Chapter 22
Griffin
Eleanor is coming to my house. For real.
I think.
I’ve read her last text at least thirty times, searching for any other possible meaning behind “be there in twenty.” Honest to God, I’ve thought of everything. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I really can’t come up with any other explanation. She’s actually coming over.
Part of me feels guilty—like maybe I’m taking advantage of her, even if I don’t mean to. She’s obviously had an awful week. Am I being selfish, inviting her over when she’s vulnerable?
The other, bigger part of me? He’s just excited to breathe the same air as her again. I feel like I haven’t taken a full breath since the wind got knocked out of me when everything went sideways. Over a cliff. On fire.
I know it’s not rational to be so wrapped up in this girl. We were only really friends for a few months–even if it feels like life didn’t really exist before her.
The thought of her being lonely, even for a second, absolutely guts me.
God knows I’ve been lonely too. I feel a flicker of hope spark in my chest–maybe when we’re together again, it’ll be like no time has passed and neither of us will have to be lonely again.
Maybe she’s the solution to my lonely. And hopefully, I can be hers.
Great, a handful of texts and I’m already back to waxing poetic.
I pace up and down the entryway, anxious as hell for her to get here. I’m also trying to figure out a way to tell her my situation without expanding on it–she’s inevitably going to ask where my parents are, but tonight is about her feelings. My sob story can wait for next time.
Please let there be a next time.
A knock on the door stops me dead in my tracks.
Holy shit. Okay. Don’t fuck this up.
I inhale a shaky breath, and when I open the door I damn near fall to my knees.
The backlighting from the porch light gives her a sort of angelic glow–her waist-length blonde waves looking almost fluid, like molten gold. Even in a simple cable knit sweater and jeans, she blows everyone else clear out of the water.
No one else should be allowed to wear cornflower blue again–Eleanor should have exclusive rights to it.
I’m trying not to ogle like a caveman, but I can’t help it when I rake my eyes down her body.
She’s far from the sassy little sprite I met freshman year.
Her sweater clings to her figure, showing off the body she’s grown into.
When I drag my eyes back up to her face and look into those perfect blue eyes, I nearly gasp audibly.
I would happily dive deep into those oceans and never resurface.
There’s a twinge in my chest when I notice they don’t sparkle as bright as they used to.
What did he do to you, darlin’?
The lips usually reserved for some sharp, witty comment–the ones I’ve wanted to kiss since the day I met her–part silently, eyes going wide at my nonexistent attempt to hide the way I drink in her presence.
Without a word, I step back and shamelessly stare at the way her jeans hug what have to be the most perfect hips to ever exist. I can’t begin to fathom what her ass looks like in these Levi’s.
Everything in me wants to pull her close and let my hands roam over every slope and curve.
She came here for company, not so you can maul her like a grizzly bear, you jackass.
Clearing my throat, I break the awkward silence by asking if she wants to go downstairs.
“Where else would we go?” she asks, one of her eyebrows lifting, the smallest of smirks fighting to shine through. She turns and heads downstairs, like no time has passed at all–like she never stopped coming over on Friday nights.
Like David never opened his stupid mouth. Like I didn’t fuck everything up before I even got a chance to start something.
I wish I could say everything feels instantly back to normal, but it’s hard to pretend when every second without her has been agony.
I follow closely behind, treading lightly like one wrong move might spook her. I’m barely breathing with the fear that I might send her bolting again—not just from my house, but from my life.
I nearly crash into her when she stops abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. At first I think maybe she’s seen a bug or something, but once I step around her and get a clear look at her face, I notice her eyes darting back and forth between the couch and the chair.
She doesn’t know where to sit anymore.
Trying to make the decision easier for her without actually addressing the giant 2-years-of-silence sized elephant in the room, I take a seat on the couch, leaving the chair open for her.
There’s no need to point out that no one has sat in that chair since she stopped coming around.
She looks at the chair almost nervously, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I have the sudden urge to launch myself off this couch and see what it would feel like if I was the one biting that lip.
The sudden flare of heat is doused almost instantly when I notice the flicker of hurt in her eyes.
I’ve had to stare at that chair daily, but this is her first time back in this room since the bet.
I wish I had any idea what might be going through her head right now.
I rub my chest, trying to soothe the sharp pain that always comes when I remember how badly I hurt her.
She turns away from the armchair and takes the seat on the opposite end of the couch, crossing her legs and sitting sideways to face me.
I angle my body to mirror hers, and for a moment we just look at each other, neither one of us wanting to be the one to break eye contact first.
“Um, how have you been?” she asks awkwardly.
“I’m fine, darlin’,” I say, avoiding the truth. “But tell me what happened with you.”
“It’s kind of a lot,” she says, dropping her gaze to her hands, wringing them nervously.
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Eleanor.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, she pours out what’s happened the last few weeks, months, years. I didn’t think the guilt could sink any deeper, but it turns out I wasn’t anywhere close to rock bottom.
When she tells me about that shithead Bennett, I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket so she doesn’t see the way my fists clench. If I ever see this clown in public, I don’t know how I’ll hold back from knocking him straight on his ass.
She tells me about the way she’s isolated herself from her mom and even from Abby, and an ache that reaches the very depths of my soul is unbearable.
