Page 29 of Guy's Girl
From a young age, it was clear where her brothers would end up. Tom would be a lawyer in Detroit. Willie would go to the Second City in Chicago. And Crash—well, they just hoped he’d make it to eighteen in one piece. By all accounts, there would be nothing left for Ginny in the Soo.
So, she studied.
School came naturally to Ginny. She sat in the last row of all her classes, where she could both play crude hangman on crumpled sheets of paper with her guy friends and lean over to help them through the hardest questions. She never went out on weeknights. She put homework before everything else. The boys all called herHarvard.
But she could also chug a can of Busch Light as fast as any of them. She never wore makeup. She liked George Strait and BobDylan and giving her friends wedgies in the middle of the hallway. Roundly, she was known as the fourth Murphy brother.
Which isn’t to say that she wasn’t compared to her sister. Of course she was. Heather Murphy was the most beautiful student to ever grace the hallways of Soo High. She made all her own clothes and starred in every school musical. She was the Upper Peninsula’s Gigi Hadid. She got into fashion school in Los Angeles and now lives a glamorous life out West, with the sunshine and the supermodels and a business account on Instagram with more than two hundred thousand followers.
They say that sometimes we define ourselves not by the ways in which we are like others but the ways in which we differ. And so it was with Ginny and Heather. Ginny wanted to leave the Soo, just as her sister did—but on her own terms, using her own skill set.
She thought: liberal arts degree. She thought: University of Michigan or Indiana, or Northwestern, if she was lucky. She applied to Harvard as a joke, a spoof on the nickname she’d worn her whole life. She never expected to get in, let alone to land a scholarship.
Ginny tells all this to Adrian. She scoots closer, brushes her knee against his, rests a hand on his shoulder. Anything to demonstrate her interest. By now, she’s quivering with anticipation. Every time he smiles—fleeting, infrequent moments that light up every tired line of his face—shivers run up her arms. His body has a strange power over her. When his emotions shift, she feels it. Surely he must feel it, too.
But as the sun moves across the sky and the mimosas start to wear off, disappointment sets in. He hasn’t reached for her hand. He hasn’t brushed her cheek. He’s not going to kiss her. He doesn’t evenlikeher. Ginny doesn’t know what this is, but it certainly isn’t a date. She stands and says she should head back to her apartment.
To her surprise, Adrian leaps to his feet. “I’ll walk you.”
When they reach Ginny’s front door in SoHo, she waits again. Makes small talk and taps her heels on the stone stoop. Adrian still makes no move to kiss her. She says goodbye and sticks her keys into the door. Already she feels the hole in her chest starting to widen.
“Wait,” says Adrian, reaching for her wrist.
Ginny turns.
Before she makes it all the way around, his lips are on hers. Startled, she steps back, bumping into the door. Adrian catches her and pulls her in close. She is liquid against him; she has no solid body left.
Too soon, Adrian pulls back. “Bye,” he whispers, then turns down Sullivan Street and disappears into SoHo. Ginny presses her fingers to her mouth. She feels as if she might float away.
***
The minute Ginny walks through the door, Clay and Tristan mob her. In their hands are two glasses of white wine. Over their shoulders, through the hallway, she spies an open bottle of chardonnay on the beat-up coffee table.
“Well?” asks Tristan.
“How’d it go?” asks Clay.
“Did he kiss you?”
“You were gone for alongtime.”
“Did he pay for brunch?”
“Averylong time.”
“Did he make you split the bill?”
“More than enough time to—”
“Guys.” Ginny laughs, shooing them away. “At least let me get through the door.”
She follows the short hallway, Clay and Tristan on her heels, still pestering her with questions. She shoves Tristan when he askswhat kind of credit card Adrian has. When she reaches the living room, she’s looking over her shoulder, laughing. Then her gaze turns forward, and she halts. Clay bumps into her, wine splashing over the rim of his glass.
Finch sits in his usual armchair, plucking at the guitar. He looks up coolly, as if just realizing Ginny is back. “Hey.”
She hesitates. “Hi.”
His gaze falls back to the guitar. “How was the date?”
