Chapter 11 #2
“O llevar su corazón roto,” AbuelaNovela added, looking directly at me.
“She's just trying to say you're very athletic,” Tempest translated with forced brightness.
Dinner was organized chaos. Grandma and Grandpa De Le Reine drove over from their vacation house and we had three sets of grandparents sharing stories, comparing photos on phones, arguing about whether Denver or LA had better weather.
Artie and I fell into our natural rhythm.
She knew I hated brussels sprouts so she took them off my plate, I passed her the hot sauce before she asked for it, we shared the garlic bread without discussing it.
“You two have such wonderful chemistry,” AbuelaNovela announced. “Like dancers who know each other's every move.”
“We've been friends for a long time,” Artie explained, completely missing the implication.
“Friends.” AbuelaNovela said it like she was tasting something bitter. “What a waste of passion.”
“Abuela,” Tempest looked mortified.
“What? I'm old. I can say what I want.”
Flynn was trying so hard not to laugh he was turning red. Nana and Coach were watching everything with interest. And Artie? Artie was helping herself to more enchiladas.
A couple days later, we took the grandparents to Santa Monica Pier. It was touristy and cheesy and exactly what they wanted, street performers, overpriced snacks, the works.
Nana and Coach walked ahead, stopping to watch a guy juggling flaming batons. Artie and I hung back, and I saw my opportunity.
“Hey,” I said, taking her hand. “Perfect practice opportunity.”
She looked down at our joined hands, then up at me. “Here? But your grandparents—“
“Won't even notice. Look, they're completely absorbed in that mime.” I interlaced our fingers properly, the way couples did. “Hand holding in public. Very couple-like. This is exactly the kind of practice you need.”
“Right. Practice.” But her cheeks were pink, and she didn't pull away.
We walked the pier like that, hand in hand.
I rubbed my thumb over her knuckles the way I'd wanted to for months.
When we passed a cotton candy vendor, I bought her one without asking—pink, because I knew she liked strawberry everything.
At the ring toss, I won her a stuffed goat that made her laugh so hard she snorted.
“You're really good at this,” she said, squeezing my hand.
“At ring toss?”
“At the boyfriend stuff. The hand holding, the cotton candy, winning me prizes. Some girl is going to be really lucky.”
The words were a knife between my ribs, but I kept smiling. “Maybe I'm just good with you.”
She laughed like I'd made a joke. “Well, yeah. You know me better than anyone.”
I caught Nana glancing back at us, saw her note our joined hands, the way Artie was pressed against my side. She didn't say anything, just smiled and turned back to watch Coach argue with the mime about proper juggling technique.
Thursday evening was Artie's rugby scrimmage. She'd mentioned it casually at breakfast, but Nana had immediately demanded to come watch.
“Your grandparents want to come watch? Really?” Artie seemed genuinely delighted.
“They've adopted you,” I said. “Resistance is futile.”
At the facility, I barely had time to warn Artie before my grandparents became THOSE grandparents.
The second Artie made her first tackle, Coach was on his feet like a human megaphone. “THAT'S OUR ARTIE! SHOW THEM HOW IT'S DONE!”
“GET HER!” Nana bellowed when Artie was running with the ball. “RUN THROUGH THEM!”
Other spectators were turning to stare. Some of the other players' families looked genuinely alarmed by the two seventy-something-year-olds screaming like they were at WrestleMania.
Artie scored a try, and both my grandparents lost their minds.
“THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!” Coach roared. “DID YOU SEE THAT FOOTWORK?”
“NOBODY CAN STOP OUR GIRL!” Nana added.
Artie was laughing so hard she could barely run back to position. Her face was red, but she was glowing. After a particularly brutal tackle that sent her opponent flying, she immediately looked to the sideline.
I gave her a huge grin and double thumbs up, my chest tight with pride. God, I loved watching her play. She was magnificent, powerful and graceful and completely in her element.
But what got me most was the way she kept looking for my grandparents' reaction, the way she lit up when they cheered for her. Like she'd been waiting her whole life for grandparents who'd embarrass her with their enthusiasm.
“She's something special,” Coach said, sitting down next to me during a break.
“Yeah, she is.”
“The way you look at her, sweetheart...” Nana said softly.
“We're practicing. Trust exercises. For her dating confidence.”
Nana's expression said she wasn't buying a word of it, but she just patted my knee and went back to screaming encouragement when play resumed.
That night, after my grandparents had gone to bed, Artie and I were cleaning up the kitchen.
“Your grandparents are wonderful,” she said, drying dishes while I washed. “I can't believe how loud they were at the scrimmage.”
“They love you.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I almost added “I love you too,” but caught myself just in time.
“I love them too. I never had grandparents like that. Mine were all very... proper. Quiet.” She stretched, rolling her shoulders. “God, that scrimmage was rough though. I'm gonna have a huge bruise on my ass tomorrow.”
“You were incredible out there.”
She smiled at me, soft and pleased. “You always say that.”
“Because it's always true.”
There was a moment, standing in our kitchen, dishes half-done, her looking at me with something I couldn't quite read in her eyes. The air felt charged, like the moment before our eye contact exercises, but without the excuse of practice.
“Do you think we should move on to more, umm, intimate exercises? I didn't feel too off-kilter or awkward with anything this week. Although you surprised me with that hand holding thing.” she said finally.
“Yeah,” I agreed, dying inside that this was still just practice to her. “Whatever you need.”
I watched her walk away, heading to bed, and once again felt like I'd missed the perfect opportunity to tell her what was in my heart.
I went to bed too, but I couldn't sleep and went to the kitchen for water and found Nana sitting at the island with a cup of tea.
“Couldn't sleep either?” I asked.
“Old habits.” She patted the stool next to her. “Sit with me.”
I sat, and we were quiet for a moment before she spoke.
“That girl doesn't know you're in love with her.”
“Nana—“
“I see how you're trying to show her. The hand holding, the cotton candy, the way you watch her play like she hung the moon.” She sipped her tea. “But, sweetheart, sometimes you have to use words.”
“She doesn't see me that way.”
“Doesn't she? Or have you just not given her the chance?” She stood, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Don't wait too long, Gryffen. The things we don't say have a way of becoming the things we regret.”
She left me sitting in the dark kitchen, thinking about all the moments from this week. How natural it felt holding Artie's hand at the pier. How she'd looked for me after that tackle. How she fit perfectly in my life, my home, my family.
Tomorrow was our first preseason game. Artie would be there watching me play professionally for the first time. Maybe if she saw me in my element, doing what I was born to do, maybe she'd finally see ME.
Or maybe I'd just keep torturing myself with trust exercises and stolen moments, pretending to teach her how to be with other men while dying to show her she should be with me.
I stood in my dark kitchen, in the house I shared with the woman I loved, with my grandparents asleep down the hall, and wondered how much longer I could keep this up.
The answer, I knew, was as long as she needed me to.
Even if it killed me.