5. Brynn
Chapter five
Brynn
“ L et me show you my Memphis.”
Griffin’s invitation clangs through my mind like a brass bell as we leave the restaurant. He refused to let me split the check, arguing that “friends buy sausage and cheese plates for one another all the time in Memphis, professor.” Once it was paid, he led me out the door with a hand on the small of my back.
We aren’t five steps from the restaurant when a fan recognizes Griffin and asks for a selfie. As he obliges and steps in close to the guy, my phone buzzes in my clutch, so I pull it out to find a lone text from Jack.
Where are you?
I left the event an hour ago, and he’s only now texting me?
I’m debating whether to respond when Griffin returns to my side.
“Ready?” he asks, a brow raised.
I nod, and we’re off again. This time, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers. Disappointment slashes through me before I can stop it.
Just as friends . I chastise myself as we turn the corner and head back to the hotel. I’m still giving myself a lecture when he touches my arm and gently crosses behind me so he can walk on the left, closest to the street. And, damn it, those warm tingles that have surged through my body frequently since we escaped the ballroom return.
We’re silent for the first part of our stroll, but then Griffin clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about our first excursion.”
I glance at him sidelong. He’s well over six feet tall and built of solid muscle. His posture is relaxed: hands in pockets, head tipped back like he’s searching the heavens for an idea. I allow myself a glimpse of the way his linen suit jacket encases his broad shoulders, of the way his pants in the same light-blue strain across his quads when he walks. The clothing fits like it was made for him. Surely, it was.
Does he venture out to a custom tailor? Or does one come to his home to measure and pin and present fabric samples?
Maybe, eventually, during one of our tours of Memphis, I’ll work up the nerve to ask him about house calls from barbers and tailors.
“Our first outing should highlight what Memphis is best known for.”
“Sausage and cheese plates?”
His lips quirk to the side, the expression spotlighted by the streetlamp we pass.
“No, smart-ass.” He spreads his arms wide, like the answer is right here.
For a moment, I’m distracted by the sheer length of them. How would it feel to be wrapped in their embrace?
The sound of his voice brings me back to the moment. “Memphis is the home of the blues. Rock and roll. You like music, right?”
I certainly don’t listen to Jack’s damn sports podcasts when I’m alone in my car or when I force myself to walk on the treadmill in the guest room. No, I fill those moments of solitude with the most random playlists imaginable. Everything from Bruce Springsteen to Johnny Cash to the Spice Girls to Queen to One Direction. Broadway musical soundtracks. Nineties grunge. Motown’s biggest hits. Eighties one-hit wonders.
Yeah, I love music.
And this city does claim the birthrights to musical genres that have become the soundtracks to our lives. One might think that would endear this place to me, right? It hasn’t.
You haven’t experienced this city with the right tour guide.
With a small shake of my head, I say, “I love music.”
His responding wide grin triggers a torrent of nerves to flood my insides.
“Me, too.” He bobs his head. “I’ve got a pretty sweet vinyl collection.” Our steps slow as we near the valet station at the hotel, where well-dressed Blues fans stand in clumps.
Griffin stops several feet away from the clusters of people, and with a gentle grip on my elbow, he pulls me into the shadow of the building. “Do you need a ride? Or do you want me to help you find your, uh—Jack?”
I slip my phone from my clutch, navigate to the ride-share app, and flash the screen at him so he can see the request I made before we left the cafe. “Jorge is driving me home. In fact…” I scan the street until I find a black Camry with the service’s neon sign on its dash parked along the curb. “Ah, I think that’s him.”
“Let’s make sure.” Confidence marks every step he takes as he approaches the now open passenger window and bends to peer inside. “Who are you here for?” he questions in his deep baritone.
The driver gapes at first, but then he checks his phone and sputters, “B-Brynn.”
My new friend straightens to his full height and shines his dazzling smile on me. “All right, Brynn not-a-gherkin-fan. I still have your number. I’ll text details for our excursion Tuesday.”
