Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,64

with, then I wouldn’t even have to know unless I watched it—which, let’s face it, I probably would have. Since I like to punish myself. But now I don’t even have the choice since Jerry opened his big mouth and insisted that this feature go to me. Stupid Jerry. If he hadn’t piped in, the story would have gone to Moriarty and I could have kept on living the super unfair life I was living before. My unfair life was actually better than this one. How ironic.

It’s not like this is reality, like there’s a guarantee that any of these dates could turn into more. But there’s a possibility. And all three of these women that have been picked have one big thing in common that I don’t have—Henry is not their boss, and he won’t have any rules or policies in place to hold him back. Three women, three possibilities. And I get a front-row seat to watch it all happen. Lucky me.

This all feels a little torturous. Despite the fact that I keep reminding myself that Henry’s not mine, my heart and brain keep thinking otherwise. I can’t stop wondering, wishing, hoping. Even when I went out with Brady over the weekend, the entire time I was wishing I was with Henry. Not to mention that Thomas’s words kept going through my head. I can’t keep doing that to Brady. I know he said it didn’t bother him, but it feels wrong. I need to talk to him.

It’s nearly showtime. We’re just waiting for the word from Miguel—the evening news associate producer—that it’s time to start. I’m in a rotten mood, and I’ve got to pull myself together and prove that I can do this. Time to seize the cupcake, or whatever.

Besides, no one else knows the turmoil going on inside my head. Not even Henry, since he seems just fine right now on his date with Kristin. I’ve caught him looking over in my direction a couple of times, but it’s not like it means anything. Not anything like the scenarios my brain likes to conjure up with each glance I get from him.

Moriarty is here, even though I’m pretty sure she’s supposed to be back at the desk with David. But she demanded that she be here since she’s “the face of the station, after all.” I really need to learn how to do graffiti art so I can put devil horns on all of the billboards with her mug on them. At least Orlando could see the “real” face of Stacey Moriarty.

I look through the window, watching Henry and Kristin converse, feeling like this whole setup is really a metaphor for my life. Outside, looking in. My heart does a little flipping thing when I look at him. My body always responds to Henry’s presence like it’s drawn to it of its own accord. Like magnets.

Henry says something clever, I’m guessing, since Kristin laughs, her blonde hair dancing around her shoulders as she does.

News flash: I don’t like Kristin with an i.

And it’s not because she’s sitting in the seat I’d rather be in. Well, that’s part of it. But I got a vibe from her when I met her. And it was not a good one. There were also competitive and territorial feelings floating around in my mind, which may have tainted her “vibe.”

I have no claim on Henry, and there’s no real territory to hold on to here, but it’s how I feel, and I’m going to sit with my feelings like they taught me at camp instead of eating my feelings like I want to. I spy a bread basket on one of the tables close to the exit. How hard would it be to snag it and then stuff it all in my face in the station van?

“Get ready,” Miguel says to me and Moriarty before going to Jeff the camera operator and making sure he’s also ready to go, killing my carb-fest dreams.

“It does seem silly that we’re both here, doesn’t it?” Moriarty says, coming up to stand next to me.

“Yes, I agree.”

“It’s almost a little too much, isn’t it?”

I know what she’s insinuating here . . . that I shouldn’t be here. But I’m not going to play her game.

“Well, you could go back to the desk like our original plan,” I say, displaying my most smug face. It’s a combination of puckered, almost smiling, lips and a slight tilt of my head. Thomas once caught this look on