“Brady, I—”
Brady holds out a hand. “I get it.”
“You . . . get it?”
“You’re just not that into me,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting up.
I let out a slow breath, my head tilting to the side, my shoulders slouching. “I’m sorry. I wish I were. You’re great, Brady. I’m just . . . well, I’m just not over that other guy. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be. And that’s not fair to you. I think I just need to be by myself for a while, to get my head straight.”
“Okay,” he says with a quick nod, his mouth angled slightly downward.
I place a hand on his arm, looking into his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Brady.”
“Me, too.”
I feel a pang of sadness run through me. I’ve never had to do this before. I’ve never been the dumper, only the dumpee, and it’s not fun. None of it. I think being the one kicked to the curb might be easier than this. Or maybe I’m just so used to it happening to me.
I take a small step toward Brady and put my arms around him and pull him into a hug. He wraps his arms around me, and I close my eyes as I lean into him, my chin resting on his shoulder. He holds me tight, and for the briefest of seconds I wonder if I’ve made a mistake and then chastise myself for even thinking it. I could keep doing this back-and-forth thing with Brady, keep dragging this out, and who knows, maybe we’d end up somewhere comfortable and maybe we’d even be happy. I think before I met Henry I might have been okay with that, thinking that was what life was meant to be like—comfortable. But Henry changed things. He showed me there’s more. So much more. And now I can’t go back. I can’t settle.
Still in Brady’s embrace, I open my eyes, and standing just behind us, a couple of yards away, is Henry. He’s taking in the whole scene, Brady and I hugging in a dark corner. I can see how this must look, and Henry’s rigid posture and folded arms make it seem like he’s not happy with what he’s seeing.
My eyes connect with Henry’s, and he gives me a nearly imperceptible nod and then turns and walks away.
Chapter 18
“Quinn, may I speak with you?” I hear Henry’s voice from behind me.
It’s Friday and I’m just about to shut my computer down and get out of here. I have a curio cabinet I’ve been neglecting.
I spin my chair around to see his face. His features are stern, very businesslike. My stomach does a sinking thing.
I take a breath and give him a thin smile. “Sure.”
He motions for me to stand.
“You can’t talk to me right here?” My stomach drops to my feet.
“No, I’d like to speak with you in my office.”
“Okay,” I say, and nervously follow him out of the newsroom, the tapping of keyboards and the low rumble of voices growing quieter as we walk down the hall toward Henry’s office.
It’s never a good thing when your boss wants to talk to you in his office, is it? Obviously something bad has happened. I rack my brain to try and think of what it could be so I can have a defense prepared in the time it takes us to get to Henry’s door.
Is it another video? Oh please, don’t let it be that. Usually Jerry catches those, and he hasn’t said anything today. Maybe it’s about the blooper reel? Although I just checked and viewership has slowed down even more on that one, thank goodness.
Did Moriarty say something to him? I’m not sure what she could even say, but I wouldn’t put it past her to make something up. Maybe they’re going to take me off the feature. My stomach does a little flip-flop at the thought. Part of me thinks that wouldn’t be so bad. Not having to watch Henry on dates with other women wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. But the other part of me—the fighting part—thinks that would be totally unfair, and my brain starts running with reasons why I should be a part of it. First and foremost, it was my idea.
I’ve worked myself into quite the state and haven’t had the chance to talk myself down before I take a seat in front of his desk. Henry shuts the door and moves to sit in his large office chair. The grand dark-wood desk feels like it spans a massive distance between us.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him, my body feeling cold and a bit shaky.
“Yeah . . . yes,” he says, his brows pulling inward like it didn’t even occur to him that having me come to his office would set off an array of warning bells in my head. “Everything’s fine.”
“Okay,” I say skeptically, drawing out the word. “Then what did you need to talk to me about?”
He looks down at the desk in front of him and then to the side to his computer monitor before he finally looks at me, the humming of his laptop fan the only noise filling the space. “I just wanted to make sure this wasn’t weird for you, this whole dating feature.”
“Why would it be weird?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask this; it is weird.
“I mean . . . well,” he says, and an uncomfortable look crosses his expression. “It’s been kind of weird for me, having you there. And I just—” He stops to let out a breath, like he’d been holding it. “I just want to make sure you’re . . . okay. With everything.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Good,” he says, his lips pulling slightly upward.
I nibble on the side of my bottom lip. “Why is it weird for you to have me there? Aren’t we professionals?” I will him to say it. Admit that all my crazy ideas have been true, that he has a hard time being around me because he wants me.
“I don’t know,” he says, reaching up and rubbing his jaw. I feel jealous of his fingers. I want to run my fingers over that jaw right now, with its chiseled structure and light speckling of stubble. He looks down at the desk. “With our . . . history and everything. It’s just . . . strange.”
Oh, our history. The one that lasted less than a week? I’d laugh out loud if I didn’t totally get what he means. We have a history, Henry and I. As short as it was.
“Well, I mean, it’s your rules that changed all that,” I say.
“It’s also station policy.”
“That you enforced,” I point out.
He looks down at his hands now resting in his lap. “Right,” he says, and then his eyes come back to mine. “And you’re dating Brady.”
“Um . . .” I trail off, looking down at my hands. I’ve woven them together and am currently rubbing my thumbs together. Do I tell him? Would it make a difference if I wasn’t anymore?
“Does that . . . bother you?” I ask, throwing the question out there. So many times, it’s seemed that it does bother him. His expressions, his looks at me, his disdainful looks at Brady. This could also just be a story I’ve made up in my head, since that’s what I do. Like right now I’m hoping he’ll say yes, and then I’d tell him that nothing is going on with Brady and that I broke it all off on Tuesday. Then he’d tell me he still wants me, and then he’d do one of those sweeping-everything-off-the-desk things with his hand, and we’d become an entangled mess on this very large, sturdy desk that’s between us.
“No,” he says, shaking his head for emphasis. “Of course not.”