“Memphis magic and music.”
“That’s right.” His smile softens as he studies my features .
My chest aches with reluctance. Talking and spending time with someone new—a friend—has been such a balm to my soul. I wish the night wasn’t over.
“Until Tuesday.” I bridge the distance between us by extending my hand. He clasps it, engulfing it with his own massive hand.
We fumble through the sequence of grips, slides, and slaps we attempted earlier, both of us laughing as we make mistake after mistake. But we wrap it up with a fist bump again, and after a nod, Griffin opens the back door of the car.
As I secure the seat belt, he sticks his head inside and turns to the driver. “Hey, Jorge,” he says with a lift of his chin. “My friend here is precious cargo. No grand prix shit.”
Jorge, still stunned that an NFL superstar has escorted his latest fare to his car, only blinks back.
“Bye, Brynn. See you soon.” With a wink, Griffin closes the door and taps twice on the roof.
We’ve gone two blocks before Jorge snaps out of his stupor. “That was Griffin. Lacey.” He gasps. “Racy Lacey touched my car. Wait until I tell my boys about this. They’re gonna lose it.” He finds me in the rearview mirror, eyes wide. “You know him?”
“He’s a…friend.” A comforting warmth floods my body, but it dissipates quickly when I remember Jack’s waiting text.
Where are you?
What I want to respond with: Not where I want to be.
What I actually text back as Jorge zips through the streets of downtown Memphis:
Sorry, I wasn’t feeling good. Ordered a ride and I’m on my way home.
Those three little dots bounce at the bottom of my screen, and my stomach knots as I anticipate his reaction. Will I get an Ok, bun. See you at home ? Or a You couldn’t tough it out a little longer?
Neither, it turns out. Instead, the dots disappear altogether .
In the five years we’ve been together, I’ve never told Jack more than a little white lie. As I go through the motions of my bedtime routine, the guilt of keeping the truth of where I went tonight already sits heavy on my shoulders. Before I turn off the lamp and snuggle Barnaby to my chest under the covers, I check my phone one last time. Jack still hasn’t messaged me back.
I toss and turn, my mind filled with nothing but images of Griffin. The way his smile lights up his entire face. The chameleon color of his eyes, shifting from slate gray to cornflower blue, like the sky. His strong hands, and the way his touch makes my skin tingle.
I’m on the verge of drifting off when the front door opens and closes again. My body locks up in dread. Do I leave the comfort of our bed to confront him about the blonde? Or do I put it off until tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day, or never ?
Will the two of us stay stuck in this holding pattern, more roommates than romantic partners? For how long?
In the end, Jack makes the decision for me. He’s not quiet as he moves about our cozy home, dropping my keys on the table by the front door, filling a glass with ice and water, opening our bedroom door. He pauses in the doorway, sees that I’m still awake, and then starts undressing with brisk efficiency.
“I’m getting a shower” is all he says as he emerges from our shared closet wearing only his boxers. Showers before bed aren’t unheard of for him, but I can’t help but wonder if the reason for tonight’s is because he smells like her.
I curl into a ball, my back to his side of the bed, and clutch Barnaby tighter. The white noise of the shower lulls me, blessedly, and the last thing I remember before sleep takes me under is the mattress dipping under Jack’s weight.
When my alarm wakes me Wednesday morning, I’m alone in bed, and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen, so I shower and dress as quickly as I can, determined to have this out before Jack leaves for work.
He doesn’t look up from his phone when I enter the kitchen, nor when I place my steaming mug of coffee on the counter across from him. I study the planes of his downturned freshly shaved face. How the hell has this become my life? I’m stuck—in a relationship, in a city, in a doctoral program—I’m not even sure I want to be in anymore. Do all thirty-year-olds feel this way? Mired in purgatory? On the cusp of true adulthood, yet feeling unequipped to make the transition?
I’m terrified about confronting my boyfriend, but Griffin’s words from last night give me the courage to do it anyway.
