Chapter Twenty-One The Show Must Go On
Chapter Twenty-One
The Show Must Go On
Beverly
Things aren’t the same when we get back to Elk Grove.
They’re not bad. They’re just…different.
Griffin and I keep our distance. I hit the ground running with my Connection pitch. He holes up to write music.
We’re acting very—capital N—Normal, like we were before the awards show: working and brainstorming, even if we are huddling in our own spaces, meeting up only once a day to share ideas, have dinner, then close up again.
It’s crunch time. It’s do or die.
Scripts are soaring from my calloused fingers, stabbed from sewing puppet samples and rough from gluing felt together. But underneath my headphones drowning out the world, I hear the same phrase on repeat:
I know what I like.
I must have imagined those words in my drunken stupor.
I made an absolute idiot of myself.
He saw me puke.
I brought up his hard penis.
I turn the music louder and accidentally stick myself with the sewing needle once more.
Ugh.
By the time our indoor farmers’ market rolls around, I’ve forgotten how to be a person. The market is held in the enclosed barn on Daisy’s property. Everything smells like hay or wood. I sidestep running kids, mumbling awkward “Sorrys” while trying my best not to focus on the man beside me.
Griffin walks tall and imposing. It makes me wonder if Elk Grove makes babies smaller than the rest of America or if he’s just that big. God, he smells like glorious leather, so I turn my head and breathe in hay instead.
It’s funny going from the busy limo rides in LA, with honking and drinking to pushing a stroller down an aisle of white-tented booths.
Chalkboard signs prop open to advertise flowers, peppers, and jams. A hum of conversation echoes off the lofted ceiling while neighbors clutch hot coffees under their red noses.
And then there’s Griffin “I Know What I Like” Harvey. I visually trace the lines of his face but then sheepishly look away after his eyes snap over.
Ava’s hands extend from the stroller, pointing at Maria’s booth full of jams.
“Good call, Ava,” I say, “We definitely need some more jam in our lives.”
It’s a distraction I’ll take.
I leave Griffin’s side and snag a random jar or two, only to be overwhelmed by his warmth once more. Griffin appears behind me, digging in his back pocket for his cash. He flicks through the folded bills to locate a twenty, then hands it to Maria.
“No,” I say, swatting at it.
He huffs out something like a laugh, but it’s probably pity at how I couldn’t even budge his hand.
Griffin won’t pay for interior decorators, but spending cash on me? On Ava? He can’t burn through it fast enough for us.
Maria smiles at Griffin, taking the bill despite my grimace. “Was the Grammys fun?”
“It was great,” I say, as Maria tucks our jams into a plastic Thank You bag.
“You’re all over the internet now,” she adds. “Did you know that?”
“Are we?” I ask, but the words squeak out.
I know that we’re going viral. I shamefully checked social media under my private account to see what the word was. I needed to make sure I didn’t embarrass him. Instead, I found uncomfortable video essays analyzing our body language and short-form thirst traps of his exposed chest hair.
The internet seems…supportive. For once. It’s not what I’m accustomed to.
“You two looked so good together.”
My instinct is to reach for Griffin’s hand—the show must go on!—but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Something is different now.
Right?
Maybe I’m being paranoid.
But whenever I look around, I see people staring. Eddie, Fran, Maria, Taylor…they saw the same thing the rest of the world did: two people on the red carpet, holding each other intimately.
I hang the plastic bag of jam jars from a handle of Ava’s stroller.
“Thanks, Maria,” I say, quickly steering us back to the river of walkers.
“Everything all right?” Griffin asks.
No, not really, but I feign a smile and nod. “Of course.”
“That’s a lie,” he says.
I roll my eyes with a smile but don’t counter. I can’t lie to him a second time.
“B…”
I like when he murmurs his nickname for me. That’s very real.
Fine, there’s a lot about our relationship that isn’t fake. Like how my heart races thinking about the award show and the party after.
I know what I like.
The words chime through my head like a clock, right on the twelve o’clock hour, over and over and over.
“You can do a lot with this jam, you know,” I say.
Griffin sighs, then smiles. His is also forced. “Oh yeah?”
“PB and J sandwiches. Crackers. Toast.” As I speak, Griffin stares. He’s trying to read my mind; I can feel it. My face is telling on me, the jerk. I’m actively cringing at my own awkwardness.
“Plus, it’s winter, so business is tough,” I say.
