25. Brynn
Chapter twenty-five
Brynn
A s the automatic door slides open, I roll my carry-on out into the seventy-four-degree day and shield my eyes, wishing I’d remembered to pack sunglasses. I scan the busy street outside the terminal. Taxis, ride shares, and hotel shuttles sit bumper-to-bumper in the loading lane, and busy travelers weave in and out of foot traffic, dragging their wheeled luggage in their wake.
I check my phone. The Blues’ bus should be leaving the hotel about now. I’m hitting send on a text to Griffin when a series of honks and a “Yoo-hoo! Moonbeam!” pull my attention back to the street.
Mom’s hanging out the passenger window, waving both arms, her curls bouncing. Dad, enthusiastic, though not to Mom’s level, waves from behind the wheel. They roll forward until they find a place to pull over, and I hurry their way.
When my mother opens her door and lets loose a pterodactyl screech, several passersby gawk.
“My love is here.” She cups my face and kisses my cheek, then pulls me in for a fierce hug. Her familiar patchouli-infused scent surrounds me. Comforting and safe.
Dad deposits my suitcase in the trunk of the Prius, then joins us on the sidewalk, completing our Nelson family embrace .
A few angry honks break us apart, and we scramble into the car.
Once she’s buckled, Mom twists around and props her chin on her seat, checking me over. “Your spirit is tired, love. Worried. Happy, but worried.”
“That about sums it up.” I give her a weak smile.
“Hmm.” She searches my face, so much love in her hazel eyes that I have to fist my hands in my sweater to keep my emotions in check. “You and that hunk of yours are in deep. But you’ve come to a bump in the road, and you’re not sure how to get over it. What is it? A miscommunication?”
My mother’s ability to read me like a book never ceases to amaze me.
When I called to tell them that I was coming down for a couple of days, I mentioned the interview, but I didn’t mention that Griffin had signed for another year and that we might have to endure a lengthy separation.
On the drive home, I spill all the details. The shock of the contract extension, my gut instinct to take this interview, my guilt about missing the game tonight, and how torn I am about the possibility of having to move if I’m offered the job.
By the time Dad pulls into the driveway and parks beside his car’s twin, I’m emotional and exhausted. But walking up the flagstone driveway to my childhood home never fails to bring me joy. The cozy 1950s ranch-style house is turquoise, with a slanted roof and palm tree sentinels in the front yard. As always, the sight of it makes me think of cartwheels and bomb pops and flip-flops. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the sunscreen and grilled hot dogs and chlorine of my youth.
My parents’ eclectic tastes greet me when I take off my shoes at the door and relish the feel of the cool white tile beneath my feet. The rattan couch and chairs with bold, vibrant floral cushions are inviting, but my weary body needs more comfort than they can provide .
Mom, as usual, reads my mind. “Why don’t you go lay down for a bit? Dad’s grilling kebabs for dinner. I’ll wake you when they’re ready, then we’ll watch the game.”
My childhood bedroom is like a Brynn time-capsule. The sage-green walls Dad and I painted for my sixteenth birthday. The white wicker bookshelf that’s stuffed to the brim with books that chart the evolution of my life—from Tomie dePaola picture books to Judy Blume chapter books to Jane Austen novels. The dragon statues and snow globes I left behind clutter the built-in shelves in the little desk nook, and the closet door is still papered with fanciful dragon posters.
I stretch out on the lavender chenille bedspread and send Griff a couple of more texts. He won’t respond, and it’s possible he might not even see them until after the game, but I want him to know I’m thinking about him.
I’m always thinking about him.
Missing my boyfriend and my emotional support stuffed dragon, I curl up on my side, clasp my rose quartz pendant, and let the promise of a restorative nap pull me under.
I wake when the sun is low in the sky, and the aroma of grilled meat and vegetables wafts in through the screened patio door. I change into loungewear and find Mom in the kitchen, mixing rum runners.
