Chapter Thirty-Nine Happy Griffin Day
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Happy Griffin Day
Beverly
Three months later
“Is today Griffin Day?” Rob asks.
I sputter into my coffee.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Finch subtly twitching his head at my brother, as if to say Joke didn’t land, abort mission.
I grab a napkin and pat the coffee spill on Finch’s breakfast nook.
Rob loudly chews his bacon, making the awkward silence even worse.
After Birds on the Block was funded, I moved into Finch’s guest room in Los Angeles, along with Nana, who claimed Elk Grove was far too cold and that she dearly missed her old friend Finch.
Rob tagged along at her insistence (“He needs to experience the world outside Elk Grove like Beverly and Albert did”).
Reluctantly, my parents let their fifteen-year-old loose for the summer.
Finch, whose only companions were Ken Jennings and reruns of Alex Trebek, asked if we had anyone else we could bring too.
He, unfortunately, drew the line at Pudge.
Finch’s house is 50 percent open windows, 30 percent Birds memorabilia, and 20 percent loud noises. In a house with a teenager and two people over the age of seventy, there are more than enough shouts of What did you say? over Rob’s loud rock music.
The breakfast nook is in Finch’s stone courtyard.
Normally, our mornings are filled with chaos and bright laughter.
(Maybe even video games because I can finally reload my weapons, thank you very much.) Breakfast is when we drink our morning coffee and collectively agree not to acknowledge Rob’s obnoxious bacon crunches.
But today feels a bit more somber, despite the perpetually perfect California sun overhead.
Nana stares at me over her coffee. Finch spreads strawberry jam, almost cutting the toast in half. Rob crunches bacon. Again.
“Okay, stop looking at me like that.” I straighten my spine and sip my coffee. “Yes, Griffin is on set today.”
Rob grins. “Hell yeah.”
“You will be professional,” I say, pointing at him. “No fanboying or anything. It’s the only reason you’re allowed as a spectator.”
“And because I’m the showrunner’s brother. And excuse me, I don’t fanboy. Plus, I know him personally, now. He’s a friend.”
I snort. “You still freak out, though.”
“I don’t, and I won’t! Scout’s honor,” he says.
“You were never in Boy Scouts. Make another type of promise.”
“Promise on my life, then.”
Finch hums. “You were fangirling—is that what they call it?—over that one actress.” He snaps his fingers in thought. “What was her name—”
I throw a thumb at Finch. “See? A promise on your life, Rob? Really? Now you’re hypothetically dead.”
Rob groans. “Fine. But she wanted a coffee, so I got her one.”
“Then spilled it everywhere when you tripped over nothing,” Finch adds.
“Whatever.” Rob ducks his head. “I’ll pretend like Griffin is just another totally normal musician on the show, then. No big deal.”
He sticks out his tongue. I do the same. But very quickly, Rob, Nana, and Finch revert to worried expressions.
I throw my hands up. “Listen, I don’t know why breakfast is so depressing this morning. Today will be a good day. Are you two almost ready to leave?”
“Almost done with my toast,” Finch says.
Rob smirks. “Are you almost ready to spend the day with your ex?”
My cheeks flare with heat. “Griffin is not my ex.”
“Robert,” Nana chides. But Rob boastfully grabs an entire piece of toast and nearly swallows it whole.
Finch cringes. “Christ almighty. Chew, why don’t ya, kid.”
I toss the remainder of my coffee into the sink. I’m trying to get better about my caffeine intake. It turns out too much caffeine is a one-way ticket to the lonely island of anxiety. Though without coffee, now I’m just exhausted all the time. Working almost one hundred hours per week can do that.
Oh, and hearing the person you hopelessly fell in love with everywhere you go because he’s famous.
That’ll do it too.
Griffin and I text as much as we can. He sends me pictures of Ava in the driver’s seat of the tour bus, and a couple of times I got a spontaneous video call while he was onstage, showing my face to an arena of twenty thousand.
There have been late-night texts and then texts once a day and then every other day and then I’m sorry I missed your call and I stayed late at the workshop and Our show ran late and—
We never talked about what it meant to put on the brakes. We didn’t have to. We both just knew.
He has a career that runs his life.
So do I.
I mean, what else is there to say?
We’re friends. Best friends. That’s all we can be.
I love him, but what is that worth if we can’t find any time together?
So today, I will be seeing my best friend, Griffin Harvey, on the set of Birds on the Block. It will be my first time seeing him—not in blurry videos or in tour pictures taken by one of the guys but in person—since March.
And I’m absolutely terrified.