“So we bought pity jam, B?” he asks.
“Helpful jam, GP.”
His smile meets his crinkled eyes at my pseudonickname as well.
Real. That is one hundred percent real.
“I like that you think of others,” he says.
My heart—my stupid, silly little thing—absolutely bowls over.
Mom saves me a response when she appears next to me. Her fists grip a small baggy stamped with paw prints. “I got some treats for Steak.”
“Doesn’t he already have a ton?” I ask.
“Daisy says if I want to train him, I could. That I’d have him on a skateboard in a week.”
My dad walks up escorting Nana, who loops her hand through the crook of his elbow. His free hand clutches a flower bouquet. My family wanders like this, leaving conversations and eventually joining back in at will. It’s like good jazz: seemingly random but flowing.
“For me?” Mom asks, ghosting fingers over the bouquet.
“Always for you,” Dad answers.
My dad is a romantic and always has been. I side-eye Griffin and see how he stares at the flowers too, as if he’s considering them as well. He’s a musician. Of course he’s a romantic.
I know what I like.
God, what does it mean?
Every time I try to read it at face value, it feels impossible.
Who do I think I am? What fantasy am I pretending to live in that Griffin, this man who could have any woman he wants, is attracted to me?
Dad sniffs the bag of treats in my mom’s hand. “For Steak?”
“Skateboard in a week,” my mom emphasizes, leaning closer with a smile.
I love the way they look at each other. Griffin doesn’t look at me like that, does he?
“Anyone seen Greg?” Nana asks.
“I thought I saw him with Rob,” I say, peering over to the corner where Polished Shoes was performing. Rob and his friends are now on break, and Uncle Greg is nowhere in sight.
Momma suddenly grasps Nana’s arm.
“Oh my God, Greg is with Daisy,” Mom hiss-whispers. “Look!”
We follow her pointed finger to a stall in the opposite corner of the barn. Uncle Greg is at Daisy’s egg stand. She’s looking down at a clipboard, but his gaze is leveled on her.
“I’m gonna go see what they’re talking about,” Mom says.
Dad groans. “Honey, don’t mess up your brother’s game.”
“Game? What game?” Mom asks. “He’s wearing cargo pants and Crocs.”
“Cheryl…”
“Let’s go, Glenn.”
Momma loops her arm in Dad’s and pulls him away, leaving just me, Griffin, Nana, and Ava strolling in relative silence.
“What a lovely day,” Nana says, beaming. “Fantastic day for couples, isn’t it?”
I tense. “Yeah, Dad and Mom are enjoying themselves.”
Griffin tongues his cheek, continuing to push the stroller, from which Ava’s tiny legs kick out and back down.
Nana smacks her lips and nods. “Well.” She doesn’t finish, though, instead looking between us.
Does she know what happened in LA? How could she?
“You know what, I think I missed the asparagus booth,” Nana says. She twists around, peering at nothing and letting out an “Ah” before shuffling off.
Thanks a lot, Nana.
Below, Ava’s fist pokes out from the stroller, making grabby hands toward a booth with hand-carved wooden birds. I follow her lead to do something—anything—that isn’t being here by myself with Griffin, overthinking and forcing a silence between us.
We’re friends.
Why am I trying to ruin that?
“Oh, Ava would love these,” I say, practically bounding over to a booth. “Tom is really talented.”
Griffin steers Ava’s stroller to catch up, apologizing when we cut through the crowd, despite everyone parting for us anyway.
Ava flexes her tiny fists toward the array of wooden bluebirds and canaries. “Bird.”
Tom sits behind the booth in a peeling camping chair. He’s an elderly man who seems one sneeze away from turning to dust. He whittles with a knife on wood.
“She can look at them if she wants,” he drawls out, voice scratchy and splintered like his wooden project.
Griffin takes the smallest bird off the stand and passes it down to Ava in the stroller. She clutches it tightly, like the bird might fly away if she doesn’t hold it within an inch of its life.
“Be careful, munchkin,” he says.
Tom waves his whittling knife. “Oh, they won’t break.”
“Bird,” Ava repeats, squeezing until a wing pops off. The little dimples in her cheeks press in, like two sweet thumbprints. Griffin rifles through his pockets and hands Tom cash.
As we leave the booth with Ava now hugging the wooden bird with one wing, I walk a bit slower.
