Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,33

at the floor for a beat. Then back into that angry face of Henry’s. “I didn’t want you to Google me,” I spurt out.

“What?”

“I didn’t want you to look me up. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Henry knits his brows together, his head leaning slightly to the side. “Google you?”

“Yes. There’s a video out there—not that kind of video,” I add quickly when Henry’s eyes go wide. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Okay . . .”

I turn and start pacing the meeting room, the multicolored carpet muffling the sound of my heels.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re here? You . . . you said you hated the news.”

Henry reaches up and rubs his forehead. “I don’t . . . I was up here interviewing for another job.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was trying to get out of news.”

“You said that job was a go.”

“It was—it . . .” He lets his arm drop from where it was rubbing his head, now limp by his side. “I was all set to go, but then I got a call last night—while we were—”

“At dinner,” I finish his sentence, briefly going back to that time, us sitting across from each other, not knowing how much our worlds were about to collide.

He dips his chin, once. “It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Where were you before?”

“Miami. I was telling you the truth. I was a producer there. Evening.”

“Right,” I say, understanding. Executive producer is most producers’ goal. Well, not Jerry’s. But that’s because Jerry is not EP material and he knows it.

My phone in my jacket pocket pings. It’s probably Jerry wondering where I am. I look at the time and realize I have to get back.

“I have to go. I have to be on in fifteen.”

“Right,” Henry says.

There’s a charge in the air. One of unanswered questions, and so many things left unsaid.

“We’ll talk more, then, after,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, and then walk out the door.

Chapter 9

“And then?” Thomas says, his chin perched on his fisted hand, his legs crossed. He’s got his lawyer cross-examination face on, even though Thomas works in contract law and as far as I know has never even had to question someone in court.

“And then I reported the news, and afterward I tried to talk to Henry, but he was so busy that I didn’t get a chance to see him again,” I say, stirring my cranberry and vodka, watching as the garnish of cranberries bobs up and down.

“Wow,” says Bree. “Wow,” she murmurs again as she shakes her head.

We’re sitting at Hester’s. It’s packed, but that’s normal for a Friday night. We’re in a corner booth, farther away from the bar, where most of the action is happening. So it’s not quite as loud by us. It’s just Bree, Thomas, and me. Alex had something for work, and Holly is off with Logan. You’d think when I text that I need an emergency meeting that she’d ditch her plans with Logan, but they had tickets to a concert or something. I suppose that if the tables were turned, I’d go to the concert, too. And it’s not like what’s going on with me is life-or-death or anything. But it feels like it. I just wish she were here. She gives me sound advice. I don’t expect to get anything useful from either of these two.

Bree’s great, but she’s very no-nonsense. She doesn’t like to sugarcoat. And then there’s Thomas, whose sympathies only run so far. He’s like a cat who vacillates between wanting to snuggle but seconds later wanting to scratch your eyeball out.

“So what are you going to do?” Bree asks. She’s a tiny thing, sitting in the booth across from me, her legs pulled up to her chest. Her blonde hair hangs over her shoulders instead of up on top of her head like usual. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a pink V-neck tee. She’s got a martini glass full of a pink drink in her hand.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t tell him I worked at the station, thanks to Thomas.” I throw Thomas my best side-eye glare.

“What,” Thomas says, holding his hands up like he’s innocent. “That was a great idea.”

“No, it wasn’t. I should have been up-front with him. I should have just told him from the start. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I don’t know,” Bree says, her voice a singsong. “I mean, if you had told him, he might have Googled you first and then thought