Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,28

of it.”

“What did you mean to tell me?” I ask.

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “That I don’t like cake . . . or ice cream.”

“What?” I pull my face back with my most horrified expression. Is he not human?

“Yeah, I don’t tell a lot of people because, I mean, the look on your face is pretty much the response I get whenever I admit to it.”

“You don’t like cake or ice cream.”

He places his hands in his lap. “Nope, not either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cake is . . . well, it’s mostly dry, isn’t it? And the only thing good on a cake is the icing. And ice cream is just . . . well, it’s cold.”

I laugh. I thought his first admission was shocking.

“I’m not sure I can get over this,” I say through my laughter.

“But you don’t mind the first bit,” he says, chuckling.

“The first bit I get, I know how that is,” I offer. “The cake and ice cream . . . I’m at a loss.”

We’re both chuckling, the mood making so many changes in just a few short minutes, it probably has whiplash.

“So you’ve got a parent you disappoint, too?” he asks.

My smile drops. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

I don’t want to tell him. It’s too much. Plus, I feel like Henry’s in a bubble with me. That he doesn’t even notice my extra pounds. That if I were to tell him, it would be like a little pin popping the balloon and his apparent blinders to my weight would be removed. I realize it’s a dumb thought. It doesn’t even make any sense. Yet this is how I feel.

I take a deep breath. “It’s . . . my mom. She’s always on me about my . . . appearance.” I choose my words carefully, ones that I’m comfortable with.

Henry’s brows pull inward. He looks genuinely confused. “Really?”

I shrug, briefly. “She . . . she just likes things a certain way.”

Henry nods. “And . . . your appearance doesn’t meet her standards,” he says, confusion in his voice.

I tap my finger on my nose, as if to say, Bingo. But it’s not quite a bingo, since it’s not that my mom disapproves of how I look—she always says how beautiful I am—she just thinks my weight is a problem.

“I don’t understand. I mean, how you look—your ‘appearance’ or whatever—that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

My eyes had lowered to the table at some point, not wanting to make eye contact with Henry and have him see more than I’m willing to convey, but at that declaration, they move straight back to his intense gaze.

“What?”

“Well, don’t get me wrong, love, I appreciate your beauty. Very much. But your brain—the person you are—I find that much more interesting.”

Those tendrils of love that I mentioned earlier? They’ve just extended their branches even farther. A huge jump, if I’m being honest.

I swallow. Before those feelings extend any further, I need to tell him everything. Right now. “Henry, I—”

I’m interrupted by his phone. He holds up a finger to me and pulls it out of his pocket. “I’d ignore this, but the whole new job thing . . .”

“Totally fine,” I say, shaking my head quickly. I relax slightly inside. This gives me a few more minutes to pull it together. You can do this, Quinn.

“Hello?”

I watch his face as his brows pull inward when I hear the muted sounds of someone responding to him on the other end. He listens for a few seconds, offering a few “yeses” and “mm-hmms” as responses. There are no smiles, no looks of excitement. He looks more perplexed.

It’s difficult to try to piece together a one-sided conversation.

“I’m sorry, can I put you on hold for a moment?” he says into the phone. He looks at me and, covering the bottom part of his phone with his hand, says in an almost whisper, “I’m just going to pop outside and take this, okay? Be right back. I’m so sorry.”

I nod my head and then watch him walk out of the restaurant. We’re seated near the front of the building, and I can see him on his phone pacing back and forth in front of the window. It’s dark outside, but there’s enough streetlight to see that he seems flustered.

I worry suddenly that just after we’ve had this semi—well, mostly—intense dinner that something will have changed with his work status and he’s going to walk in here and tell me he has to go back to Miami.