Page 14 of Guy's Girl
Stop.
She reaches out and flips her phone over. Its screen is blank. She types in her passcode, clicksmessages, and puts in Adrian’s name.
GINNY:Hi! What r u do
She stops typing. Is she really doing this? When Ginny gave her phone number to Adrian last October, she thought she’d hear from him at least a few times. But his name never once appeared. Does that mean all his kindness—his gentle touches, the kiss that lingered on her lips for weeks afterward—was just for show?
Her thumb hovers over the blue arrow. It’s 10 a.m. He’s probably at work already.
When you have anxiety, every text you send feels like jumping out of an airplane with no parachute.
GINNY:Hi! What r u doing Friday night?
She pressessend.
The bubble leaks up into the conversation, turning the deep blue that tells her that yes, you sent that, there’s no taking it back. She flips her phone facedown and puts it as far away from her laptop as she can.
The one and only benefit of working at an investment bank—besides the money, of course—is that Adrian rarely shows up to work before ten. No one does. Everyone was up until four the night before.
Whenever he can, Adrian gets up early to run. Physical exercise has always been the easiest way to keep him sane. Out in the fresh air, limbs moving, mind focused. In Budapest, he rode his bike along the Danube; in college, he rowed the Charles; now he runs the Hudson.
Last night was particularly gruesome. This morning, he wakes to a text from his VP telling him not to worry about coming in before noon, so he laces up his running shoes and takes off toward the river. Just as he turns onto the bike path, his phone vibrates. Expecting another text from his VP—likely telling himnever mind, come in ASAP—he pulls it from his pocket.
GINNY:Hi! What r u doing Friday night?
Ginny. Interesting. Adrian tucks his phone away. He’ll respond, just not now.
He keeps running. In all likelihood, he won’t be able to go out on Friday. He hasn’t left the office before nine in months. But if his associate doesn’t crush him with anything new—
Maybe it would be nice to see her, even if just for an hour.
This thought surprises him. Normally, he craves solitude. But after a month in his studio, it’s become clear that too much alone time is bad for him. His mind—it races. Jumps from one thought to the next like a moth flitting from flame to flame.
As he jogs along the Hudson, Adrian is surprised to find thosethoughts wandering to Ginny. To her smile, sideways on his pillow. To the sound of her laugh. To the way she tasted—limes from the Corona, mint from her toothpaste.
Adrian shakes his head. He’s barely thought of Ginny at all since that night.
Better not to start now.
It takes twelve hours, but he responds. Another two and they make a date: drinks at Dante in the West Village.
Ginny floats through the rest of the week. Every morning, she eats breakfast. A small breakfast, but breakfast nonetheless. At lunch, she goes out with her coworkers for tacos at Tacombi. At dinner, she allows herself a fistful of starch. One afternoon, she even goes out for ice cream with Clay.
Adrian’s long response times are intentional. To him, this thing with Ginny is nothing serious. It’s cotton candy: sweet and whimsical, inherently transient. Meant to dissolve as quickly as it hits the tongue.
Of course, what he can’t know is that the more he neglects her, the worse Ginny wants him.
***
On Friday, Adrian is the first to arrive. Unbuttoning his jacket, he settles into one of the rickety wooden chairs out on Dante’s patio and orders an Aperol spritz. He made a nine o’clock reservation, and it’s now 9:05, but Ginny strikes him as the kind of girl who shows up ten minutes late to anything.
Adrian isn’t even sure why he agreed to come on this date. He has no time for nor interest in a serious relationship right now. By all accounts, it would have been more chivalrous of him to say no.
And yet—
And yet there’s something enchanting about Ginny Murphy. Maybe it’s her choppy, shoulder-length hair. Maybe it’s the delicate, creamy waif of her wrists. Or maybe it’s that here she comes now, speeding down MacDougal Street on a pair of fuckingRollerblades, hair tucked into a stickered helmet.
She really is weird.