“Sleep well, love?” she says with a kiss to my head. “Dinner should be ready in a few.”
We eat steak and shrimp kebabs at the round glass-top table while pregame commentary blares from the TV in the living room. The media has called the Blues the underdogs all week, and tonight they double down on that label. Every analyst on the broadcast picks the opposing team to win.
Mom and Dad insist they’ll handle dinner clean-up and shoo me away, so I settle on the end of the couch with a second cocktail and take in the details of the field. Mounds of snow decorate the sidelines, and the wind chill at kickoff is three degrees. Needless to say, when the guys aren’t on the field, they huddle under huge, heavy coats.
Mom has dropped onto the couch beside me by the time Griffin’s face flashes on the screen. Grasping my arm, she cheers. “Ooh, all that testosterone. My Moonbeam is a lucky girl. Has he used the pillow trick yet?”
“Mom.” I roll my eyes at Dad. He, of course, shakes his head and gives my mother an indulgent smile.
The game is a nail-biter, and the teams are equally matched as they battle for possession. My heart rate elevates every time the lead changes, and there are times I grip Mom’s hand as tightly as Paige held mine last weekend.
Griff takes a hard hit in the third quarter, and I hold my breath when he doesn’t get up right away. An eternity seems to pass before he reaches for Tyrell to help him off the turf.
Though the conditions are awful, the Blues’ teamwork and focus are not. They play with grit the entire game and give their opponents one hell of a challenge, but it’s not enough. They lose the game by three points, and their season is over.
My heart aches for them. For my adopted city.
“So sorry, Moonbeam. They can hold their heads high knowing they gave their all.” My dad’s voice is choked with emotion.
Mom rubs soothing circles on my back as tears stream down my cheeks. When the cameras cut to the heartbroken faces of Blues players, the ache in my chest grows heavier. There’s a shot of Griffin consoling a teary Devon that turns my tears into sobs.
Dad shuts off the TV.
Unable to come up with adequate words of solace for Griff, I choose three truthful ones that I hope will bring him a modicum of comfort tonight.
I love you .
I don’t try to call him, though I long to hear his voice. He and his teammates need space to grieve and heal together. So I scrub my face and climb into bed, and within minutes, sleep takes me.
“It’s not Sunday,” I say to my dad the next morning when I find him standing at the stove, cooking french toast.
As I peck his cheek, he shrugs. “It’s your favorite.”
I’m slipping a pod into the coffee maker when Mom floats down the hall in a floral kaftan, a main staple of her wardrobe. She kisses my brow before she grabs Dad’s face and plants one on him—the kind of kiss no grown woman wants to witness between her parents. When she finally cuts him loose, she wipes his lips with her thumb.
“Remind me to reapply, love.”
When our plates are loaded with syrupy, powdery goodness, I dig in eagerly. “Did I tell y’all that Griff has made french toast for me a couple times?” I ask between forkfuls.
My parents cut their eyes at each other, their expressions abnormally serious.
Spine snapping straight, I rest my fork on my plate, french toast all but forgotten. “What is it?” My pulse quickens as my imagination runs rampant with dire scenarios and possible diagnoses. And when Mom slips her hand in Dad’s, I gulp a painful swallow.
They continue to side-eye each other, but when he tilts his head my way in encouragement, my mother takes my clammy hand in her warm, soft one. “We need to talk to you.”
My fear is so acute, I can’t form words.
“We don’t want you to move back to Florida,” she says, wearing a pitying smile.
I rear back. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, shoot, that came out wrong.” She shakes her head. “What I mean is, we don’t want you to move back here for us . If we’re the reason you’re job hunting down here, then you can put a stop to it.”
I pinch my brows together, my stomach tightening. “You…you don’t want me to move back home?”
