Chapter 11
ACCIDENTALLY IN LOVE
GRYFF
The morning sun streaming through our kitchen windows was perfect, golden and warm, the kind of light that made everything look like a movie.
Artie was sitting at the island in that one Dragons t-shirts of mine that she'd stolen and soft pajama pants, her hair in a messy bun, completely unaware of how the light was making her glow like some kind of breakfast angel.
“Hey.” She smiled at me and handed over a cup of coffee. “How do you feel this morning?”
About being this close to kissing her last night?
She popped the top off the fancy honeycomb creamer I liked and poured just the right amount into my cup. “I don't have even the slightest hangover. Do you?”
Oh, right. She meant after all those strawberry margaritas we'd had. “Nope. I think Tempest accidentally on purpose forgot to add the tequila.”
“So... that means everything I told you, everything we, well, we were a hundred percent sober.” She set her head down, forehead to the marble. “It wasn't the tequila talking, just me admitting all the things wrong with my sex life.”
She'd had the guts to admit that out loud, why couldn't I say what was in my heart?
Because what if it fucked up everything? I really fucking needed to figure out a plan. What worried me was what if that plan had to be how to live my life without her in it when I told her exactly how I felt and she didn't feel the same.
I already knew she didn't. She'd said as much last night.
“Artie, babe,” I stroked her hair. “I don't regret anything we talked about or did last night. You shouldn't ever be embarrassed to tell me anything.”
She kept her head down and shook it. “Why are you so good to me?”
“You're my girl.” That was a movie quote, and I'd been trying to lighten the mood a little, but it came out totally sincere. Probably because it was.
She finally sat back up, smiling. “Just like peas and carrots.”
I held up my mug to cheers, and she clinked her coffee to mine. After a few minutes she peered over the top of the mug at me. “Should we, do you want to, you know, maybe, try the eye contact thing again?”
My heart did that stupid stuttering thing it had been doing ever since last night.
“Sure,” I said, setting down my mug. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
“Exactly.” She shifted on her stool to face me properly. “Maybe it won't feel so intense this time? That's the point, right?”
Right. Friends aren't supposed to want to lean in and kiss their friends. Because that's what we were. Friends who stared into each other's eyes and practiced intimacy and definitely didn't almost kiss every single time.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Ready.”
Our eyes met, and immediately I knew this was going to be worse than yesterday. The morning light was turning her blue eyes almost silver, and she'd been biting her lip while reading something on her phone, so it was slightly swollen and pink and…
One breath in and her breathing had already changed. I could see her pulse jumping in her throat. Her hands were wrapped around her coffee mug, knuckles white from gripping it too hard.
A few seconds more and she leaned in slightly, probably unconsciously. I found myself matching the movement, drawn to her like gravity was personally invested in my torture.
Time slowed, and we might have been there for ten seconds or ten minutes or ten hours or ten years.
Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes darkened. The kitchen island between us felt like both a blessing and a curse, keeping us apart but not far enough to break this magnetic pull.
“Gryff,” she whispered, and the way she said my name made every nerve in my body light up.
Neither of us looked away. Again.
We sat there, frozen, breathing the same air, the moment stretching between us like taffy. I was about to do something monumentally stupid, like confess everything or kiss her senseless, when my phone buzzed on the counter feeling like a goddamned earthquake.
We jumped apart so fast Artie nearly fell off her stool.
“Nana” flashed on my screen with a photo of her holding a foam finger at one of my college games.
“Hey, Nana,” I answered, trying not to sound like I'd just been eye-fucking my roommate.
“We just landed, sweetheart. On our way to the luggage claim. Ready for pickup whenever you can get here.”
My brain short-circuited. “You're... at LAX? Now?”
“Yes, dear. For your big game on Sunday. Remember?” I completely forgot my own grandparents were headed into town for a few weeks to visit at my father’s request.
He wanted to come himself but he was recovering from knee surgery brought on after years of the wear and tear of being an athlete. He had tried to make an escape and come anyway on the family jet but my Aunt Kik was now playing warden and making him stick to his rehab routine.
“Fuck.” I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Sorry, Nana. I mean... shoot. I just didn't realize what day it was. Sorry.”
Artie was already laughing, her hand over her mouth. “You forgot your grandparents were coming?”
“We'll get a car if you're busy—“ Nana started.
