Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,37

waif—some supermodel-esque woman—would this be a different conversation? I’m not the kind of woman that men move mountains for, or throw caution to the wind for. I’ve always thought this about myself. But I’d thought maybe this time—with Henry—maybe this time, it was different. Maybe I was that kind of woman to him. But I was wrong.

“Okay,” I say with a quick nod of understanding. I stand up because I feel tears prickling behind my eyes and I don’t want to cry in front of Henry. I don’t want to cry at all. I have to be on the air soon, and I can’t do that with red eyes and a Rudolph nose. So I need to go before that happens.

Henry doesn’t stand when I do, doesn’t follow me to the door. Doesn’t chase me down as I leave his office and walk down the hall. My phone doesn’t ring when I get back to my desk, with him on the other end, asking me to come back to his office because he’s changed his mind.

And even though I’d told myself I couldn’t cry, I’m unable to stop tears from trickling down my face. I dash them away, only allowing a few. I’ve gotten good at hiding behind a smile, since that’s part of my job. Looking like everything is great, everything is just dandy. This just in: my life sucks. Back to you, Parker. Imagine the emails and calls I’d get if I did that.

~*~

I do cry later that afternoon, when I’m in the shop working on that same curio cabinet. I’m blaming the fact that it’s so hard to sand down the ornate detailing at the top and the doors around the glass that needs to be replaced, and that there’s still so much to do. It feels like something I should cry about. I briefly think I should put this cabinet to the side and get something easier—it could go the way of the dresser I was working on before this, just sitting in the corner of my parents’ detached garage with its other half-finished brothers and sisters.

Even the fact that someone I’d sold a dresser to had come to pick it up and the money was now sitting in my Venmo account doesn’t cheer me up. Each of these pieces are like my babies, and it always hurts to let them go, but then I get paid, and that seems to do the trick. It’s just not doing the trick today.

It’s dumb to give Henry any tears, honestly. I know this. We went on what—three dates? That does not heartbreak make. Or at least it shouldn’t. But this is the first time in a long time that I’ve really felt something for someone. A real connection. Those don’t just come along for someone like me.

“Quinn,” my dad says from the doorway of the garage. I feel the warm air when he opens it but don’t look up. I’m sure my eyes are red rimmed, and I don’t want him to ask.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, keeping my head down as if I’m intently working on this piece.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. I’m a fool for thinking he wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, just a bad day at work,” I say, not wanting to get into details. Plus, I’ve never really talked to my dad about boys. I feel like he’d be uncomfortable. Actually, I know he would be. I once was crying because it was my time of the month and my innards felt like someone was punching me in the gut repeatedly. I told him, and he darted out of the room faster than a speeding train, yelling for my mom to come help me.

“Did another video come out?”

“Huh?” I ask, looking up at him. He winces when he sees my full face, probably blotchy and red.

“Another one of those videos about you?”

“No,” I say, and feel slightly grateful that I’m not crying about that. Actually, I take that back. Crying over a viral video sounds better than crying over a boy. Even if he’s funny, and smart, and British, and basically all the things I thought I wanted in a man.

My dad walks over to me, letting the door shut behind him. The air-conditioning system thrums as it works overtime to make up for the hot air he just let in.

“Need some help?” he asks.

I turn away and blot my eyes and my nose with the bottom of my T-shirt. My dad is a quiet balm to my deflated