“Not if it’s solely for our benefit, Moonbeam.” Dad takes my other hand, the Nelson family circle complete. “We don’t want you to feel obligated to look after us. Even when we’re old and senile, we have plans in place. You deserve to live your life without the burden of caring for aging parents—”
“You’re not a burden. You’re my family .” My voice cracks, and tears crest my lashes, mascara be damned.
“That’s right. We’re your family, not your responsibility. We want you to live your life, Brynn. Enjoy that hunk of yours, travel the world, chase the stars. And when you’re ready, have some babies.” Mom squeezes my hand. “He’s your family now, too.”
I shake my head, bewildered. “What if I want to move here? What if I want this job?”
Dad leans back, chin lifted. “Do you? Truly?”
I open my mouth, only to snap it closed.
Do I? I was certain that I needed to check it out, sure that it was a sign when I couldn’t stop thinking about that email.
But now?
Mom’s eyes grow misty. “Brynn Amethyst Nelson, we’ve been waiting thirty years for you to spread your wings and fly. I mean really fly. Sure you went off to college on your own, and then to graduate school. But you made those big girl moves because you thought they were expected of you. Then you followed a man who didn’t deserve you to an unfamiliar city because you thought you loved him. But you didn’t take flight—put yourself first—until you met Griffin. With him, you soar , baby girl.”
Like a badass dragon.
My stomach clenches. Have I put myself and the man I love through hell for nothing? Did a sense of obligation to my parents masquerade as real interest in a job ?
I shake my head. “There’s no harm in me going to the interview. I should be well informed about my options.” When I push away from the table, they’re wearing matching sad smiles. “I just…I just need to do this.”
“We’ll be here when you get back, love.”
I rush down to the hall bathroom and grab a tissue to erase my raccoon eyes, then into the bedroom to grab the blazer I brought to wear with my pencil skirt and silk blouse. The university is over an hour away, and I want to get there in plenty of time to scope out the campus before my interview.
I blow a kiss to my parents, who remain at the table like a pair of disappointed statues, and grab the key fob to Dad’s car. After tossing my purse, portfolio, and blazer into the passenger seat, I cruise out of the neighborhood and onto the highway.
As I settle into the drive, the shock and confusion that hit me during the conversation with my parents come crashing back.
But so does the truth of my mom’s statement. Until Griffin, I based every major life decision on the perceived expectations of others. As the child of unconventional parents, I chose the safe routes and stuck to them rather than veering off to forge my own path. Even keeping my dragon obsession from my friends because I was afraid they would find it odd. I caved when Jack begged me to move to Memphis because I didn’t want to disappoint him. And I stayed in that relationship well past its expiration date out of obligation to him and our shared history. I pursued a master’s degree and a doctorate rather than taking the scary leap to chase my dream—to become a published author.
This teaching opportunity appeared in my inbox, and its proximity to my parents led me to believe that I needed to try for it.
It isn’t what I want. But I’ve convinced myself that I’m supposed to want it.
Because wanting it means I’m doing the right thing—putting my parents first.
But it’s time to put myself first.
And putting myself first means finishing my book, then pursuing a path to publish it. It means nurturing and deepening the friendships I’ve made over the past few months. And experiencing new adventures in the city that’s become my home.
It means spending every minute I can with the man I love. Because, like my mother promised, he does make me soar. His love and acceptance have made me the absolute best version of myself—a woman who is confident, brave, and strong.
A woman who is ready to choose herself and follow her heart. And Griffin is my heart. Where he goes, I’ll go. Even if he’s traded to rainy Seattle or mile-high Denver or freezing-cold Buffalo. Even if he stays in magical Memphis.
Tears stream as I exit the highway and turn in at a roadside gas station. I pull down the visor and scowl at my reflection. At the eyes that no longer hold the makeup I applied this morning. At the way it instead runs in rivulets down my tear-stained cheeks. Certain I stuck a tissue in my blazer’s pocket, I angle over the center console to dig it out. Instead of fluff, my fingers close around a small, pointy plastic object.
I know what it is before I pull it out.