Rob and I make our way to the foyer, put on shoes, and gather our bags. When he rushes back to his room because he left his phone, Nana lays a hand on my forearm, stopping me in place.
“You’ll be all right?” she whispers.
I smile. “Of course. We’re still friends. It’s not like he’s a stranger. I see him all the time. In a way.”
Rob sometimes pulls up compilation videos taken from his tour, and I shamelessly stare at Griffin for the entire set.
Stranger, he is not.
He looks good. He always looked good, though. He’s bulkier now. I bet he’s been working out more. His hair is a little longer, too, but just as wild and gorgeous as ever. And I now understand why people describe his concerts as a religious experience.
Griffin’s only emotion onstage is passion: arching as he belts into the microphone, as his hands pound across the guitar strings, as he presses his forehead against the microphone stand afterward, like the song was ripped from his chest. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh. He’s pure talent.
Occasionally, rarely, I’ll see a glimpse of the Griffin I knew.
In a backstage featurette, he was asked if he still composed songs for Birds on the Block, and if his album, Bird in Hand, was a dedication to the revived children’s show.
With the smallest twitch in the corner of his mouth, he simply answered, No.
That interview went absolutely viral.
What did the smile mean?
What’s going on with Birds?
At least he’s finding joy in remaining a mystery, underneath those tired eyes. And boy, he looks tired.
It hurts to know he was right when it came to tapping the brakes. Achieving our dreams with the added pressure of a relationship would make this whole thing even harder. But correct decisions are not always the easiest.
I look down at my phone. When I unlock it, my screen is still on our text thread. I received a new one this morning right when I woke up.
GP: Ava can’t wait to see you.
Ava.
My sweet, sweet girl.
I’ve talked to her a few times over video calls. She seems to be loving Europe, sometimes wandering away from our conversation to see whatever landscape they’re passing next. Selfishly, I wonder if, with each call, she remembers me less and less.
Is she excited to see me?
Is he excited to see me too?
GP: Tell Bernie I’ll squawk at him soon.
I can almost hear the words leaving his mouth. The gruff, rumbling tone that sends shivers down my spine if murmured close to my ear. Hell, even if they’re murmured a mile away.
I stuff my phone back into my tote bag.
“Can I listen to Griffin’s new song on the way?” Rob asks when he returns with his phone.
“Only if you have headphones,” I answer.
“You still haven’t listened to it?” Nana asks.
“Not the whole song, no.”
I can’t. I know it’s silly, but I simply can’t.
Griffin hasn’t released the entire Bird in Hand album yet, but the single he premiered while on tour, “Your Right Hand,” already skyrocketed to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 chart. I, however, am one of probably five people living under a rock who have not listened to it.
If the song comes on in a grocery store, I make a beeline for the checkout.
One time it came on the car radio, and I nearly zipped into oncoming traffic leaning over to change the station.
It’s hard to ignore Griffin’s song when it’s everywhere, though.
And it’s extra hard ignoring how unique it sounds.
What little I’ve heard of the song is filled with piano.
It’s playful. Less somber than his other songs.
Sure, there are people online who don’t like his altered sound, but for the most part, people are going nuts for this new single.
I’m happy he’s doing what he loves. And as long as he’s thriving, I can feel better about our decision. It never would have worked, even if I am miserable.
And I am.
Miserable, that is.
Sometimes, even after we’re done watching his performances on the big TV, I’ll curl up in bed and watch them again, taking note of his microexpressions, the little eyebrow lifts and jaw tics.
I’m miserable and pathetic.
“You’re sure?” Nana asks, jolting me back to the present.
“Of course,” I repeat, swiping my hands down the front of my shirt. “Just another day at work.”
Nana pinches the corner of my sleeve. “I like this.”
I look down at my outfit. It’s nothing special, but it’s not my usual high-waisted jeans and Birds on the Block ringer tee. It’s a dress with three-quarter sleeves and tights. Cute, but still functional for sliding around puppeteering.
“You’re pretty,” Nana says. “And he’ll find you very pretty.”
I scoff. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
I don’t sound convincing in the least.
Nana smiles. “It is, but I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“I mean, it’s not like we’re together or anything. He won’t even notice, but…”
“I understand why you want to look pretty, though.”
I don’t want him thinking I’m a complete mess nowadays. That whole miserable and pathetic thing is for me and me only. And maybe Nana. And Finch. And Rob.
“Let’s go!” I call through the house, shifting my tote bag farther up my shoulder.
Nana pulls me into a hug. “Have fun, Bevvy.”
I give a smile that I wish was happier when I finally leave the house, with Rob and Finch on my heels. Finch squeezes Nana’s hand on the way out, then the three of us pile into a car and head toward the studio.