I sit back in my chair, feeling quite proud of myself. I came up with all that on my own, on the fly. Well, Holly had put the original idea in my head, but all the logistics—those were things I just made up. Right now.
“That’s my girl,” Jerry says quietly in my ear, tapping a finger on my shoulder.
I look around the table; the room seems to be alight with the idea. Dwayne is even nodding his head at the possibility. Moriarty doesn’t look thrilled, but it’s probably because she didn’t think of it first.
My eyes travel to Henry, and I catch him looking at me, his gaze intense. I wonder what he’s thinking. That I’m a genius? That he was stupid to let me go? That he misses me? That he wants me to have his babies?
There I go again with my fanciful brain. It tends to run off with fantastic ideas since reality is much more boring. The truth is that I’m not enough for Henry, and he’s probably staring at me because I have a poppy seed in my teeth from the salad I ate earlier. I open my phone on camera mode to check, but there’s nothing there.
“I like it,” Dwayne says. “Let’s roll with it.”
“Or,” Moriarty says, piping in, a bright-red-polished index finger pointing to the ceiling. “Why settle for an intern?” she says, a devious smile on her lips. “I mean no offense to the interns, of course. But why don’t we do ‘Date Our Executive Producer’ instead?” She swivels her chair toward Henry, whose eyes have suddenly gone wide.
“No,” Henry says, and I see Jerry’s eyes shoot over to mine. I’ve apparently said “no” out loud as well. I didn’t even realize I did.
Moriarty swings her chair away from Henry and toward me. “And why not?” she asks me. Her lips forming a thin line.
“It’s not . . . I,” I stammer over my words.
“Come on, Quinn. You don’t have to come up with all the good ideas, do you?” Her voice is sickly sweet, and I feel heat travel up my neck and to my cheeks.
“That’s not what I was saying. I just think an intern works better.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Um . . . well . . .” I have nothing. No defense. I just really don’t want Henry to do this. And I can tell by the look on his face that he also wants nothing to do with it.
“Okay, thank you for that, Quinn,” Moriarty says boisterously. I feel the heat on my face triple. She turns her attention back to Henry and Dwayne. “I think it’s the perfect opportunity for our viewers to get to know one of our execs, and I mean, look at you.” She gestures with a hand toward Henry, and a chuckle filters through the room as Henry’s gaze travels downward toward the table, the tips of his ears a nice shade of red. “Our viewers would just eat you up.”
Yuck. Moriarty is totally flirting with Henry. I wonder how her husband and teenage sons feel about that. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe, like the rest of the world, they turn a blind eye to all Moriarty’s evil ways.
At least Henry looks to be uncomfortable with her words.
“So, what do you say?” she asks Henry.
He scrunches his nose. “I think we should stick with the intern.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Dwayne says. “I mean, if you were up for it, Henry. If you’re not dating anyone.”
I will Henry with my eyes to look at me. I will him to stand up and say, “I am dating someone. It’s Quinn.” And then walk over to me, pull me out of my seat, and kiss me in front of everyone. Moriarty would faint, she’d be so overcome with jealousy.
“I’m not,” Henry says. He lifts his head up to Dwayne, and my heart does this cracking thing it’s never done before. It actually hurts. I mean, he wasn’t lying. I just wish it weren’t true.
“So then, maybe at least consider it,” Dwayne says.
“Uh, sure,” Henry says. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, if that’s all we’ve got for today, then I guess we’re done here,” Dwayne says, standing up from his seat. Everyone else follows suit.
I move slowly, hoping for just a moment alone with Henry. I’m at a turtle’s pace, pretending to adjust my jacket as I fidget with the buttons. I just need a minute with him. For . . . I don’t know what. But I haven’t even shared a full sentence with him in a week. And I miss him. I miss talking to him, spending time with him. How did he make such a mark after spending less than one week with me?
I must have done something good today because karma throws me a bone: my slow tactics work, and Henry and I are the last ones to leave the conference room. I briefly wonder if Henry moved slower like I did, hoping for some time with me, but then chastise myself for being so ridiculous. It was merely me putting it out into the universe.
“How . . . are you?” I ask, wanting to take advantage of this moment that karma gave me, or that I willed to happen. Whatever it is, I’m not going to waste it.
“I’m good,” he says, his answer clipped, like he’s suffering to have to stand here and talk to me. This sends instant pangs of annoyance through me. I’m not asking for the world here, but some general kindness would do. Did nothing that happened between us mean anything to him? Does he think offering me anything else might make me think he still has feelings for me and then I’d start following him around like a lovesick puppy?
“Good,” I say back, giving him the same tone he just gave me. This suddenly feels like a waste of time. And karma. I wonder if I can get this credit back and use my good luck on something else. I’m pretty sure karma doesn’t work that way.
He lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a second, as if it’s hard to talk to me. “How are you?” he finally asks, the words sounding almost caught in his throat.
“I’m fine,” I say, still keeping my tone flat.
“Good,” he says again.
“Great,” I say.
We stand there, looking at each other, Henry still looking almost pained to be in my presence. Like sharing the same space with me physically hurts him. I confirm in my mind that this is definitely a waste of karma and not going at all how my brain thought it would. In my mind when I got Henry alone, there would be looks of longing from him and some declarations of regret. And maybe a quick make-out session in the utility closet just two doors down from here.
I take a breath after a few seconds of silence. “You’re not going to do that idea of Moriarty’s, are you?” I ask him, the only question I can come up with. I might as well try to use this moment for something more than clipped words and quiet awkwardness.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and his pained expression dissipates.
I don’t say anything but nod my agreement with that decision.
“It’s a great idea, though,” he says. “I mean your original idea. The intern one.” The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly. With just those words, his gaze turns warmer, the coldness that had blanketed the room seeming to shift away. The Henry I know—the one from not that long ago—makes an appearance.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease. I smile at him, and he smiles back. Real, genuine smiles. The dimple makes an appearance. Oh, how I’ve missed that smile.