“If it’s about the video, I’ve seen it,” Henry says as he takes a seat behind his desk. His tone seems dull. Like he’s speaking with one of the camera operators about something technical and not to the woman he recently told he liked “very much.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I suppose I get why you didn’t tell me.” The corner of his mouth lifts upward, almost imperceptibly. “I just wish . . . well, I don’t know what I wish,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
“Henry,” I say, pulling my eyebrows inward. “I realize—I know . . . I just . . .” I stop myself. It would be one thing if he were smiling and happy to see me, but this Henry sitting across the desk from me is clearly still upset about finding out that I work here, that I lied to him. And he has every right to be.
“Listen,” he says, stopping me with a hand. “I had a lovely time going out with you. You—you’re—” He motions toward me with his hand, stumbling over his words. He takes a big breath and looks to the side.
My heart sinks. These are not the words my overly ridiculous imagination came up with over the weekend when I was pumping myself up to talk to Henry today. His words sound an awful lot like a breakup. But it’s not like we were actually together. I mean, I had thought . . . or really, had hoped . . . I’d definitely felt like this was different, that Henry and I had something . . . different.
“There’s something you should know about me,” he says.
“Yes, there’s a lot of that going on for both of us,” I say through a shaky laugh.
He shakes his head. “I don’t date people I work with.”
“Oh?” I say, and it comes out in the form of a question. Breathy, with a hint of pathetic.
“I’m sorry . . . There was just,” he stops himself, running a hand through his thick dark locks. His mussed hair only adds to his appeal. “There was an incident back in London, at my job before I moved here. It’s not one I want to repeat.”
“Oh,” I repeat. It seems to be the only thing I can say. “What happened?”
He shakes his head. “Just a woman I was dating that I worked with. It . . . it didn’t end well.”
“And you think it would be the same here,” I say, pointing to him and then me.
“It’s not just that; it’s the reason I moved here. The reason I left home.” His eyes are wide and trained on me, as if he’s trying to get me to understand all the words he wants to say but won’t.
I’m a smart woman, and I do understand what he’s saying. But I also know that whoever that woman was, whatever she did, I’m not that person. I’ve had work relationships before. I might even still be in one, according to Brady. I need to have a conversation with him. The point is that nothing untoward has ever happened. No ill will or feelings. We all just went back to business as usual.
I take a deep breath. “Henry, I’m sorry about whatever happened to you back in London. I . . . I don’t know the details or anything, but I think—well, I hope things would be different here.”
He shakes his head, slowly. “I’m your boss now, you . . . you work for me. Even if I had strong feelings, I can’t.”
Had. So just like that, he can turn his feelings off. A feeling of insecurity crawls its way down my throat and lands in my stomach. It’s a familiar feeling when it comes to the opposite sex—especially one I’d had hopes for, real feelings for. And the words enter my mind even as I try to shatter them: If I were some little waif—some supermodel-esque woman—would this be a different conversation? I’m not the kind of woman that men move mountains for, or throw caution to the wind for. I’ve always thought this about myself. But I’d thought maybe this time—with Henry—maybe this time, it was different. Maybe I was that kind of woman to him. But I was wrong.
“Okay,” I say with a quick nod of understanding. I stand up because I feel tears prickling behind my eyes and I don’t want to cry in front of Henry. I don’t want to cry at all. I have to be on the air soon, and I can’t do that with red eyes and a Rudolph nose. So I need to go before that happens.
Henry doesn’t stand when I do, doesn’t follow me to the door. Doesn’t chase me down as I leave his office and walk down the hall. My phone doesn’t ring when I get back to my desk, with him on the other end, asking me to come back to his office because he’s changed his mind.
And even though I’d told myself I couldn’t cry, I’m unable to stop tears from trickling down my face. I dash them away, only allowing a few. I’ve gotten good at hiding behind a smile, since that’s part of my job. Looking like everything is great, everything is just dandy. This just in: my life sucks. Back to you, Parker. Imagine the emails and calls I’d get if I did that.
~*~
I do cry later that afternoon, when I’m in the shop working on that same curio cabinet. I’m blaming the fact that it’s so hard to sand down the ornate detailing at the top and the doors around the glass that needs to be replaced, and that there’s still so much to do. It feels like something I should cry about. I briefly think I should put this cabinet to the side and get something easier—it could go the way of the dresser I was working on before this, just sitting in the corner of my parents’ detached garage with its other half-finished brothers and sisters.
Even the fact that someone I’d sold a dresser to had come to pick it up and the money was now sitting in my Venmo account doesn’t cheer me up. Each of these pieces are like my babies, and it always hurts to let them go, but then I get paid, and that seems to do the trick. It’s just not doing the trick today.
It’s dumb to give Henry any tears, honestly. I know this. We went on what—three dates? That does not heartbreak make. Or at least it shouldn’t. But this is the first time in a long time that I’ve really felt something for someone. A real connection. Those don’t just come along for someone like me.
“Quinn,” my dad says from the doorway of the garage. I feel the warm air when he opens it but don’t look up. I’m sure my eyes are red rimmed, and I don’t want him to ask.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, keeping my head down as if I’m intently working on this piece.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. I’m a fool for thinking he wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, just a bad day at work,” I say, not wanting to get into details. Plus, I’ve never really talked to my dad about boys. I feel like he’d be uncomfortable. Actually, I know he would be. I once was crying because it was my time of the month and my innards felt like someone was punching me in the gut repeatedly. I told him, and he darted out of the room faster than a speeding train, yelling for my mom to come help me.
“Did another video come out?”
“Huh?” I ask, looking up at him. He winces when he sees my full face, probably blotchy and red.
“Another one of those videos about you?”
“No,” I say, and feel slightly grateful that I’m not crying about that. Actually, I take that back. Crying over a viral video sounds better than crying over a boy. Even if he’s funny, and smart, and British, and basically all the things I thought I wanted in a man.