I know that money isn’t an object to Griffin; it’s just a fact of life. It comes with the territory of being a successful musician, probably flush with profits from tours, which he’s leaving for in a month.
One month.
“How’s your album coming along?” I ask.
“Oh. Good. Yeah. Should be ready by the time I leave in March.”
“That’s amazing, Griffin.”
Griffin nods, but it seems like there’s something more there.
“That’s amazing,” I repeat, but the words ache.
March seems so close now. Pitching is so close. Leaving Griffin is so close.
“How long does the tour last?” I ask.
“Three months.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“We can hang out in LA after,” he says.
“Who?”
“You and me.” His tone is soft, almost hesitant. When has Griffin ever been hesitant?
I walk a little slower at that, chewing my bottom lip. “Oh…oh yeah?”
He nods. “You can help me pick out things for my house from time to time.”
Time to time.
So we won’t be hanging out often?
Of course not. He’s a busy man. I’ll be busy too. It only makes sense. We wouldn’t have the time.
I spot Taylor with her husband, strolling arm in arm. A kid zooms by, but she doesn’t take note even though they say, “Mommy, look!” Her eyes are wide as she watches us, just as she did at the thrift store.
Why does it feel like everyone knows about what happened at the party? About what Griffin said to me? The cryptic words I can’t unhear, as if they know what it means and I don’t? The stares, the murmurs…it’s too much.
My clothes suddenly feel stuffy, heat rising like lava up my chest to my neck and my cheeks.
“I need some air,” I say. “Just give me a sec.”
I don’t let Griffin say anything before I bypass the crowd, stride to the barn doors, and push one open to let myself out. I shut it behind me, sucking in the biting, chilly air. I tug off my double-wrapped scarf and clutch it in my palms. It flies in the wind, slapping in angry whips.
I don’t like Griffin.
I can’t like Griffin.
He doesn’t like me.
I’ve been down this path before, haven’t I?
The cold nips at my exposed neck. The air threatens potential snow. I can smell it. My body can feel it. Goose bumps erupt.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s probably my mom asking where I’m at or maybe Griffin asking if I’m okay. Maybe he’s coming up behind me soon.
Do I want him to?
I look down at my phone, but when the screen lights up, a different name appears. I stare, making sure I saw it right. The contact name is the exact same as it was when I changed it two years ago: Do Not Answer Beau.
It’s a silly thing to write, because he never once tried to call or text. It was hopeful. Pathetic.
My cold fingers fumble to swipe my phone unlocked.
Do Not Answer Beau: Hey stranger.
My stomach sinks. I can picture him saying it. The clever little drawl and the sly smile. But they don’t give me the same butterflies as they used to. They’re more like buzzing hornets. Not beautiful. Horrifying.
He never called after our breakup, not even when he saw me at that restaurant on my very first date that wasn’t with him. He barely batted an eye.
Why now?
The barn door creaks open. I turn around. Griffin emerges, and the winter breeze cuts through his hair and across his bearded cheeks.
“What are you doing out here?” He sounds exhausted. “It’s freezing.”
“I needed air.”
His eyebrows pinch together. He’s concerned.
Beau was never concerned. Not about me or my career or anything that didn’t involve his own music.
“I’m just thinking about Connection,” I say. It’s not exactly a lie. “Pitching and puppets and, you know…stuff.”
“Oh,” Griffin says, his face falling.
“It’s just a lot, y’know?” I’m blabbing now. “Pitch deck. Series bible. Character write-ups. Sample scripts. They want five, but I’m thinking maybe six, just to show I really want it, y’know? Proposed creative talent. Content research. Sizzle reel—”
“Beverly.”
“Hmm?”
He exhales and reaches out his palm. I take it. He pulls me closer, and my chest nearly hits his. I look up into his eyes as he blinks through the strands of his long hair that swipe past his gorgeous nose and thick beard.
“You’ll make the deadline,” he says. “I’ll make sure it happens. I’ll even go with you to the pitch if I have to.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You’d embarrass me by being all”—I wave my hands around—“grumpy.”
He smirks. “Well now I might do it just to prove you wrong.”
The little lines beside his brown eyes show happiness in a way that barely anyone gets to see. He does so much for everyone else, and I wonder if anyone even knows.
He wouldn’t randomly text me Hey stranger.
I can’t tell if I’m happy about that or not.
I inhale. He does too.
With the exhale, I bypass him to head back inside.