Chapter Nineteen Maren #2
Ava saved her because that was what best friends by proximity did when they were not being emotionally dangerous.
“Griffin,” Ava said, reading the next card, “what was your first impression of Maren?”
Maren groaned. “That question passed screening?”
“I screened for danger, not ego damage,” Ava said.
Griffin leaned back slightly, considering.
Maren braced for bright. Loud. Reckless. Chaos in lip gloss. Any of the easy words people usually reached for when they wanted to make her seem less serious and more decorative.
Griffin looked at the camera.
Then at her.
“I thought she saw too much,” he said.
Maren’s breath caught.
He continued, voice even. “I was annoyed by that.”
A laugh moved through the people watching nearby.
Maren stared at him.
He looked back. “Still am, occasionally.”
“Occasionally?” she managed.
“Often.”
“That is more honest.”
“I am growing.”
Comments flew past.
he said she saw too much I am unwellthis is better than kissing sorryOften. I am screaming.
Maren looked away from the screen before her face did something unprofessional.
The next question was safer.
For approximately six seconds.
“Question for Maren,” Ava said. “What is one thing Griffin is better at than people give him credit for?”
Maren rolled her eyes because the alternative was reacting like the question had placed a hand directly over her heart.
“We already did this in the canoe.”
“The people were busy watching you capsize,” Ava said.
Griffin’s mouth twitched.
Maren looked at him.
He waited.
Steady.
Open enough to make her brave and scared enough to make her careful.
“He listens,” she said.
The words were simple.
Too simple for the way they felt.
Maren forced herself to keep going. “Not always in the way you expect. Sometimes he listens like he is building a safety report in his head, which is both unsettling and oddly flattering. But he hears the thing under what people say. Even when they are joking. Even when they wish he would not.”
Griffin’s expression shifted.
The camera did not matter for one second.
Nothing did.
Then Tyler made a strangled sound from behind Denise.
Denise said, “Muted.”
Tyler whispered, “I know.”
The dock laughed.
The live kept moving.
They answered questions about the worst submitted bad idea, which remained Beckett’s fake slow-motion beach run with romantic music.
They answered whether Cooper had ever smiled, which Cooper called a privacy violation from a folding chair.
They answered who would win if Ava and Maren ran the weekend, which Nate said was a trick question because Ava was already running it emotionally and Maren was running it digitally.
Then Ava pulled the last card.
Her face changed.
Maren noticed immediately.
So did Griffin.
Ava looked at both of them. “This one is screened, but you can skip.”
The comments slowed as if even the internet leaned in.
Ava read, “How do you know when something is private and when it is okay to share?”
Maren’s hands went cold.
Not because the question was bad.
Because it was not.
Because it was exactly the question she had been trying to answer all weekend with posts and polls and boundaries and one private kiss that still felt like a lit match under her ribs.
Griffin looked at her.
Skip, his eyes said.
Not because he wanted to.
Because she could.
Maren loved and hated him a little for that.
She turned toward the camera.
“I think,” she said slowly, “you ask whether sharing it gives the moment more life or takes life away from the people in it.”
The dock stayed quiet.
Her voice steadied as she continued. “Some things get better when people laugh with you. The canoe fall got better because it was ridiculous and we both chose to share it. Some things get smaller when you put them in front of everyone. Not because they are shameful. Because they are yours.”
Ava’s eyes softened.
Maren did not look at Griffin yet.
If she did, she would lose the sentence.
“So that is the rule,” she said. “If sharing makes people feel included, great. If sharing makes the people inside the moment feel used, then it is not content. It is taking.”
The comments moved, but Maren did not read them.
For once, she did not need the numbers to tell her whether the line had landed.
Griffin’s voice came next.
Low.
Certain.
“And skip is always allowed.”
Maren looked at him then.
His eyes were on her.
The live ended two minutes later.
Denise stopped recording.
The crowd cheered.
Tyler tore off his MUTED BY GROWTH sign and immediately shouted, “I HAVE NEVER RESPECTED BOUNDARIES MORE!”
Cooper stood. “And there it goes.”
Maren laughed, but her chest felt too full.
Carter approached while Denise checked the metrics.
“That,” Carter said, “was excellent.”
Maren tried for casual. She missed by a mile. “How excellent?”
“Contract-conversation-in-the-morning excellent.”
Her knees nearly stopped being knees.
Griffin’s hand hovered near her elbow, not touching.
Waiting.
She steadied herself.
“I would like that,” she said.
Carter smiled. “Good. Nine tomorrow? Denise’s office.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Griffin. “You are invited, but not required.”
Griffin nodded. “I will be there if Maren wants me there.”
Maren looked at him.
The sentence was not flashy.
Not romantic in a way the comments would clip.
It was better.
“I do,” she said.
Griffin’s expression softened.
Ava made a suspicious sound behind her lemonade.
Maren pointed without looking. “Do not.”
“I am not.”
“You are emotionally making a scrapbook.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
Ava smiled. “Fine. I am.”
Maren laughed and turned back toward the lawn, still buzzing from the live, from Carter’s offer, from Griffin standing beside her like he had decided beside was a place he wanted to be.
For one wild second, everything felt possible.
Then a voice cut through the evening behind her.
“Well,” Paige said, “I leave you alone for one weekend and you turn a job into flirting with a hockey player.”
Maren froze.
Her cousin stood near the edge of the lawn in wedge sandals and a white linen romper, sunglasses perched on her head, iced coffee in hand like she had walked directly out of a lifestyle ad called Concerned But Make It Expensive.
Paige smiled at the crowd.
Then at Griffin.
Then back at Maren.
“Your mom said you were doing your little internet thing,” Paige added. “She did not mention the boyfriend portion.”
The words landed cleanly.
Little internet thing.
Boyfriend portion.
Cute.
Small.
Reduced.
Maren felt herself shrink before she could stop it.
Not visibly.
She was too practiced for that.
Her smile appeared right on time.
Bright.
Useful.
Fake.
“Paige,” she said. “What a surprise.”
The real problem was not that Paige had said it.
The real problem was that Griffin Hayes heard every word.