Being with you is a privilege. He’s gotta earn that shit.
“Who’s the blond I saw you with last night, Jack?”
My voice startles him. With a palm on his chest, he regards me with wide eyes. “Shit, bun. Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” He blows out a slow exhale, squares his shoulders, and gives me his full attention. “I talked to a lot of people last night. You’ll have to be more specific.” He blinks a few times, all innocent and curious.
My pulse accelerates, but I fight to maintain my cool, keeping all emotion from my tone. “The one you looked super cozy with, up against the wall. The two of you were mighty close to each other.” Maintaining eye contact is a struggle, but I succeed. “Didn’t look too professional to me.” I cross my arms so he won’t notice my shaking hands.
Jack’s composure doesn’t slip, but color creeps above the collar of his pale yellow button-down. He fixes an indulgent smile on his face. “You’re cute when you’re jealous, bun.”
“Who is she, Jack?”
His smile slips a fraction. “I guess it could’ve been Andi—er, Andrea. Vernon. She covers the Blues and the Bears for SNN.” Nonchalant, he lifts one shoulder. “She tries to flirt exclusive insider info out of anyone who’ll talk to her.” He brings his Blues mug to his lips and takes a sip. As he sets it down again, he says, “You know how the media is. We’ve gotta play their game. So if it appeared like I was flirting back, I assure you it was for the sake of the team and nothing more.”
I assess him, unconvinced of his innocence, but at the same time doubting myself. Maybe the closeness and the flirty smiles were for the sake of the team. Jack’s job is priority number one for him. I accepted this before we moved in together. For a long time, that’s what I thought I wanted, too—to be with someone who was fine with coming in second place. We’ve maintained this relationship with the understanding that our careers come first for years.
But maybe that’s not good enough for me anymore.
Maybe I want to be someone’s first place.
And maybe I’m ready to make someone my first place, too.
Jack slides off his stool and comes around the bar. “Bun…” He grasps my upper arms and twists me so that we face each other. I steel myself for more excuses. Instead, he simply says, “I’ve got to get to the office. It’s my turn to cook dinner, so I’ll pick up steaks on my way home.” He gives me a gentle shake to force my attention from the buttons on his shirt. “Have a good day.” With a quick peck on my cheek, he heads to the front door, leaving behind the sharp menthol scent of his aftershave.
I stand frozen until a honk outside startles me. While his car is being repaired, he’s been getting a ride with one of his work buddies. I hold my breath for a moment, then I bask in the silence as I finish my coffee and start my day. I’m still as unsure about my relationship with Jack as I was last night, but it’s a relief to be alone for now.
Jack and I maintain the holding pattern for the next couple of days. I don’t bring up the blond again, and he carries on as if I never mentioned her to begin with. He pecks my cheek each morning before he dashes off to work. On the weekend, he travels with the team to their away game in Houston.
I teach, hold office hours, and conduct research for my dissertation, all the while peeking at my phone to see whether Griffin’s texted details about Tuesday.
As I leave the library on campus on Monday afternoon, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Griffin
Tomorrow. Meet me at 1927 Madison Ave at noon.
A ribbon of giddiness twirls through me, only to be tempered by reality. Slow your roll, Brynn. He’s a friend. And you still have Jack.
I try hard not to take special care in choosing my outfit on Tuesday morning, but the discarded clothes I pile on the end of the bed before I leave for work are evidence of my failure. Since it’s still warm, I opt for a short-sleeved chambray shirtdress. I pair it with my rose-pink Vans, not knowing whether we’ll be walking a bit.
Time ticks by at a painfully slow pace, and I panic when a student sticks her head in my door five minutes before my designated office time is up. Luckily, she only has a few clarifying questions about a recent assignment. Once we’re both confident that she’s on the right track to complete it, I force myself to take my time packing up my laptop and locking up my office, even though every molecule of my body screams at me to hurry.
