4. Griffin
Griffin
“The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.” – Emily Dickinson
“ H oney, could you please hold the yarn straight?”
“I wasn’t aware there was a wrong way to hold yarn.”
“Oh, yes, there is. See, if you move it just a tenth of a centimeter to the left, the stitch will come out crooked and then instead of a heart, it might look like unshaved balls.”
I’ve always thought choking on your own spit was a myth and the most stupid notion ever, until this moment.
“Jesus Christ, Mom,” I groan out, slapping my hand against my sternum.
“What?” she asks innocently, as if there is absolutely nothing wrong.
“There won’t be a day when hearing something like that come out of your mouth won’t be weird.”
“Griffin Owling! You’re well aware there’s no cussing in our home,” Mom reprimands, and I decide just running my tongue over my teeth is the best response right now because all others will inevitably lead to me actually cussing.
And yes, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, the word “weird” is considered inappropriate over here.
No comment.
“Mm-hmm, but do you think we can stick to knitting without talking?”
“Well, if you’d hold the yarn straight, I wouldn’t have to visualize hairy balls on my blanket.”
Count to ten, Griffin . Just breathe and count to ten. It should been easy, especially since I’ve been trained to stay calm in dangerous situations for half of my life, however none of those trainings prepared me how to deal with my mother who’s been driving me up the wall.
It’s been a week since I returned, and four days since I left the house again.
After my last fiasco, it hasn’t seemed to be worth the risk.
I don’t even know what possessed me to run the way I did, only that knowing if I stayed I was facing multiple years behind bars because someone else was touching my Julie.
My Julie…yeah…running was the best option no matter what. Because I not only have no claims to lay on her, but it’s also stupid to even entertain those thoughts. Callum would fucking skin me alive.
Will he skin the Viking dude? And why do I have a sudden urge to call up my best friend and tattle on his little sister. I think I must’ve sustained a lot more damage in that mission than the doctors initially thought because clearly, I’ve had a brain malfunction.
This is Julie. Just Julie. The silly little girl with flaming hair, hand-sewn skirts, running barefoot. She isn’t my dream girl. She isn’t mine, period.
But damn it, the memory of her in that guy’s arms, of her fairy-like eyes gazing up at him as she graced him with one of her sunshine smiles still stirred something inside me, something I fought very hard to erase from existence, yet no luck, and it clearly showed on my face.
Fuck it! I’m old enough to be real with myself at least.
There is nothing just about Julie. She isn’t just a silly little girl with flaming hair and all the rest of bullshit I fed my own brain.
She’s all the good in the world.
She’s the brightest sunshine and the warmest sunset.
She’s the hottest fire that kept you warm on the coldest of nights.
She’s someone who has taken all that hate from around her for years and still keeps on smiling.
I never doubted she’d fight right through all of that.
I knew her light would win over but seeing her happy and living her best life the other day, made something ache in my chest. Not a bad kind of ache.
It’s the kind that makes you believe that anything is possible.
She makes you believe that anything is possible.
She is everything.
But she isn’t mine.
“Griffin, now you’ve done it.” Mom sighs with such exaggeration you’d think I’ve just spoiled the end of her favorite TV show.
“Done what?”
“Brought the bad juju to my knitting.” She drops the needles to the couch as she strolls away.
Great, no yarn-holding duty for me. It might be a small win, but I’ll take it.
“Griffin, honey, come to the kitchen.” The sentence gets my hackles up right away. Or more precisely, my stomach.
“Why?” I ask carefully, my tone laced with skepticism.
“To cleanse you off that bad juju, of course. I’ve got just the tea for that. Willa made it when I mentioned what a sour puss you’ve become.”
I tip my head up and silently cry out to the skies, “Why? Why me?”
“If I were you, I’d be halfway out the door right this second.
” Dad’s voice catches me off-guard. I didn’t even know he was home already.
Dad left early in the morning every day.
Today it was for his tie-dye class. Yesterday, vegan barbeque class.
The day before that, competitive sandcastle building.
I’m wondering if there will ever be a day these two just sit down and do nothing for longer than ten minutes.
It’s been like this since I can remember. My parents are always on the move. Always onto the next hobby, next adventure, next yoga class, next peace meeting…and so on and on and on. Much to their dismay, I wasn’t born with a hippy bone in my body and found their lifestyle too much. Too crazy.
But…they look alive.
