Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,54

don’t forget to follow us on social media, where we will be posting updates as well as insider information on the dates Henry goes on.”

“Henry’s first date will be next Tuesday,” David says.

“We look forward to getting your applications,” Moriarty says, actually reading the words off the teleprompter, thank goodness.

And with that, Henry and I are dismissed and walk off the set.

“You did it,” I say to Henry as we exit.

“Yeah, almost didn’t,” he says as we stop at the edge of the studio.

“Sorry—Moriarty went off script.”

“Yeah, she did.” He looks over at the news desk where Moriarty and David are wrapping up the evening news. “What’s going on between you two?”

I angle my head to the side. “Let’s just say we’re not friends.”

“I gathered that,” he says, and then in the next breath: “I think it went well, didn’t it?” His eyes look to mine for confirmation.

“You did great.” I again want to stomp my feet at the unfairness that is Stacey Moriarty. If it were me that had gone off script? I’m sure there would have been words. Mean ones.

“Okay, well, I guess that’s done,” he says, bobbing his head. I follow suit.

We stand there in a bit of awkward silence. Like two bobblehead dolls, our heads both bouncing around.

I stop my bobbling and look at him. “How are you going to do this again on Tuesday?” I ask. “I mean, you were so nervous . . . how do you plan on getting through a whole night?”

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “Good question.”

Again I wonder why he’s even doing this if he hates being in front of the camera so much. It doesn’t make much sense.

Henry’s eyes move down to the floor. “I guess I better get used to it.”

“You might want to practice.”

“Yeah . . . How do I go about that?”

“Well, when I was a kid, I used to use my parents’ video camera.”

“Really?” He smiles at that.

“But you’ve got one on your phone now, so maybe you can try that?”

“Good idea.”

We stand there again, looking anywhere but at each other.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” I say.

“Plans tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Going out with friends.”

“Oh, right, it’s Monday,” Henry says, and I’m taken aback that he even remembered that little tidbit about me.

Do not race off, brain of mine. Do not.

“Well . . . thank you,” he says. “For helping me tonight.”

I lift my shoulders briefly. “It’s my job.”

“Well, thank you for doing . . . your job.”

“You’re welcome, boss,” I add, and then give him a closed-mouth smile. There’s so much underlying meaning for me in that one word . . . boss.

With a little wave of my hand, I turn and walk away.

~*~

“Tell us what’s happening with Henry,” Holly says, sitting across from me at our normal table. She reaches up and tugs on a piece of her red hair, wrapping her finger around it. In the other hand is a glass of red wine. She’s Logan-less this evening.

Hester’s is happening tonight; the bar is full, and the sounds of conversations and laughter along with the clanking of glassware fill the space.

“Snooze,” Thomas says, his eyes moving to the ceiling.

“Shut up, Thomas,” Bree says, martini glass in hand.

“Nothing to tell,” I say, slumping back in my chair. “We started the feature tonight.”

“I thought so,” Holly says. “I heard a couple of women talking about it at the bar when I first got here.”

I slump even farther. “Word is spreading fast. I should have known.”

“I pulled up a picture of him today on the station’s website, and I mean,” Thomas pulls his shoulders inward, “he’s not that good looking.”

“Oh please,” I say as both Bree and Holly make scoffing noises.

“Yeah, I don’t see it either,” Alex says.

“Right?” Thomas reaches his fist across the table and bumps it with Alex’s.

“I mean, what’s there to see? Dark hair, blue eyes? Our own Alex has got that,” Thomas says, gesturing with his hand toward Alex.

“Exactly,” Alex says, pounding his fist on his chest twice.

Bree shakes her head. “You wish,” she says to Alex, and his face breaks out in an overly pained expression.

“You hurt me,” he says dramatically.

“It’s what friends do,” she says, smugly. At the word “friend,” real hurt crosses his face. Only for a second, but I catch it. Poor Alex.

“And what about that other poor sap you’re stringing along?” says Thomas.

“Oh yeah, what about Brady?” Holly asks.

Thomas snaps his fingers. “That’s right. Boring Brady. How could I forget?”

“Shhhhh,”