Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,65

camera, and it wasn’t pretty. But I’m going with it anyway.

“And miss all the fun?” Moriarty says. “I wouldn’t hear of it.” Her perfectly shaped red lips pull up into a mischievous grin.

“Then, I guess we’re stuck.” I fold my arms and take a step back from the she-devil. Her aura is starting to seep into my space. And it’s dark and cold and soulless.

Miguel comes over and hands Moriarty a cordless mic and has her stand so the restaurant sign, Henry, and Kristin with an i can all be seen in the shot. I move over to the side, near the camera.

He counts down with his fingers and then motions to Moriarty to go.

“You made this happen, Central Florida,” Moriarty says with a bright smile. “The ‘Date Our Producer’ feature has been one of our most fun yet, and now we’re here with Henry Pierce, one of our executive producers, who’s on his first date with Kristin Paine from Ocoee. So far, the date appears to be going well, but we’ll get to find out firsthand when we interview them both afterward.”

She holds her hand to her ear as she listens to David on the other end make his commentary, and they appear to be bantering back and forth, although all we can hear is Moriarty’s side.

I watch her as she stands there, in her perfectly tailored navy-colored suit jacket and skirt. She plays the camera well, and she should since she’s been doing this for a while. It’s muggy and not even a bead of sweat forms on her brow. Maybe that was part of her deal with Satan: the ability to not sweat.

There’s all kinds of sweating going on with me. I’ve gone into the restaurant and used the bathroom a couple of times just to get a bit of air-conditioning.

Moriarty wraps up, and Miguel yells, “Clear.” She hands the mic to him and then walks over to the group of fans standing not far off and takes a couple of selfies. She makes jokes and talks with people as she filters through the small crowd, a trail of fake smiles and laughter in her wake.

Not one person approaches me or asks me to take a picture with them. Midday news really is the pit of despair. I used to be approached because of the video, but I’m grateful that’s died down. The blooper reel is still gaining traction, but it turned out to be nothing like my first foray into the viral video madness. I do not miss that.

I keep to myself, making it a point to stay away from Moriarty, until Henry and Kristin appear, walking out of the restaurant, his hand on her lower back as he guides her. She keeps tossing glances over her shoulder as she looks up at him, her face making it clear that she’d like this to be the first of many, many dates. I know this look well.

Maybe she’s pictured herself and Henry standing outside of a ranch-style house, a baby in her arms as they look lovingly into each other’s eyes. She doesn’t get to have my craftsman two-story house in her fantasy. I won’t allow it. They look good together, though—she and Henry. More fitting with her petiteness and his broad-shouldered Superman look. I’m quite a bit taller and . . . thicker . . . than Kristin with an i and feel a bit mannish as they approach.

“Quinn, you can interview Kristin, and I’ll take Henry,” Moriarty says as she comes to stand next to me, her voice taking on a sultry tone when she says she’ll “take” Henry. She adds in a wink for emphasis.

If this were anyone else but Henry, I might argue with Moriarty. But this is Henry, and I really don’t want to stand next to him and awkwardly ask him questions about how his date went. For once, a selfish choice from Moriarty actually serves me.

I take Kristin inside the restaurant, basking in its glorious air-conditioning, since I’ve had to put my suit jacket back on and the heat is sweltering. We stand just inside the door, so we can watch Henry and Moriarty get set up for their interview. Kristin won’t be able to hear them in here, which is part of the plan, since we don’t want either to feel like they have to say something because the other is listening.

“I’m nervous,” Kristin says, shaking out her hands, her feet dancing around like a toddler who can’t stay