The World According to Susie

Ch 20: Henry Johns Backyard Musical Theatre Collective (I)

We're parked in front of Henry John's mansion—a building so grand it looks like it's trying to compete with the actual Louvre. We are going to finish the preroll in the car, and I'm doing my best to hold in a serious coughing fit when Georgia, still gazing out the window, suddenly says:

"My name isn't Georgia." She grins, mysterious and smug.

"OH?!?!?" I gasp, more smoke escaping with my shock.

"It's actually Georgianna. And, by the way, I'm not an American citizen either." She throws out these revelations like she's just told me she prefers vanilla over chocolate ice cream. Meanwhile, I'm reeling, blinking at her, trying to process. I take another hit, filling the car with smoke and fake composure, my head spinning.

"So... what's your lore?" I say with dramatic intensity, leaning in and narrowing my eyes. She snorts, turning down the 'Something in the Way' by Nirvana track playing low in the background, and inhales, blowing smoke right into my face with a grin.

I grin back, but I inhale at the exact wrong moment and—"COUGH COUGH! ACKK!" I choke in the least glamorous way possible, and Georgia erupts into a fit of laughter.

"Susie, you're so funny." She laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder, and for one terrifyingly perfect moment, we lock eyes. Just as my face gets warm enough to cook breakfast, I break eye contact and look away, panicking.

"As I was saying..." She clears her throat, though I see a hint of a blush—praise be, maybe I'm not alone in this meltdown.

"Henry John and I are best friends," she continues, her voice suddenly heavy with drama, "since we were six. His full name is Henry John Chenette, and his family owns... a lot of real estate in Paris." She waits, as if she's dropped a bomb. Which she has.

"Paris?! You're French?" I gasp, snatching the almost-finished preroll back from her fingers.

"Born in France," she says with a tragic air, "but my family is actually Scottish. My mother passed when I was three. When I met Henry's family, the Chenettes took me in and raised me as their own. But then, when we were ten..." She pauses, gazing into the distance. "His parents were... murdered."

My jaw drops. "Murdered?!"

She nods, her expression shadowed and serious. "Stabbed, both of them, in a robbery gone wrong. Henry and I were at school. I owe it all to Mr. and Mrs. Chenette for giving me a family... and then, in one night, they were gone." Georgia stares out into the evening, smoke swirling around her like she's the lead in some dark, noir film.

I blink. "So, you're telling me... you're practically French royalty, raised by a tragically murdered family of real-estate moguls?"

"Exactly," she says solemnly, tilting her chin up with a fierce sort of pride.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I just stare at her, feeling the drama, the wildness, and, maybe, the fact that I'm utterly doomed for her.

"We came to the United States at the ripe age of sixteen," she says with all the drama of a tragic heroine, "finished out school at a rich private academy. Then, when Henry John turned eighteen... he received his astonishing inheritance." Georgia leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Some huge amount—so huge, even I don't know what it is. All I know? It was enough to buy that big, ridiculous mansion."

"Wow." I'm practically swooning. Then I pause. "Wait... what's your full name?" I ask, desperate to know every little detail, feeling like a character in a gothic novel who's about to uncover her lover's scandalous past.

With a dramatic lift of her chin, she replies, "Georgianna McIntyre." She's silhouetted in the dim porch light, which cuts through the lingering smoke like a spotlight just for her. I think, dazedly, she's magnificent.

"And yours?" She tilts her head at me, inquisitive, with a sly little smile.

I sigh, the spell breaking slightly. "It's... Susan." The name drops out of my mouth with all the weight of a rock hitting a lake. "I know—super lame. But everyone calls me Susie."

Georgia nods thoughtfully, as if this were some deep revelation. But before she can respond, the low thrum of bass cuts through the quiet, and a bright red Miata rolls up, speakers blasting Charli XCX at full volume. The window rolls down, and I see Vivienne's unmistakable face.

"Quick!" Georgia yanks me down, her arms wrapping around me as we huddle below the window. The interior of her truck suddenly feels like the narrowest, most dangerously romantic place on earth. Her breath brushes my cheek, and my heart's racing so fast I swear I can hear it.

"Why is Vivienne here?!" I whisper, trying and failing not to hyperventilate.

"She's part of Henry John's improv troupe. I guess they're still... friends?" Georgia whispers, her voice tinged with something almost suspiciously bitter.

A few agonizingly long seconds pass. When we're sure Vivienne's out of sight, we slowly sit back up, scanning the area like spies.

"Does it matter if she sees us?" Georgia says suddenly, glancing at me, her eyes a bit defiant. "I don't want to hide anymore." She holds my gaze, and just like that, it feels like my whole brain short-circuits, every coherent thought replaced by the electricity sparking between us. Her smile alone feels like it's rewiring my heartbeat.

"Me neither," I say, my voice a little shaky but determined. For once, I genuinely don't care who sees us—least of all Vivienne. Right now, all that matters is the buzz of Georgia's attention on me, this feeling that's been clawing at my chest, begging to get out.

"Georgia," I say, suddenly serious, catching her gaze.

She pauses, her hand still on the door handle, eyes flicking from my face to the entrance, then back to me. "What's up?" she asks, a little too casually, as if she's already sensing where this is going but doesn't want to go there just yet.

I swallow, my pulse pounding. If I tell her, maybe this suffocating feeling will go away. If she rejects me, it'll hurt, but at least I can start to move on.

But just as I open my mouth, ready to take the plunge, Georgia's phone pings, and she snatches it up, her face lighting up. "Oh! Henry John just texted—they're starting soon, like right now," she says, a little too eagerly. She flashes me a quick smile and then nudges me toward the entrance. "Come on, Susie, let's not keep him waiting! You'll love it, I promise."

I hesitate, a million words stuck in my throat, but she's already climbing out of the truck, practically dragging me along.

"Wait, Georgia, I—"

She turns to me, holding my arm, and gives me this soft, uncertain look, like she knows something's up but doesn't want to face it. "Susie, seriously, we'll talk after, okay? This... whatever it is... won't change anything. I swear."

Her words hang in the air, full of promises and mixed signals that make me feel dizzy, like I'm trying to decipher a puzzle with half the pieces missing. I can't tell if she's holding back because she's nervous or if she just doesn't see me the same way, and the uncertainty is like a weight in my stomach. But then she squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing over mine, and gives me a smile that sends my heart spiraling again.

With a sigh, I nod. "Fine. After."

She grins and leads me up the steps, her hand lingering on mine a bit longer than necessary. And as we head into the mansion for Henry John's makeshift play, my mind's a chaotic blur of what-ifs and maybes, every step closer to the performance leaving me more tangled up in her mixed signals.

Maybe after the play, I think. Maybe then, I'll finally tell her how I feel... or maybe she'll make it impossible for me to say a word.