Chapter Forty-Four The Heart of Griffin Harvey
Chapter Forty-Four
The Heart of Griffin Harvey
Beverly
“The VIP session ended two hours ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
The man, dressed in all black, with some sort of official who cares what it means badge, throws a thumb to the stage, where stagehands rush to set up instruments.
“Does it look like I’m kidding?” he says. “Come back after.”
“I need to get back there,” I insist. “I’m with the band.”
His mouth forms a straight line. “Hilarious.” He brushes me aside with his palms midair. “Move along. Keep walking.”
I grit my teeth and stride over to an island booth with an awning, where Rob stands with crossed arms over his chest.
“Mr. Serious feels like doing his job today,” I say.
Rob rolls his head back along his neck. “Okay. Well, maybe we can get close to the stage.”
I laugh. “At this place? Doubt it.” But the moment I say it, it feels like failure. I look out at the stage, my hands twitching by my sides. I pinch my loose sleeves between my thumbs and forefingers. Griffin will be standing there at any moment. I’m so close, yet so far away.
Not this time.
“Whatever,” I say. “Let’s go see what we can do.”
“Heck yeah. Man, Finch and Nana are gonna lose their minds.”
“We’re probably the last people they’re thinking about when they’re in the car alone.”
Rob’s cracking voice asks, “Wait, what?” but I keep walking.
We cut across the venue’s concrete, flashing our tickets before emptying onto a flat grassy turf.
The crowd is packed together. Most fans have likely already secured their spots from the opening band.
Hands grasp cups of beer, and there are shirts with Griffin Harvey’s logo scrawled across the back.
World-tour dates are listed below. Some people have pictures of him bedazzled on their shirts, striking a disco pose in the baby blue suit from the Grammys.
One person is wearing a replica of the baby blue suit itself.
I pull in a deep inhale, then let it out. “All right. Stick with me, Rob.”
“You got it. But do you really think Finch and Nana are…”
“Stick with me.”
He cups a hand on my shoulder as we approach the crowd. My skin crawls when I murmur, “Excuse me” to the first person in the general admission crowd. The only response I get is a laughing side-eye before the guy goes back to talking with his friend. But now isn’t the time for niceties.
I straighten my posture, ready my elbows, and push.
“Pardon me!” I yell louder.
I sidestep bodies and use my elbows to nudge people out of my way.
I hear a muttered “The hell?” and “Who does she think she is?” but I carry on.
I’m massively breaking concert etiquette, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be haunted by the ghosts of concerts past. I make a mental note to always let someone shimmy by at every future concert.
I’ll always pay for the beer of the person behind me.
I’ll always bring Advil and water for people in the mosh pit.
But for now, I’m getting through this crowd by whatever means necessary.
“Bitch,” someone says. I’ve heard these curses before, after my viral club video with Beau. It’s all the online vitriol carrying to my ears in real time. Repeated mantras that have haunted me for years. But I’m only here for Griffin. I don’t care what happens, as long as it gets me closer to him.
The stage lights dim. The crowd explodes into cheers around me.
People collectively close any gaps, shoving tighter like sardines to get a better view of the stage.
With the sun dipped below the horizon, we’re in near darkness, save for the stage lights beaming down to illuminate the instruments.
I halt in place. Rob runs into my back, tightening his hand on my shoulder.
The band walks out. Poe, Royce, and Dom wave to the crowd. I can feel my heart beating like fire in my chest. My heavy soul is calling for its match. My breath clogs in my throat, anticipating Griffin walking out next. And when he does, I feel lightheaded.
Griffin appears from the wings, and everyone around me screams. My ears ring.
Seeing Griffin perform at the Grammys wasn’t like this.
He was performing for peers. But here…here, he’s a god.
He walks with purpose, commanding attention through every stride of his long legs and every clunk of his heavy boots on the stage floor.
I’m shaking as I watch him take a seat at the piano bench. Phones emerge, casting little rectangles of light around me.
Griffin sits at the piano for a beat. He’s hesitating.
It’s like he’s building anticipation, but no…
I know Griffin. This isn’t intentional. His posture is hunched.
His chest expands as he pulls in a shaky breath.
His hands extend over the keys, and a single note rings out.
Bodies push around me. Phone screens glare in my eyes.
He leans closer to the mic. I can hear his rough exhalations scratch over the speakers and across my heart. He’s not doing well. I just know it. I understand Griffin, and he’s tired.
“This one’s for her,” he says. Cracked. Rough.
It’s for me.
My heart claws its way up my throat, and before I can think, I yell, “Griffin!”
And then I’m stumbling forward, shoving with my hands.
“Griffin!”
I push, sliding past people much taller than me and much bulkier, slipping beside irritated embracing couples, and ducking under arms holding up phones.
At some point, Rob’s palm leaves my shoulder.
I turn around, and when I finally spot the top of his head, he’s too far back.
He flashes me a thumbs-up. I barrel ahead.
Griffin is writing songs for me. He’s dedicating them to me in front of massive venues.
He still loves me. There’s no way he doesn’t.
And nothing else exists. Not the people around me, not the countless sneakers catching on the hem of my vintage dress.
Not the way my heart is throbbing in my chest as my breath leaves in ragged exhales.
It’s only Griffin and the stage and finding a way to him.
