Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,42
I figured he’d just walk away and not even try. But he’s not. He’s standing in front of me—a real, tangible man who’s available and wants to be with me. Or at least go on some dates with me. What’s wrong with me? I should say yes. I know Brady, I’ve been out with him before. Sure, he’s a little . . . um . . . well, unexciting. But he’s nice, and he’s thoughtful. And I should want that, shouldn’t I? Why can’t my brain just switch off all the Henry feelings?
I know why. It’s because he’s here, every freaking day, flaunting his amazing Henry-ness in my face. Here, but out of reach. Like right now, for example. He’s just ten feet away talking intently to one of the producers. He doesn’t even look over my way. He’s so easily been able to push me aside.
And here stands Brady. Right in front of me.
“You know what?” I stand a little taller. “Let’s do this. Let’s go out.”
“Really?” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Great. Fantastic.”
“Great,” I echo.
Brady pulls me into a hug, and it feels . . . nice. Yes, it’s nice to be hugged by Brady. Sure, there are no tingles down my spine or any quaking of my ovaries. But there’s a certain . . . niceness to this.
I should come up with better words than “nice.”
I do need to tell him that I’m not ready for anything serious. That this is just fun and friendly for now. Like it used to be. Before a certain British man entered my life.
I pull out of the hug. “Brady, I—”
“Quinn,” Jerry says, stopping me.
“Yeah?” I give Brady an apologetic look.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he says, a piece of his comb-over moving in tandem with his words. “You’re a rap.”
I give him a side-eyed glare. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re. A. Rap,” Jerry says, drawing out the words.
“I’m a . . . who?”
Jerry muffles some words under his breath, most of them cusswords. He pushes me aside, pulls up YouTube, types a few words, and then stands back and folds his arms.
I’m having déjà vu, the kind that makes my stomach churn and my armpits start to sweat.
The screen is black at first, and then some funky-sounding beats start coming from my speakers, which are hard to hear over the din of the newsroom.
And then the dreaded clip comes into view. Me, in a costume shop. Children surrounding me. I could tell you second by second what happens, I’ve watched it so many times. But when it gets to the part where the intern—Jace, I think his name was—jumps out to scare me, instead of dropping the f-bomb, I’m now saying it on repeat, matching the hard baseline of the music.
“I’m a rap,” I say, my voice devoid of any feeling.
“Yep,” says Jerry.
“I can’t believe this.”
Only I can believe this. It all just feels fitting. Like my life is just one big comedy of errors.
What in the holy mother of . . . all things holy. Gosh, I could use some cusswords right now.
Breathe, Quinn. Breathe.
I look down at the bottom left side of the screen. Over five thousand views so far.
A noise that started as a growl in the bottom of my throat works its way up to my tonsils and then out through my mouth as what can only be described as a semi-tortured scream. Well, that was the sound I think I was going for, but it’s more like an awful birdcall. A crow with laryngitis.
Jerry rears his head backward and takes a step away from me as if I might actually explode. Or lose my mind and burn this place to the ground.
News flash: I might.
Why? Why? Haven’t I been tortured enough?
“What the crap, Jerry?” I say, as if this is his fault.
“Don’t shoot me; I’m just the messenger,” Jerry says, holding his hands up, palms toward me.
I do kind of want to shoot Jerry. I mean, this isn’t his fault, and I know that. I want it to be, so badly. I need someone to blame. Someone to punch. And Jerry just has a really punchable face.
Brady grabs my hand, holding it in his. The gesture does calm me a little. It also keeps me from decking Jerry, since Brady’s got a hold of my right hand, which packs my strongest punch.
“Can you try to get it taken down?” I ask Jerry, my voice a borderline whine.
“Well, I can try . . .”
“I know,” I