A tiny dragon.
A fresh batch of tears overwhelm me as scenes from the last few months spin through my mind: Me, reaching for his hand on a Memphis sidewalk. Him, snapping a picture of me where the King once stood. Me, beating him at Skee-Ball. Him, hugging me tight next to a miniature river. Me, confessing my secret author aspirations. Him, acting shocked every time I discover one of these little dragons hidden all over the apartment.
The two of us, laughing and fumbling our way through a secret handshake.
Every beautiful, brilliant moment of Memphis Magic.
I want to go home. To him .
And I want to tell him in person, not over the phone. Tonight.
Mind made up, and more clear-headed than I’ve been in days, I dig my phone out of my purse. Somehow, I steady my voice enough to make an apologetic, sincere phone call to the university’s HR department, thanking them for the opportunity, but letting them know that I won’t make it to the interview.
Next, I consider calling my parents and asking them to look up flights while I drive back. Instead, I drop my phone into the cupholder, anxious to get back so we can have the conversation in person.
I make it home in record time, grabbing only my phone and tiny dragon friend, then rush into the house. I kick off my heels at the door and stumble to the kitchen, where my parents are puttering.
“Hey,” I breathe, heart racing and breaths coming fast. “I need to look up flights. I’m not interviewing, and I need to get home. Dad, where’s the laptop? Mom, would you mind getting my toiletries while I pack everything else?”
It isn’t until I’ve fired off all my directives that I realize they’re staring at me, unmoving, with huge grins on their faces.
“What’s going on? Let’s move.” I flap my hands. “Come on, I’ll explain—”
Mom’s eyes dart to a spot over my shoulder, stopping my panic, and a shiver coasts down my spine.
Because there’s a presence behind me. One I recognize without turning around.
I cover my mouth with a hand, and Mom bobs her head in the tiniest nod.
He’s here.
When I spin on my stockinged toes, I come face to face with an NFL heartthrob standing in the hall entry.
I drink in the sight of him like he’s an oasis. Eyes the color of the cloudless sky outside. Dark hair and brows and a beard that covers his chiseled jawline. Broad shoulders and large hands and muscly thighs.
His throat bobs, his swallow audible. “You’re not going to the interview?”
I shake my head.
He takes a step closer.
“You’re coming home?”
I nod, and he takes another step.
“To stay?”
This time, I move toward him. “To stay.”
With only a foot separating us, he gives me a once-over. On his way back up, his attention catches on the little plastic figure I’m clutching to my chest.
He steals it from my grasp, holds it up, and clears his throat. “Hardy and Celeste, did you know you can order a package of two hundred mini dragons for like fifty bucks?”
A sob escapes me, and then I’m hauled into his chest. He holds me so tight, it’s hard to breathe. I vaguely register the sound of my parents slipping out the sliding door.
“I’m so sorry about the game.” The words stutter out as I cling to him. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there. And about the interview.”
“Shh,” he soothes. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You had to figure it out.”
“I did figure it out.” I pull back, and when he cradles my face and kisses my cheeks and lips, I bask in the affection. “I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not. You spent months showing me the magic of the city you love, hoping I’d learn to love it, too. And I do—the food and people and music and soul. But for me, the real magic of Memphis is you , Griff.”
“Love you so much, baby.” His lips brush mine. “You’re perfect. We’re perfect.”
That night, after my parents treat us to dinner at their favorite seafood restaurant, we lay awake in my childhood bedroom, talking for hours about the future. Eventually, we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
There’s another tearful airport goodbye with my parents the next morning, but we part knowing we’ll see each other again in a few weeks. Seth forwarded their travel itinerary after Griff called him last night.
As we hustle through the concourse to make our flight, he asks, “Excited to go home, professor?”
“Excited to go anywhere with you.”
He smiles at me over his shoulder, then reaches back, fingers fluttering. Grinning, I link my fingers through his and let him lead me home.