“No, no, I'm coming. Forty-five minutes-ish. Don't move.”
I hung up and looked at Artie, who was now fully cackling.
“You forgot your grandparents.”
“I've been distracted.” I gestured vaguely between us.
“Oh my god, they're staying here. In our guest room, aren't they?” Her eyes went wide. “The guest room that currently has my rugby gear all over it.”
“Shit.”
We both bolted from the kitchen.
The drive to LAX gave me too much time to think. Specifically, about yesterday's conversation with Artie where she'd made it crystal clear that she didn't see me romantically. Six years of friendship without anything happening was her proof that we weren't meant to be anything more.
But these exercises... they were my chance. If I couldn't tell her how I felt, and I couldn't, not without risking everything, maybe I could show her. Every practice moment was an opportunity to demonstrate how good we could be together. How natural. How right.
She just needed to see it.
By the time I got to arrivals, I had a plan. The new play, Show Artie We're Perfect Together, was officially in motion.
Nana and Coach were waiting at pickup, looking exactly the same as always. Nana in one of her signature tracksuits that she claimed was athletic wear despite not playing competitively or coaching in a thousand years, and Coach in his uniform of a plaid flannel shirt with jeans and suspenders.
Nana squeezed me tight, then pulled back to study my face. “You look good. Happy. California agrees with you.”
“It's been good,” I admitted.
“And how's Artemis? Still putting up with you?”
“She's great. She's at the house, setting up your room.” I grabbed their bags. “Fair warning, she might have stress-cleaned everything. She was worried about making a good impression.”
“That sweet girl,” Nana said, exchanging a look with Coach that I couldn't quite read. “As if we haven't already adopted her.”
The drive home was filled with updates about family, Isak's new quarterback position this semester at Denver State, Jules's adjustment to UCLA, Everett and Penelope's wedding we got the save the date for in the mail.
When we got home, Artie had indeed stress-cleaned. The house looked like a magazine spread, she'd put fresh flowers in the guest room, and she was wearing actual clothes instead of my stolen t-shirts, jeans and a soft v-neck t-shirt that made her look touchable in the most dangerous way.
“Nana, Coach.” She hugged them both like they were her own grandparents. “I'm so glad you're here. How was the flight?”
And just like that, she was in full hostess mode, getting them drinks, asking about their plans, showing them where everything was in the guest room.
I watched her move through our house—our house—like she belonged there, because she did.
She knew where we kept the extra towels, which coffee mugs were for guests, how to work the complicated TV remote that had taken me three weeks to figure out.
“Look at you two,” Nana said, settling into our couch with her iced tea. “So domestic.”
“Turns out we're really good roommates,” Artie said quickly.
“Mmm-hmm.” Nana's tone was perfectly neutral, but I'd heard that particular “mmm-hmm” my whole life. It meant she saw everything and would be commenting on it later. “And Artie, Flynn tells us you're working for one of those sports companies?”
“PerformanceFirst,” Artie nodded, settling next to me on the loveseat without thinking about it. Our thighs touched. I tried not to react. “I work in their accounting department, helping with payroll and stuff. It's only three days a week, so I can keep up with rugby training.”
“That's wonderful,” Coach said. “Using that accounting degree. Your mother must be proud.”
“She is.” Artie's smile was genuine. “It's actually perfect. I get to use my business skills while staying connected to sports.”
“Smart girl,” Nana said, then looked at me. “You could learn something about planning ahead.”
“I have a plan,” I protested. “Play football. Win the Big Bowl. Retire.”
“That's not a plan, that's a wish list,” Coach said, but he was smiling.
That evening, we headed to Flynn and Tempest's for dinner. AbuelaNovela and AbueLeo had arrived that afternoon, and Tempest warned us she was “in full dramatic mode.”
We weren't prepared.
AbuelaNovela took one look at Artie and me walking in together, not even touching, just walking side by side, and pressed her hand to her heart with a gasp that would've won her an Emmy.
“?Ay, el amor no correspondido! ?El anhelo! ?La tragedia!”
Tempest quickly intervened. “She says she's so happy to see everyone.”
But I knew enough from Flynn's smirk that's not what she said.
“Abuela, please,” Tempest hissed.
AbuelaNovela waved her off and grabbed Artie's hands. “You are so beautiful, mija. Such power and grace. You could carry a man to safety.”
“Um, thank you?” Artie looked delighted and confused.