Not in the age-wise sense, although both my parents don’t look a day over forty-five or so when they’re actually both nearing their sixties. No, they look alive on the inside. That vibrant energy just seeps out of them, while mine is barely enough to get me out of bed.
However, I’m not that far gone to try any of the teas my mom buys from Willa Loverson, the local bar owner.
Dad’s right, I should flee while I can. Before she brings out the half-baked cookies from last night. The only problem is…I don’t want to leave the house.
Yes, I’m a thirty-four-year-old hermit hiding in my parents’ house like a child. Sue me. Life’s been cruel and I just need a fucking minute to adjust, is that so much to ask for?
“Do you want the cookies or the casserole from last night?” Mom hollers, and with a shudder I decide that yes, yes, apparently it is too much to ask for.
I cast a look at my dad, who’s watching my inner struggle with silent amusement. Which to choose out of two evils. My own demons or Mom’s cooking.
Yep, my own demons it is. At least they won’t give me indigestion for the seventh day in a row. “You know what? It’s a great idea, Dad. See you…sometime,” I tell him and bolt down the stairs as fast as I can, but apparently not fast enough.
“Griffin? Where are you going?” Mom is hot on my heels, the cup with a stinky brew in her hands.
“The tea is ready, I added an extra scoop of organic ashwagandha. It helps with low testosterone. Andrew!” Mom hollers while my brain is trying to catch up.
“Bring the cookies, we’ll have tea downstairs. ”
I stop dead. “Low what?” I squint.
“Testosterone. You know, the male hormone.”
“And what makes you think I’m low in that department?”
Mom looks at me for a second, puckering her lips and then lifts her hand to start ticking off her fingers. “Where do I start?”
I stop her before she has a chance to get into her usual spew about lack of grandkids. “Let’s shorten the list for energy sakes.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “Your sheets.”
I blink. Okay, not what I was expecting. “My sheets?” I deadpan.
“Mm-hmm. They’ve been lonely.”
Did she just...? No. No, she did not. But oh yes, she did. Fucking hell, I need to get my own place.
I roll my tongue over my teeth. “I think I’m gonna go walk around the town.” Because if I stay I just might die. Or kill someone. And despite my twitching eye, I do love my mother.
“Really?” Mom’s whole posture changes as her eyes get that happy gleam in them. “Ooo, yay!” She jumps up, the tea sloshing over the cup and my eyes track down the drops to see if the acidic concoction will burn the place down. “Let me go get ready.”
“For what?” I asked, slowly.
“To go with you.”
If I could slap my own face right now, I would.
“Um…no, Mom, that’s quite all right. I think I can manage on my own.”
“Nonsense.” She waves me off. “You haven’t been home in sixteen years. What if you get lost?”
“Wow, I wonder how I’d manage that in all of two streets,” I mumble, heavy on the sarcasm but Mom doesn’t pay any attention to me. “Not to mention I’ve already been out.”
“Andrew!” She hollers loud enough for our neighbors to hear, and mind you, they live a good twenty feet away from us when Dad just rounds the corner, with the previously mentioned tray. Unbothered in the slightest.
“Yes, dear?” he asks calmly while my eye starts to get that twitch. Dad gives me a look that says, I told you to run right away, and you didn’t listen .
“Change of plans! Andrew, drop the tray.” And what do you know…he does. Dad literally drops the whole fucking tray at her command, but the cardboard cookies don’t lose so much as a crumb in a process. “We are going out with Griffin.”
“Okay, I’ll go get changed.”
I should’ve introduced my mom to my Captain. He could’ve used her training skill set, I tell you.
A knock at the door interrupts my next sentence. I don’t like to open the doors here because half the town seems to come by to get a look at me these days, but it looks inevitable right now since I’m literally a step away from the door.
I hate this day. I hate this week. This month. This year.
I hate the past thirty years or so but it’s neither here nor there, so I sigh and open the door, a snarky retort prepped and ready right on the tip of my tongue but it dies a quick death when I find long waves of red hair, thousands of freckles, two green pools, and a beaming smile on our front step.
Julie.
There’s Julie standing before me, looking as radiant as always, her bare toes peeking from underneath her long boho-looking skirt—or is it pants?—as she rocks on her heels while holding a bright yellow, ceramic pot in her hands.
“Hi,” her melodic voice says.
Two fucking letters from my best friend’s sister and my throat is dry, my heart in pre-cardiac arrest and my legs are two useless noodles.