11. Griffin #2
There was something else. Something in her eyes when I saw her earlier today, when I found her in the kitchen after she’d disappeared all morning. She looked at me like… like she was seeing me for the first time. And not in a good way.
She’d been crying. I could tell she’d been crying all night. But she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She just said she needed time alone.
What happened between the party last night and this morning?
I don’t know. I went to bed alone, her locked away in the guest room, and when I woke up, she was already gone.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway. She came back around eight looking like death warmed over, and I asked her what was wrong, and she said nothing, and I believed her because I always believe her, because I never push, because I never…
Because I never put her first.
I sit on the kitchen floor until my ass goes numb. I call her phone thirty-seven more times. I leave messages that start out calm and reasonable and gradually deteriorate into desperate pleading.
Hannah, please.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
Whatever I did, I can fix it. Just give me a chance.
I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please don’t do this.
She doesn’t call back.
Around 2 a.m., I drag myself off the floor and into the bedroom. I need to see. I need to know how bad it is.
Her closet is half-empty, gaps where her clothes used to be, empty hangers swaying slightly in the air conditioning. Her toiletries are gone from the bathroom, the face wash she likes, the expensive shampoo, the little lavender oil she uses when she can’t sleep.
The photo of her parents that used to sit on her nightstand is missing.
She really left.
She packed a bag and walked out and she’s really, actually gone.
I lie down on the bed, our bed, and stare at the ceiling.
I can still smell her perfume on the pillow next to me.
Something floral and soft, the same scent she’s worn since college.
I used to tease her about it. Told her she should upgrade to something fancier now that we could afford it.
She said she didn’t want to. Said it reminded her of who she was before all this.
I never asked what she meant by that.
I never asked her a lot of things.
Goodbye, Griffin.
I want a divorce.
I don’t sleep.
At 5 a.m., I give up trying. I shower, change into clean clothes, and get in my car.
Her parents live four hours away. If she’s anywhere, she’s there.
I drive through the darkness with my hands tight on the wheel, rehearsing what I’m going to say when I see her. I’ll apologize for the speech. I’ll explain about Julie’s threat. I’ll tell her I love her, that she’s the most important person in my life, that I’ll do anything to make this right.
She’ll forgive me. She has to forgive me.
She always forgives me.
It’s midmorning when I pull into her parents’ driveway. Her car is there, parked in front of the garage. Relief floods through me at the sight of it. She’s here, she’s safe, we can fix this.
I get out of the car and walk toward the house.
The front door opens before I’m halfway up the path.
Hannah’s mother steps onto the porch. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her expression could freeze water.
“Griffin.” Her voice is cold. Colder than I’ve ever heard it. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I need to see Hannah. Please. I just need to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I know she’s upset, but if she would just let me explain…”
“Explain what?” Her mother takes a step forward, and I instinctively take a step back. “Explain how you married her out of obligation? Explain how you’ve been taking her for granted for years? Explain how you thanked another woman in front of an entire ballroom for work your wife did?”
The blood drains from my face. “She told you.”
“She told me everything.”
Everything. What does everything mean? The speech? Julie? Something else?
“It’s not… that’s not the whole story. If I could just…”
“You need to leave, Griffin.”
“Please. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.” Her mother’s voice is final. “And frankly, neither do I.”
She goes back inside and closes the door.
I stand in the yard, staring at the house, trying to figure out my next move.
“Hannah!” I yell at the house. “Hannah, please! I know you can hear me!”
Nothing.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for all of it, the speech, Julie, everything! Please just talk to me!”
A curtain moves on the second floor. I catch a glimpse of dark hair, pale face, and then it’s gone.
She’s up there. She’s watching. She just won’t come down.
“I love you!” My voice cracks on the words. “Hannah, I love you! Whatever I did, I’ll fix it! I’ll do anything!”
The front door opens again. This time it’s her father.
He’s holding a hunting rifle.
“Son,” he says, his voice deceptively calm, “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to get off my property.”
“Sir, please… I just need to talk to her…”
“Twenty-five seconds.”
“I love your daughter. I know I’ve made mistakes, but I love her. I just need a chance to explain…”
“Twenty seconds.”
I look at the rifle. I look at his face. He’s not bluffing.
“I’ll go,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’ll go. But I’m not giving up. I’m going to be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day until she agrees to talk to me.”
“That’s your choice.” He raises the rifle slightly. “This is mine.”
I back toward my car. I get in. I pull out of the driveway.
But I don’t leave. I park on the street, about fifty feet from the house, where I have a clear view of the front door.
And I wait.