I did this. If none of this had happened, I’d never have let her spend her birthday alone.
She wouldn’t be this lonely. My beautiful, bright girl has dimmed because I was reckless and stupid.
“...and I just feel like I have no one. So yeah, it’s been kind of a bad week.”
I can tell she’s trying to downplay it, but I don’t miss the tears that well in her eyes, or the way her voice broke on the last word.
I close the gap between us, extending my arm in an invitation to scoot next to me.
For a second I think she’s going to get up and maintain that distance, but a choked sob bursts out of her throat, and she lets me fold her into my arms as she finally lets go of the weight she’s been carrying by herself.
She buries her head in my chest, and I murmur words of comfort into her hair, stroking her back soothingly as her body is wracked with sobs. Once the tears run dry, she pulls back, and I reach up to wipe the them off her cheeks.
I would kiss every tear away if she’d let me.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “Your shirt is soaked now.”
She reaches up to smooth my shirt out, and her touch sends lightning bolts all the way down to my toes.
And one other place in particular.
“Well, it’s a good thing I live here,” I say, trying to lighten the mood (and to give her an out if she’s done talking about her feelings). “I can go change, it’s not a worry. You can ruin my shirt anytime, darlin’.”
She reaches up, grasping the hand that’s still holding her cheek. I figure she’s going to move it, but when I try to pull back she squeezes it, leaning into my touch. The lightning turns to fireworks, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she can hear my heartbeat thundering in my chest.
“I’ve never seen your room,” she says, tilting her head like she can’t believe she’s never considered that. “Can I come with you while you grab a shirt?”
Having Eleanor in my basement has always set me buzzing, but the times I’ve pictured her in my room? Those daydreams definitely aren’t comforting or gentlemanly.
“Yeah, come on,” I say with an attempt at a casual tone, but the strain in my voice is undeniable.
She doesn’t drop my hand as we stand up, or as I lead her up the stairs, or when I open the door to my room. Once we get inside she finally lets go, and the absence of her warmth feels equivalent to taking an ice bath.
She does a slow turn, taking in all of my knick knacks–framed photos, Lego sets I built with my dad, all sorts of posters plastering every inch of my walls. Every second of her assessment makes me feel more self conscious. I open my mouth to break the silence, but she beats me to it.
“This is exactly how I pictured your room,” she says, giving me the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in far too long.
“So you’ve pictured my room before?” I tease, matching her grin with one of my own.
Rolling her eyes, she says “Cool your jets, Griffin Hart. I just meant it feels very…you.”
The knowledge that Eleanor didn’t shove every thought about me completely out of her mind could have me running straight through a brick wall in triumph.
She steps up to my bookshelf, delicately tracing the spines of the few books I have before picking up a picture of me with my parents. It’s one of the last pictures we took together when everything was still happy, and we still felt like an actual family.
With a slight frown, she looks up and asks, “Where are your parents? Are they out tonight?”
Not ready to face that conversation just yet, I give a bullshit answer about having a night away after hosting a big holiday.
Technically not a lie–my mom did host a big Thanksgiving dinner. I just wasn’t invited.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously, and I cave instantly, giving her the cliff notes version of the series of events that ended with me alone in this house.
To my relief, she doesn’t apologize or offer platitudes.
She simply grabs my hand again, squeezing it gently before setting the frame back on the shelf and sitting on the edge of my bed.
Do not imagine having Eleanor in your bed under different circumstances.
I lean against the door frame, trying to memorize every detail of having her in my space. After finishing another long sweep of my room, she looks up at me expectantly–except I have no idea what she’s waiting for.
“Well are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come sit down?” she asks with an exasperated huff.
That’s the last thing I thought she was going to say.
“Oh,” I say, blinking rapidly in surprise. “Did you want to stay up here instead of going back downstairs?”
Her eyes widen, looking mortified. “Right, duh, of course we would go back downstairs. That makes sense.”
She moves to stand up, but I cross the room quickly and grab her by the shoulders, planting her firmly back on my bed.
“Eleanor, it’s fine,” I say with a chuckle. “We could sit on the kitchen floor for all I care. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
She offers a small smile, and I grab a shirt out of my dresser and head to the bathroom to change. When I come back out, Eleanor is sprawled out on my bed, thumbing through the book she found on my nightstand.
I stand at the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do now. I don’t have any chairs in my room, and I don’t know how she would feel about me climbing into bed with her–even if it’s not, you know, climbing into bed with her.
She sets the book back on the bedside table, and turns to look at me, eyebrows raised. Without a word, she pats the spot next to her on the bed, giving me the green light to join her.
With a grin, I settle in next to her, the bed shifting under my weight when I reach across her to grab the remote to put a movie on. I pull up Netflix and ask what she wants to watch.
“I don’t care, Griffin,” she replies with a contented sigh. “Just pick something.”
The problem is, once she lays her head on my shoulder, I suddenly forget how to read–all I can focus on is the flowery scent of her shampoo, the way her arm brushes against mine with every rise and fall of her chest, and the warmth coming not just from her body next to mine, but radiating from the core of my being.
My airway constricts as a heavy realization hits me–for the first time in months, this house feels like a home again.