’re so beautiful–”
“Aye-yo, dude!” an unfamiliar voice yells from across the room.
Henry instantly pulls himself off of me, raking a hand through his messy hair and straightening his clothes. A panicked look spreads across his face as he grabs a couch cushion to conceal his erection.
His roommates.