Chapter Thirty-Eight Special Connection #2
And suddenly it feels less like Bernie and Griffin and more like us.
We’re conversing.
We’re playing.
We’re laughing.
And the room is journeying into our imaginations with us.
The room feels like winter and quilts again.
Like family dinners, Greg’s strawberry cakes, Ava’s giggles, and puffs of cool air.
It feels like me in a too-fancy dress and him in a baby blue suit.
It’s laughter and banter and that crooning voice of his, singing beautiful notes that are far too professional for our silly show. But it’s perfect. All of it is perfect.
By the time we finish, everyone on the opposite side of the table is laughing so hard they’re wiping away tears from their eyes.
Griffin’s palm lands on the body of his guitar with that sliver of satisfaction across his face.
The type with the white teeth showing halfway up his mouth and the giddiness of the man who secretly loves this.
I love that he loves it.
I love every piece of Griffin that he doesn’t show to others—the Griffin behind closed doors, who now strokes the outside of Bernie’s left hand—my left hand—with his pinkie.
I don’t have the dexterity to stroke back.
Bernie has only three fingers, after all.
But I look at Griffin, and his eyes lock on to mine, and the room feels so silent, like maybe it’s just us here.
Just us in the apartment again. Just us cuddling on the den’s foldout couch.
I startle as all three executives rise in unison, like the three heads of Cerberus. Finch removes his hand from inside Bernie, and the three of us—Finch, Griffin, and I—rise to our feet too.
Handshakes are exchanged, along with pleasantries of the day or the weather or Connection’s current programming. It’s small talk that feels so distant because I’m too busy walking on clouds, basking in the sunshine.
We did it.
And it was perfect.
A suit shakes Finch’s hand. “Great to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
I lay Bernie gingerly over the crook of my arm. I look at Griffin. He’s already watching me back.
We did it.
Us.
“Oh, how’s retirement?” someone asks.
“Clearly not going well,” Finch jokes, gesturing to me. “Happy to get back to work. Hopefully.” I smile, but then they joke about whether he tried enjoying bingo night and maybe he was just doing retirement wrong.
I laugh, but Griffin looks uneasy next to me. He throws a thumb over his shoulder, mouthing, I should go.
All the perfectly puffy clouds poof away.
He’s leaving.
“Oh” is all I get out.
When will I see him again?
Finch elbows me.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to show Griffin out?”
I blink. “Yeah. Um…”
He’s recording every day.
He goes on tour soon.
He’s leaving the country.
I nod in a daze, give a few thank-yous to the suits—Griffin is leaving; Griffin is leaving—and say I’ll be back in a moment.
Their subsequent conversation flows in one ear and out the other as I gather my papers and tuck them under my arm.
Griffin swings his guitar onto his back.
When we cross the threshold, the air-conditioning chill hits us, sending pinpricks up my neck.
Patricia waves behind the receptionist desk, and I try to wave back, but I can barely lift my hand.
Griffin and I stroll down the short hall until we reach the elevator bank. He’s so close yet still too far. My hand reaches out, but I stop short of touching him.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking over at Patricia. She doesn’t seem to be eavesdropping, but who knows? “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I didn’t want to stress you out.”
“How’d you know when the meeting was?”
“Jimmy called Finch.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Probably didn’t want to stress you out,” he repeats with a smile. “Plus, I shouldn’t get too much credit for altruism. This was a little selfish of me.”
He pushes the elevator call button.
He’s leaving. He’s leaving.
“How so?” I ask.
He gives me a beautiful crooked smile. “I didn’t want to miss you knocking it out of the park.”
My face flushes. A laugh bubbles out of me. “Oh, c’mon…”
“You were perfect.” He leans down, brushing his lips near my ear as he whispers, “You were right. You’re meant to do this. This is your purpose.”
My heart hammers, but my smile fades as the panel above the elevator doors shows the lift slowly reaching our floor.
The pitch went spectacularly, but why doesn’t it feel as good as it should?
My feet itch to walk closer to him. I want to swing my arms around his neck and have his palms circle my waist. I want his warmth.
I want him. He’s been in LA for more than two weeks.
I want to know what he’s been up to. I want to hear every single detail.
How is Ava? How are the guys? Has Jimmy murdered them in the studio yet?
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
No. It’s too soon.
My heart is thumping out of my chest.
But what do I say? I’m going back to Elk Grove. He’s in LA now. He’s going on tour. Where do we go from here?
My body feels ripped at the seams as he steps into the elevator.
No.
Don’t go.
But it’s selfish to ask him to stay.
He has his life, and I have mine. He’s achieving his dreams, and I’m hoping for mine. He has Ava. The band. A career.
Let’s run away together, Griffin.
He grips the strap of the guitar slung across his broad chest. His knuckles whiten.
“You’re gonna do great,” he says with a smile. “Good luck.”
The door starts to close, but my heart spirals up into my throat. I whip my hand out to pause the elevator door. The sensors register my palm and slide the doors back open.
“Isn’t it a bit too late for ‘good lucks’?” I tease.
“I didn’t mean with the pitch,” he says. “I meant with the show.”
“I don’t even know if I got it.”
“They’d be shit at their jobs if you didn’t.”
We exchange an almost infinitesimal smile. It feels like it lasts forever and yet not long enough.
The door starts to shut again, but I block it with my hand once more. He lifts a single teasing eyebrow.
“Sorry, it’s a weird thing,” I say.
“What is?”
“My hand. It keeps opening the door. Silly thing,” I joke.
He chuckles. And it’s beautiful and wonderful and deep in his chest. It’s everything to me. He’s everything to me.
I love you.
The words drop.
Whistle down the sky of my soul.
Explode.
Blow my heart to smithereens.
My mouth opens. “I…”
I love you.
The door tries to close again. Panic grips me. I whip out my hand, and the doors slide back open.
“See? Bad habit,” I joke, but I’m out of breath.
I love you.
Maybe we could make it work. Maybe Europe isn’t so far from California or Elk Grove. Maybe our careers don’t matter at all.
He chuckles, and I know I’m wrong.
Our careers matter too much.
“I…” I lick my dry lips. I love you. “I hope you have fun on your tour.”
“And you have fun with your show.”
I love you.
“I’ll miss you,” I blurt out.
And suddenly…I don’t know what I expect. Maybe a smile. A laugh. Those crinkles beside his eyes. Instead, his face falls.
“I’ll miss you too, B,” he says quietly.
And God, maybe I ruined this moment. We were laughing, and I got too serious. I felt too much. Maybe he could tell what I wanted to say. Maybe it was on my face this whole time.
The doors start to slide together again, but then his hand whips out before mine can.
His weak smile peeks out beneath his beard.
“I guess my hand has the same issue,” he says.
The wings in my heart flutter so wildly it feels like I can fly. “It’s contagious.”