Page 42 of A Play For The Heart
“How was work?” he asks casually. His fingers tap on the steering wheel to the beat of the song on the radio and I watch, enraptured. Who knew fingers could be so…hot?
Get it together, Sawyer!No ogling of fingers or other body parts. I shift my gaze to the center console, where I start organizing his junk. Might as well clean up a bit.
“It was fine. Busy,” I respond, hoping he takes the curt answer as me being frustrated from my car problems. He opens his mouth to ask another question when I realize that conversation is inevitable. I rush to say something before him, which comes out as a slew of questions are seem super normal and not at all weird. “How was practice? Were you really sweaty? Is it hard to grip the weights if you’re dripping in sweat?”
He raises an eyebrow and looks at me from the corner of his eye.
“Practice was fine. No, I was not super sweaty. And we have things called towels.” He answers, a smirk on his face.
I nod, not trusting myself to ask another question or respond. I pointedly look out the window as if the street is the most interesting thing on the planet. I can feel Henry looking over at me, but I ignore him and keep my gaze fixed on the sidewalk.
Finally, after the longest ten-minute drive of my life, Henry pulls up to my apartment complex. I leap out of the car and grab my stuff from the back seat.
“Thanks!” I yell as I shut the door. He looks at me through the car window, bewildered.
He rolls down the window, concern etched in his features. “Sawyer, are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine!” I say, a little too forced. “I’m just stressed about my car,” I amend, hoping it makes up for my chaotic behavior in the last ten minutes.
“Alright,” he says, not entirely buying into my excuse, but letting it go, nonetheless. “Call me if you need anything.”
He puts the car in drive and pulls back onto the road, driving away. I turn and walk through the disturbing lobby towards the elevator. I make it up to my floor and into my apartment building when the sense of loss hits me like a bus. I was just with him thirty seconds ago, and now I have a sharp pain in my chest about the fact he just drove away.
In a moment of complete insanity, most likely driven by my unhealthy crush, I pick up the phone and call Henry.
He picks up on the second ring. “Sawyer, is everything okay?” His voice sounds worried, and I immediately panic. My brain has caught up with my body and I have no idea what to say or do where I don’t end up admitting my crush or sounding like an idiot. Unfortunately, I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.
“I lost my chapstick.”
So much for not sounding like an idiot.
“You lost your chapstick?” Henry parrots back to me, clearly confused.
“In your car.”
“You lost your chapstick in my car?” he questions, still not understanding what I’m saying. At this point, I don’t even know what I’m saying, but I’ve dug myself this hole, so I might as well keep digging. Maybe I’ll find some answer for how to salvage this conversation at the bottom.
“Yes, Henry. Keep up.” I say, exasperated when I have no right to be, “I need you to come back so I can find it.”
Henry chuckles, finding my total breakdown funny. “Breathe, Sawyer. I’ll take a look when I get home and if I find it, I’ll hold onto it until I see you.”
It’s a logical response, and if I was in a logical headspace, I would agree. Except, I am as far from logical as someone can be, so I immediately shoot the idea down.
“No!” I yell into the phone, “I need it. It’s my favorite. Please come back.” The last few words sound more like a plea coming out of my mouth, but I’ve completely lost it, so I don’t have time to evaluate how needy I may sound.
“Alright, I’ll turn around. Be there in a minute.”
I spend the next few minutes trying to figure out what the hell I just got myself into and how the hell I’m going to get myself out of it. Walking out of my apartment and into the elevator, I still have zero ideas. I make it through the lobby and onto the sidewalk when I determine that I’m going to have to wing it and hope Henry doesn’t think I’ve lost all my marbles.
I watch as Henry pulls up to the curb, puts his car in park, and gets out. Sheepishly, I walk over to meet him. Embarrassment hangs over me like a storm cloud.
“Could it have fallen out of one of your bags?” he asks, already searching the backseat. I know full and well that there is no long-lost chapstick in his car, but I search anyway. Many would consider my dedication to the bit an Oscar-worthy performance. I lean over, trying to peer under the seat, when Henry clears his throat. Loudly.
“I’ll, um...I’ll go look up front,” he says, hastily closing the back door and laser-focusing all his attention on the floor of the driver’s seat. I peer over at him from the corner of my eye while I keep “searching,” and Henry’s face is cherry red.
Why is he so flustered?
I look around, trying to pinpoint what exactly has Henry so worked up when my eyes glance down to my chest.