Preferring to be surprised, I’ve refused to look up the address that Griffin sent. All I know before I arrive is that it’s located in Midtown. I find a place to park behind the building, and when I round the structure, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome is waiting for me .
If we weren’t just friends , I might swoon at the sight of him.
He’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen him before, in jeans, Adidas sneakers, and a faded, worn Oklahoma football T-shirt that looks soft stretched across his broad chest. Covering his dark hair is a tattered khaki ball cap with a round logo that says Lacey Farms under a cluster of bean pods.
“Hey, not-a-professor.” He breaks into that full-wattage smile that makes me the good kind of nervous. “Ready?” he asks, holding a hand out. “Let’s get it right this time.”
We attempt the elaborate handshake, but our fingers get twisted up halfway through.
I toss my head back and laugh. “It’s two slaps before the fist stack, remember?”
“Yep.” He nods, biting back a smile. “Go again.”
This time I describe each step as we do them. “Regular shake. Slide into bro grip. Finger slide. Two snaps. Two slaps. Fist stack. Pinkie promise. Pull apart. High five. Fist bump.”
“Again,” he commands, giving me a glimpse of the intense singular focus he must possess when he’s on the field.
We attempt it once more, this time without my step-by-step commentary.
“ Yes ,” he growls when we execute it without a single mistake.
“So, where’s this music I was promised?”
“Patience, grasshopper. I thought we’d grab a bite first. Tuesdays are now officially my cheat days.” He pats his flat stomach, then points to the sign above the green- and white-striped awning. “This place has amazing burgers. I’m guessing you’ve never been?”
I shake my head, surveying the front windows and the patrons at tables inside.
“When our parents brought us to the city as kids, we’d take turns picking where we’d eat. This was Tucker’s choice, every damn time.”
“Tucker’s your brother? ”
“Yeah, he’s the baby.” Griffin pulls the door open and waves me inside.
Once we’re seated, I ask, “What was your pick, when you were a kid?”
He barks a laugh. “I had a few favorites. They’re on the Tuesday agendas, don’t you worry.”
That he’s thought about our future Tuesday plans sends that giddy thrill coursing through me again. I bask in the warmth of his company. Finally. I’m finally building a real friendship here.
We spend the rest of lunch discussing our favorite musical artists and songs. He lists his favorite records in his collection, and I rank the top five best concerts I’ve attended. (Coldplay takes the top spot.)
He insists that we ride together to the next location, so I follow him to the lot. When he stops next to a vintage convertible, I gape at him. “This is yours?”
“My dad’s.” He smooths a reverent hand along the jewel-blue hood. “The three of us pitched in and gave it to him last Christmas.”
“It’s a Corvette, right?”
He nods and gives me an impressed smile. That simple move sends pride flooding my body.
“What year?”
“It’s a 1961. It doesn’t quite correspond with the era we’re about to experience, but it’s close.”
Griffin barely fits in the car. Nonetheless, he looks right at home driving it. With his ball cap and sunglasses, he’s an American icon behind the wheel. And when he grins as my hair whips around my face during the cruise to our next destination, despite my attempts to tame it, I laugh. Uninhibited. It’s freedom in my lungs. In my soul.
I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself the liberty to simply enjoy .
“You ready to tour the birthplace of rock and roll?” he asks after we exit the Corvette.
I’m too busy wrangling the rat’s nest that my hair has become to answer, and I’m batting it from my eyes when the warmth of him seeps into me, stealing my breath.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Let me help.” A soft chuckle stutters out of him as we both smooth and finger-comb the errant strands.
His touch sends a heady shiver down my spine.
“I’ll make sure to have a hair tie next time.”
“I kinda like this look for you, professor.” The low rumble of his voice does funny things to my insides. “Wild and unleashed.”
The twinkle in his eyes is infectious, and I make a vow to myself: Tuesdays will be a day of yeses. I’ll enjoy every new experience, every bite of food, every moment of friendship with this man. I’ll let myself live , damn it. And I’ll push away my worries about Jack and my dissertation and not fitting in, along with the myriad stressors that plague the rest of my week.
