Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,84

going to love them. Well, everyone but Thomas. He’s an acquired taste,” I ramble nervously.

“I don’t know if I can commit to that, Quinn,” Henry says, his voice low and quiet.

I should have known; I’m such an idiot. Of course it’s too soon to ask him to go to Vegas with me. Stupid Quinn! What am I thinking?

“Sorry, it’s probably too soon to ask you that. I didn’t mean—”

“No, Quinn,” Henry says, his voice consoling. “I’d absolutely go with you. I love being with you. Hell, I’d come over right now just to give you a kiss if it weren’t so late. It’s just . . . well, with work and everything.”

“It’ll be over a weekend. We don’t have to take any time off,” I say, feeling so much relief that his reservations have nothing to do with it being too soon to ask such a thing.

“Yes, I get that. What I’m saying is, traveling together like that might get back to someone at work. It could be too risky,” he says.

I sit up in my bed, the relief I felt now overpowered by something else: frustration. “Henry, I don’t get it. How can keeping us a secret protect you from things happening like they did before? It can’t. You could end this right now, tell me that you can’t be with me because you think I’m the ugliest, fattest person you’ve ever met, and that would be the end of it. I wouldn’t make things hard for you at work because I’m not that kind of person. You can’t live your life in fear.” I can’t help the anger that pours out of my mouth.

“I know. I understand what you’re saying. I guess for me, it feels safer. If no one at work knows we’re dating, then things can’t get fully out of hand like they did with Claire,” he says.

My hand shoots up to my forehead, and I rub my temples. I now feel stupid for a whole other reason.

“Quinn?” Henry asks, his voice quiet on the other end.

I let out a breath. “What are we even doing, Henry?” I ask.

“We’re together. We’re dating.”

“No, we’re hiding. I know this is new, and I know neither of us knows where this is going to go, and I understand about the situation with Claire,” I say, choking out her name because she feels like a massive barrier between us. “But this whole secretive thing? It’s silly and fear driven, and I’m not sure I can do this for another two months . . . or . . . or even longer. How long, Henry?”

Henry doesn’t say anything—there’s only quiet from his side of the line.

“I . . . I need to go to bed,” I say. “We can talk tomorrow.” I hang up the phone before he can even reply.

I lie back in my bed, watching the ceiling fan move around and around, casting shadows around the room. Stupid tears well up and fall down the sides of my face.

My mind is in a war, so many thoughts coming at me at once. Part of me knows that this is all new, that Henry has issues, he’s afraid—with good reason—and I should just give him time. I like Henry, a lot. Isn’t he worth the wait? Does this count as me settling if I hang on, since it’s not exactly how I want things?

Another part of my brain is telling me that this could go on for a long time, and don’t I deserve more than that? Don’t I deserve better? How long will we be going back and forth to each other’s apartments, sending secret texts at work, finding clandestine places to kiss? How long? Will he ever meet my friends? Become a real part of my life?

I do some deep breathing that we were taught at camp. In for a count of three, out for a count of four. In and out. In and out. The breathing helps to calm my addled mind. I do this until I fall asleep.

Chapter 22

I haven’t really spoken to Henry all that much today. I’ve been avoiding him since I’m still feeling frustrated from last night’s conversation. He did send me a few texts: one telling me he was “v sorry” about our conversation last night and wants to talk about it, another telling me I looked “smashing,” and one that asked me to meet him in his office for what I suspect was a quick snogging, which I declined. It took