Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,74

think about hanging out in here with Brady, when we used to make out when things were just easy and there hadn’t been a Henry in my life. I feel like I was a different person back then. Like I don’t even remember the life that I had before.

The door swings open, and as if my thoughts have conjured him up, Henry walks through the door, carrying a small box.

“Oh, hello,” he says when he sees me, his brows pulled inward.

“Hi,” I say, giving him a small wave. Like a moron.

“What are you doing in here?” we both ask at the same time.

There’s a shuffle of awkward laughter and gesturing for the other to go first, with nothing actually getting done or said. Then it’s just silence.

Henry clears his throat. “I’m just . . . I just need to put this back,” he says with a head nod toward the cabinet I’d just put the cords in. He walks over to the cabinet and opens the doors, placing the box on one of the shelves.

He walks back to the exit, looking as if he’s going to leave without saying anything else to me. But then he turns back. “Were you meeting Brady here?” he asks.

“What?” I look at him strangely before realizing why he’d be asking me that. He didn’t know I was just dropping something off in here. “I was just bringing something in as well. Brady and I . . . we aren’t seeing each other anymore. We ended things.”

“Oh,” he says, his brows pulled inward, his hands dropping by his sides. “I’m . . . sorry to hear that.”

I take a big breath. “Yeah, well, it was only casual anyway. It just . . . didn’t feel right.” I want to put a hand over my mouth so I can just shut the heck up. Why am I still talking? I don’t owe him anything.

“Got it,” Henry says.

“You’re doing better on camera,” I say, changing the subject.

His posture relaxes. “Thanks to you. Your tips really helped. I still hate it, though.”

“How was the date tonight?” I ask, torn between wanting to leave this place and also feeling oddly intimate in here, in the semi-dark, just the two of us. It’s so quiet, it feels like we’ve been transported to another place.

“Good,” Henry says.

“Is she the one?” I ask, overemphasizing the last two words, mimicking Moriarty.

He looks at me, a half grin on his face. “Yeah, that was quite the awkward question from Stacey.”

“You answered it judiciously,” I say.

“I tried.”

“So . . . she’s not the one?” I ask, not being able to help myself.

“I . . . don’t think so.”

“And Kristin?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not.”

“Well, you have one more date; maybe this one will really win you over.”

“I doubt it,” he says.

I hadn’t realized, but as we’ve been talking, we’ve been taking little steps toward each other, and now we’re barely a foot away. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him. Touch the stubble on his face, run my fingers through his hair.

Get a grip, Quinn.

“Are you that picky?” I ask, the words coming out a little breathy sounding.

“No . . . I mean, yes.” He lets out a breath and then just stands there, looking at me, the silence in this padded room almost deafening.

“So you are picky,” I say, finally.

“No, not that.” He looks down to the floor as if he’s trying to find the right words, and then his eyes come back up to mine, and there’s decision there. He knows what he wants to say. “I think it’s just that I keep comparing each girl to . . . well, to you.”

My mouth goes dry; my heart, which was already pumping a quick beat just being in Henry’s proximity, picks up its pace. I find myself wishing I had a DVR for this moment so I can rewind and hear what he just said over and over again, because I’m finding it too hard to believe.

“What?” I ask, wanting him to repeat his words.

“I find that I’m comparing them all to you,” he says. His eyes are on my face, as if he’s trying to read my reaction. “Which is crazy because I haven’t known you all that long, but . . . I can’t help it. It also doesn’t help that you’re there every time, outside that blasted window.” He looks to the side, and a vein in his temple pops out.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step