Chapter Five A Pretend Hot Person #3
Now, I’m not completely naive, okay? Let’s look at the obvious: If I had his help, it would make this pitch easier. Plain and simple. If he could make the music, I’d have time for everything else. It’d be difficult, but hard work and lack of sleep have never been a problem for me.
If he could make music…I could probably pitch in March.
“I like Birds on the Block, y’know,” Griffin says.
“Wait, you’ve watched it?”
“Bernie Bird was an afternoon staple as a kid, yeah. He sort of is now. Before he went off streaming.”
“Why are you watching it as an adult?” I smile. “Griffin, are you still learning your ABC’s?”
“Every single one. Still struggling with E, though.”
Griffin jokes when he wants to. I appreciate that.
“Ah, that dastardly E,” I banter.
He smiles. I smile back.
And weirdly, I believe him. Maybe Birds does matter to him. Who am I to say it doesn’t?
He truly wants to help, and his help could change everything.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess.
“That’s fine.”
“And I can’t guarantee anything will even come from this.”
“I know.”
“And if I fail, your music would be for nothing.”
“Always risky to chase dreams.”
I narrow my eyes. He lifts an eyebrow back.
I can hear my family now, telling me I’m ridiculous for even considering not working with Griffin Harvey. Rob might lock me out of his room forever. My mom would tell me it’s irresponsible. She’s realistic like that. Nana would simply say I’m self-sabotaging.
Am I?
If I refused an opportunity to carry on her late husband’s legacy simply because I didn’t want to get involved with another musician, she’d be devastated. Would I seriously let my own insecurities ruin a dream for myself? Would I let Beau ruin this for me?
I couldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding. “Fine. I accept.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
It’s not definitive. In fact, it’s barely a confirmation. But it’s something.
I’m surprised when Griffin’s lips tip into a gentle smile. A little sliver of perfect white teeth peeks past his beard. The smile reminds me a little of home. The scruffy mountain type. It’s not cocky. It’s kind.
Moment by moment, I slowly smile back. I’m not sure why. Maybe because his smile is stunning when he lets it be. Maybe because it feels like a secret we’re sharing.
Maybe this could be good.
The moment turns delicate and quiet.
It’s soft and understanding.
It’s actually kind of nice, up until it isn’t.
Until a shadow floats into our space to loom over our table.
Until I hear, “Beverly?”
And then my heart stops.
I know that voice.
I swivel my eyes to the space between the curtains of the booth, where a tall, slender man towers over us.
“Beau,” I breathe.
Speak of the devil.
I’ve never been to Hell, obviously, but I was once in a play where I puppeteered Satan himself.
He was a surprisingly cute, fluffy red monster with a curled mustache and monocle, but that was offset by a stuffy fog machine and hot stage lights.
There were no fewer than seven of us smashed together under that set with our hands stuffed up the rear ends of playful devils.
We were coated in sticky sweat by the end of it.
Being on that stage for more than ten minutes felt like Hell.
This is worse.
A bead of sweat runs down the center of my back. Oh no, it’s already starting.
“Hi,” I answer.
Beau stares, and it holds me in place more than I wish it did.
He was once a punk rocker teen, but he rebranded when he moved to Los Angeles.
No more eyeliner—just wire-rimmed glasses.
Instead of skinny jeans, he wears a blazer and casual slacks.
His hair, once a charming ginger, is dyed brown.
Chin length. Slightly curled. A professor that students could dream about.
“What are you doing here?” Beau asks without preamble.
Because I don’t belong in a place like this.
“Dinner,” I say obviously. The word is garbled in my throat. There’s a reason he was the one who performed in the spotlight and I was behind a partition. I preferred it that way, but it’s also because his words are smooth like butter, just like his singing voice.
“That’s great,” he responds. This voice isn’t as buttery, though. The sentence sounds a lot like a pitying That’s cute.
“Hey, man,” Griffin says. I almost forgot he was there.
It’s odd how two men in the same career can look so different. Beau is tall and slender. Lanky, but approachable. I hate that it works for him. But Griffin is all hardness—muscles, hands, and jaw. Wild hair. Thick beard. Tattooed arms like carved, graffitied tree trunks.
“Oh. Hey, Griffin,” Beau says stiffly. So all musicians know one another. Great. Perfect.
“How do you know Beverly?” Griffin asks.
“We dated,” I say at the same time Beau murmurs, “High school friends.”
My eyes grow wide. My lips part.
“Friends?” I ask.
Friends?
We dated for fourteen years. Went to prom.
Lost our virginities to each other. He lived with my family while he got his career off the ground.
He was the brother that my brother always wanted.
Beau and I talked about marriage, babies, and sitting on the front porch one day with wrinkly genitalia and not-so-wrinkly dentures.
Friends?
“Wait…this is her?” Griffin asks. “The high school girlfriend?” He swivels his gaze to meet mine. His brown eyes pierce like a sword through my chest. My stomach drops. “You’re the ex.”
Mortification squeaks down my spine like ice.
No. No no no.
I thought my relationship with Beau was forgotten by the world. That I was forgotten. I prefer it that way. But I guess nobody truly forgets how the sad hometown girl got dumped. I wonder if I’m a cautionary tale. Beau’s ex who’s a clinger. A star banger.
The man in the booth across from us is staring.
I avert my eyes.
We’re ruining other people’s dinners now.
Beau tsks. “Should have known.”
“Known what?” Griffin asks.
“She has a thing for musicians. Probably talked about me already, huh?”
Griffin’s jaw flexes. “No.”
I would laugh if I wasn’t seconds away from vomiting.
Beau tsks again. “Well, good luck.”
Yep, definitely gonna vomit.
“What’s that mean?” Griffin asks.
“She only dates musicians.” And then he winks. Winks. In an if you catch my drift way.
Oh God. Not this. Please not this.
One time. Beau ran into me on a date with another musician one time.
I met the guy through a dating app. I didn’t even know he was up and coming.
It seemed like he didn’t, either, because he looked genuinely shocked when we were stopped, like, fifty times for an autograph.
But that wasn’t why I went on the date. He told me he liked John Hughes movies, and I liked John Hughes movies and—
Griffin shifts in his seat, raising an arm over the back of the booth. Relaxed. Confident. If only I could absorb some of that right now.
Be yourself, Finch said.
Well, there are parts of myself I’d rather bury.
Beau wasn’t always like this. I don’t know who this man is.
Griffin sniffs in a cocky, knowing way.
Oh God, he’s gonna take back this entire dinner. He knows who I am. He doesn’t want to work with me.
“Well, Beau,” he says. “I’m actually gonna need you to apologize.”
My body tenses. Somehow that is worse.
I shake my head. “No, Griffin, he really doesn’t—”
“Because I don’t tolerate anyone talking like that to my woman.”
“Your woman?” Beau sneers.
“Yes. My girlfriend.”
Just like that, my jaw drops.
Beau’s jaw drops.
The man at the table across from ours drops his jaw too.
Rob is never gonna believe this.