Chapter Thirteen Maren #2
Silence stretched.
Nate cleared his throat. “Tyler is losing his mind.”
That startled Maren enough to look at him.
Nate winced. “Not in a fun way. He feels bad. He thinks the Bad Idea Bet made people think they had permission to film anything.”
Maren closed her eyes briefly.
Great.
Perfect.
Now Tyler was guilty, Denise was handling account settings, Griffin was furious, Ava was worried, and Nate was captain-ing.
The story had already outgrown her again.
“I need everyone to stop,” Maren said.
All three of them went quiet.
She opened her eyes.
“I need five minutes where nobody handles the post, or the crowd, or Tyler, or the team, or me.”
Ava nodded first. “Okay.”
Nate nodded too. “Okay.”
Griffin said nothing.
Maren looked at him.
His eyes held hers.
“Okay,” he said.
Just that.
No argument.
No question.
No step closer.
It nearly undid her.
Ava glanced toward the path. “Do you want me to stay close but not with you?”
Maren almost laughed.
It was such an Ava question. Kind in the least invasive way possible.
“Yes,” she said.
Ava nodded. “I’ll be near the snack shack.”
Nate squeezed Griffin’s shoulder once before he left.
A captain warning.
A friend check.
A whole conversation in one gesture.
Then Ava and Nate disappeared back toward the bonfire path.
Maren and Griffin remained in the quiet.
Not alone in the same way as before.
Not with a kiss between them.
Now the kiss was everywhere.
Maren looked at the lake through the trees. Dark water. Reflected lights. A moon not bright enough to be useful.
“I am going to walk,” she said.
“Okay.”
She waited.
He did not move.
She looked at him. “You are not going to ask to come?”
His expression was steady, but something in his eyes hurt.
“Do you want me to?”
The clean part.
The choice.
Always the choice, now that he understood it mattered.
Maren wished the answer were simple.
No, because she needed space.
Yes, because he was the only person who seemed to understand why the stolen part hurt more than the public part.
No, because being near him made everything worse.
Yes, because the kiss had been hers too and she wanted one moment with the person it had belonged to before the internet took inventory.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Griffin nodded.
“Then I will stay here.”
“Griffin.”
“If you get five steps away and decide you want me there, say my name.”
Her throat tightened.
“That sounds like something out of a romance novel.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Does it?”
“Very emotionally responsible.”
“I am consistent.”
“Spiritual khakis, but tender.”
This time, he did smile.
Small.
Sad.
Hers.
The sight hit her straight behind the ribs.
Maren turned before she could do something stupid, like walk into his arms and call it a strategy break.
She made it six steps down the path.
Seven.
Eight.
Her phone buzzed again.
She stopped.
For once, she did not look.
She should keep walking.
She should take the five minutes, breathe through the panic, decide what to do like the professional she was trying so hard to prove she could be.
Instead, she turned.
Griffin still stood where she had left him, hands loose, body still, eyes on her but not pulling.
Waiting.
Not chasing.
Not fixing.
Waiting.
Her heart cracked in the exact shape of his restraint.
“Griffin,” she said.
He moved immediately.
Not fast enough to crowd her.
Fast enough to show he had been waiting for the word.
He stopped in front of her.
Maren stared up at him, chest tight, phone buzzing uselessly in her hand.
“I don’t want to be alone with it,” she said.
His expression softened with something that was not pity.
Thank God.
“Okay.”
“I am still mad.”
“I know.”
“At the post. At the person. At everyone. Maybe at you a little.”
“I know.”
“At myself too, which is the stupidest part.”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
“Do not tell me no.”
“Okay.” He took a breath. “Then I will say this differently. You are allowed to be angry at yourself. You are not required to be correct.”
That was so Griffin she almost laughed.
Instead, her eyes burned.
Absolutely not.
Not tonight.
Not in front of him.
She looked away, but his hand lifted slowly, stopping in the space between them.
Not touching.
Asking.
Her breath shook.
She stepped into him.
Not all at once.
Just enough for his arms to come around her.
Careful.
Loose at first, until she pressed her forehead against his chest and gripped the front of his T-shirt like the fabric could hold the world still.
Then he held her.
Solid.
Quiet.
No speeches.
No fixing.
No one filming.
At least, God, she hoped no one was filming.
Maren closed her eyes.
Griffin’s hand rested lightly between her shoulder blades, warm through the thin fabric of her dress. His chin hovered above her hair, not quite resting, like even comfort had boundaries he was afraid to cross without permission.
She appreciated it.
She also hated it.
She turned her face slightly into his chest.
His arms tightened by a fraction.
There.
That was better.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
The bonfire noise drifted through the trees. Laughter. A cheer. Tyler’s voice, quieter than usual, saying something about learning consent from consequences. Ava responding, “Finally.”
Maren let out a wet laugh she refused to acknowledge emotionally.
Griffin’s thumb moved once against her back.
Not soothing exactly.
Just there.
“Maren,” he said quietly.
“Hmm?”
“Do you regret it?”
Her breath stopped.
The kiss.
He meant the kiss.
Not the post.
Not the video.
The thing itself.
Maren pulled back enough to look at him.
His face was serious, open in a way she had not expected. He looked like a man braced for an answer he would accept no matter what it cost him.
That made her answer easier.
“No,” she said.
His eyes closed briefly.
Relief.
There and gone.
Maren felt it in her own chest.
“I hate that they took it,” she said. “I hate that people are turning it into proof of whatever they already wanted to believe. I hate that Paige is probably somewhere thinking this confirms her whole little theory about me.”
Griffin’s mouth tightened.
“But I do not regret you kissing me.”
His gaze locked on hers.
The world pulled tight again, softer this time.
“And,” she added, because apparently honesty was a disease and she had caught it at the bonfire, “I do not regret saying no when you told me to pass.”
His hand flexed lightly at her back.
“Maren.”
“I know.”
“What do you know?”
“That this is complicated.”
“Yes.”
“That it is probably a bad idea.”
“Yes.”
“That Tyler will be unbearable.”
“He already is.”
She almost smiled. “And that I need to figure out what I want before everyone else tells me what I am allowed to have.”
His eyes softened.
Not pity.
Pride.
That one nearly killed her.
“Okay,” he said.
She lifted one brow. “That is your whole response?”
“No. My whole response is longer and probably less useful.”
“Try me.”
His gaze dropped for a second.
Then returned.
“You are allowed to want your work to matter and still want me.”
Maren stopped breathing.
There were sentences a person did not recover from.
That might be one of them.
Griffin looked like he wanted to take it back, not because it was untrue, but because it had come out too honest and too soon and maybe too much.
Maren should make a joke.
She had several available.
High-quality options.
Instead, she whispered, “That was rude.”
His brows drew in. “Rude?”
“Very.”
“Because?”
“Because now I have to think about it.”
His mouth curved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Close enough to make her ache.
“Take your five minutes,” he said.
She did not move.
Neither did he.
The phone buzzed again.
Maren sighed and finally looked down.
A message from Denise.
DENISE: Video is being removed from tagged feed. I found the poster. Teenager. Apologetic. Parent mortified. No public statement unless you want one. Your call.
Maren stared at the message.
Your call.
Those two words almost made her cry harder than the stolen video had.
She turned the phone toward Griffin.
He read it.
Then handed the screen back without comment.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
There it was again.
What do you want?
Her choice.
Her call.
Her story, if she was brave enough to take it back.