Page 7 of Guy's Girl
“What about Sofra-Moreno?” Adrian asks. “Don’t you work in communications?”
Ginny shrugs. “That’s for now. Not forever.”
Though Adrian doesn’t ask any more questions, she feels the heat of his gaze linger. It makes her squirm. She drops back to the couch and checks her cards for the seventh time.
Ginny doesn’t think of herself as cute. She doesn’t think of herself as quirky or bubbly or creative or any of the other words people often use to describe her. In fact, she thinks of herself as little as possible—and only ever in terms of whether her waistline is expanding or not. To be frank, she would prefer that she not exist at all.
She only sees herself as desirable when her weight is below a certain number. Any higher, she believes, and her chin will double, her face inflate, and with it will go any sexual appeal she might hold.
Yet Ginny doesn’t evenwantto have sex. With anyone. She hasn’t for years.
Right?
Her eyes flick to Adrian, then quickly back down to her cards. For the second time that night, she feels a clench low in her belly. The same place that used to squeeze whenever she looked at Finch.
From his place in the straight-backed wooden chair beside the TV, Adrian watches the strange girl in his apartment. She hands him a drink. She deals the next round. She laughs. Adrian likes her laugh—it’s loud, startling. A sound that could scatter pigeons.
“So, Finch,” Ginny says, not looking up from her cards. “How’s Hannah?”
Hannah.Finch’s girlfriend and high school sweetheart. Adrian has never met her, but his roommate talks about her so much that he feels like he has. They met playing the leads in their school’s production ofWest Side Story. She’s a year younger than Finch, currently attending school at Ohio State University. As far as Adrian knows, they’ve made it almost six years without breaking up.
Finch sets down his guitar, eyes shining. “She’s great, yeah. Loving senior year. I’ll see her at Thanksgiving when we’re both home in Cleveland.”
Ginny smiles at Finch. It doesn’t touch her eyes. “That’s great.”
Her focus returns to her cards, but Adrian continues to watch her. What was that in her tone? That tightness, that sharpened edge? The Ginny he knows is all laughter and warmth, quick with a joke, Clay’s partner in crime. Not angry. Not restrained.
What is she hiding?
Before Adrian can think too long on it, Tristan throws his cards on the table and yells, “Ha! Royal flush!” He leaps up from the couch, spins around, and starts shaking his butt at his friends. “Eat that, ladies and gentlemen.”
“No, thanks.” Clay places both hands on Tristan’s rear and gives him a good shove. Tristan falls headfirst onto the couch.
“Wow,” says Ginny. “That’s a good hand.” Her lips pursed in mock confusion, she sets her cards on the table and asks, “Does a straight flush beat that?”
All eyes turn to her.
Clay and Finch burst into applause.
Tristan, upside down on the couch, lets out a long wail.
Clay claps Ginny on the shoulder. “That’s my girl.”
She winks and rakes in every chip on the table. “Can we go to the bar now? I’m ready to dance.”
“Easy, tiger.” Clay holds up a hand. “I need another drink or three before we head out.”
“Right.” Ginny nods grimly, hands resting on the chips before her. “You all do. God forbid we subject the good people of Manhattan to the sight of Tristan dancing sober.”
“Hey!” Tristan sits up on the couch and elbows her in the side. Ginny giggles and elbows back.
Adrian watches on and wonders if this is what it looks like to be totally comfortable in one’s own skin.
Ginny and the boys spill out into the balmy October night. Clay reaches out one hand to hail a cab. Tristan says something about his father only ever being driven around in black Escalades. Finch pushes Tristan into a recycling bin.
Ginny bounces in the toes of her white platform shoes—a new purchase, her attempt to blend into the fashionable New York crowd. Goose bumps rise on her arms. Cold as always.
“You okay?” comes a voice from just behind her.