“Sun Studio is where Elvis recorded his first song.” He shares other tidbits as we step into the unassuming brick building.
The cool air that greets us as he ushers me across the black-and-white tile floor to buy tickets is refreshing. When I pull out my wallet to pay for mine, Griffin shoves it right back into my purse.
“Not-a-professors don’t buy their own tour tickets in Memphis.”
Lips pursed, I huff. “I’m going to be faster than you one day, Lacey.”
“We’ll see about that, Nelson. Speed is part of my job description.”
“Right. That whole Racy thing. How silly of me to forget.”
“That’s one interpretation of the nickname. There are one or two more out there. Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you, sir. Where’d it come from? ”
Griffin takes his card from the cashier and slips it into his wallet. “That is a tale for another time, I’m afraid.”
We stake a spot off to the side of a bar to wait for our tour time. When a lady vacates the stool at the end, he gestures for me to take it. As I’m propping a hip on the black vinyl, someone behind us whisper-shouts, “That’s Griffin Lacey!”
He stiffens next to me, his eyes apologetic under the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry,” he mutters before he turns to the small crowd that’s now circling us.
Despite his initial reaction, he remains good-natured and professional while the throng clamors for an autograph or a photo.
One stocky man even has the gall to lean in and nudge Griffin with an elbow. “That your girl, Lacey?”
My cheeks flame, and my stomach bottoms out, but Griffin takes the invasive question in stride. With an arm thrown over my shoulders, he lifts his chin and addresses the crowd. “This is my friend and personal gherkin taster, Brynn. Her name actually translates to ‘lover of gherkins’ in Welsh. Did y’all know that?”
Various heads shake and murmurs of no sound out around us.
“She thinks Coldplay is way overrated, but we won’t hold that against her, will we?”
More no s ring out from the crowd, and a few dubious looks are cast my way, but the crowd eats up his every word.
My stomach dips as I watch him work. Gah, the ridiculousness of this man makes me like him even more.
A cute young guy with dreadlocks sporting a crop top appears in a doorway and calls for the group’s attention. He introduces himself as Josh, a local musician, and explains that he’ll be our guide as we tour the historic studio. As the group follows him upstairs, Griffin and I drift to the back of the pack.
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “Personal gherkin taster, huh? I need to add that to my CV when I get home. ”
“I hear they’re in high demand these days.” He huffs a laugh, but then his smile slips. “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable back there. The last thing I want is for your picture to be splashed all over social media. And for rumors to fly about who you are to me.”
Right. Because we’re just friends .
He must see the glimmer of hurt I thought I’d masked, because he rushes to say, “I couldn’t care less what people think about me. But I would never want you or your relationship to suffer because of our friendship.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, so I do, too. “I’m assuming you’re still in a relationship…”
I force a swallow and nod. “I am.”
Lips pressed together, he studies me, taking in my expression like he can find a different answer there. “Listen, I’m the last person who should give anyone relationship advice, but…” He heaves a drawn-out sigh. “But I do know that settling for crumbs doesn’t fill you up. It keeps you starving.”
With a sympathetic smile, he shuffles toward the group, leaving me on the top step to process his words. The truth in them causes gooseflesh to ripple across my skin. But Josh has launched into the tale of Sam Phillips, and I don’t want to miss a second of this tour with my friend, so I shove his words and my reaction to them into a tidy compartment in my brain, to be unpacked later.
But those goose bumps remain for the rest of the tour. Not because of the icy blast from the AC. No, it’s the step back to a bygone era and the stories surrounding some of the most beloved musicians and songs in history that have chills peppering my limbs.
And when I stand in the same spot Elvis stood so long ago, when he auditioned for Phillips, and my gorgeous NFL friend poses me for a picture holding the icon’s microphone? Well, those goose bumps appear for a wholly different reason.