The world is a blur of white noise and tunnel vision as I hurl forward. It feels like the universe pushes me there with pounding legs as my hands grow numb with nerves. It’s like I’m flying, drifting on a wind, getting picked up and hoisted by ghostly hands toward him, him, him.
Griffin suddenly stands from the piano. His mouth drops open. And I know—I know—he sees me. He’s spotting me among thousands, and I’m desperately calling out, “Griffin!”
A clearing starts around me, people moving aside as Griffin walks a few steps away from his piano bench. I can’t hear him speak, but I see the breathy name leave his lips: Beverly.
I run and run until suddenly my stomach slams into the steel gate blocking the bottom of the stage. The wind rushes out of me. The security guard on the other side surges forward.
“Ma’am, you cannot—”
“Griffin!” I try to shriek, but the words barely come out.
Griffin removes an earpiece, letting it fall on his shoulder, where the cord snags on his shirt.
He walks, jogs, then sprints. The earpiece thumps against his chest. His hair blows past his shoulders, strands catching on his shirt and tangling in the earpiece’s cord.
The security guard stops me. “I’ll need to escort you out.”
“Don’t touch her!” Griffin’s voice booms. Even without a mic, it vibrates offstage like a command from Hades himself. “Let her through!”
I crawl over the gate, barely cresting the top, having to balance like a lizard clambering up a tree branch. I fall to the other side, but not before one of the wide sleeves of my dress catches on a break in the welding. With a sigh, the security guard steps forward and removes it for me.
I let out a breathy “Thanks,” and by the time I reach the stage wall, Griffin is a few feet away from the edge.
His jaw tenses as he looks over the side.
His hands curl into fists. Slowly, step by step, he paces closer, sliding a single boot toward the steep drop of the stage.
He swallows, and I can’t help but grin. It’s funny how such a big man can be afraid of something so simple as heights.
People don’t know the heart of Griffin Harvey.
But I do.
I rest my fingers on the lip of the stage.
“I won’t let you fall,” I call up.
He chokes out a laugh, despite his hand shivering beside his thigh.
Griffin crouches down, lowering one knee to the stage.
He extends his hand, and I place my mine inside.
His is shaky and large, engulfing the whole of me in his grasp.
His guitar-calloused fingers scratch against my sewing-needle-stabbed ones as he pulls, and I’m lifted off the ground.
When my knees hit the stage, he gets to his feet and lifts me again.
My feet scramble over the hem of my dress, but he steadies me in place.
A bead of sweat trickles down his neck. We’re at the edge of the stage, at the edge of everything together.
Toe to toe, with his bulky shoulders curled over, his long hair cascading down around us, and his eyebrows tugged in the middle.
My body shakes in his hands. I’ve been so tired these past few months, but with him, it’s like having every drop of caffeine course through me. I reach up and stroke his bearded cheeks. Griffin’s chest heaves. His chin shakes. He traces a finger across my jaw.
“You’re here,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You came.”
“You’re my right hand, remember?”
His jaw tightens, and he immediately ducks his head. His shoulders shake.
I tuck my hands behind his neck and pull his head up to look at me again. His beautiful brown eyes shimmer in the stage lights. The edges are rimmed in pink.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps out. He sniffs and tilts his head to the side. “I’m so sorry, B.”
My heart is cracking, crumbling down my chest, landsliding into my stomach.
“For what?”
“I love you.” His grip tightens on my waist as he bends at the knees to meet me at eye level. He repeats in a plea, “I love you, and I said we shouldn’t do this, but I was so wrong. I love you.” And with a shaking breath he repeats again, “I love you.”
It’s one thing to assume, but to hear Griffin say the words…I’m floating again, drifting into a different world. The stage, the lights, the audience…they cease to exist.
It’s just him. It’s his brown eyes, like the woods around Elk Grove. His long hair, swaying like a curtain between us and the world. It’s his tears, streaking beside his nose and down to his lip. I trace my thumbs over his cheeks to clear them away.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s all okay.”
He heaves in a breath.
“It’s okay,” I repeat.
“I can’t stop it,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t matter how far I travel or how busy we both get, my soul can’t stand not being near yours.
It aches for you at night and searches for you during the day.
It’s deeply, desperately, hopelessly in love with you, and I can’t—I can’t—stop it.
And God, I don’t want to, B. I need to watch you create.
I need to drink coffee with you every morning, midmorning, afternoon, and evening.
I need sleepless nights with you beside me and my girl.
I need to hear your laugh, your voice, and all the others you imagine along the way. I need you, Beverly. I need you.”
I rise to the tips of my toes, letting my soul meet his, and the taut string from the past three months finally loosens, as if satisfied it’s found its missing half. I clutch his face and press my forehead against his.
“I’m yours, Griffin,” I say. “I love you.”
He drags me closer until we’re chest to chest, until our lips ghost over each other, then meet.
We’re kissing, and the sighs echo through me, sinking into my chest as hands capture hair, cheeks, jaws.
I know Griffin Patrick Harvey. I know how his heart beats, and I know that it beats for me, just like mine does for him.
He pulls away, and a low sob chokes out of him.
“Beverly…”
“Griffin,” I tease back.
He lets out a low, bubbling laugh. He dips his palm into my hair, cupping the nape of my neck.
The crowd outside the stage comes back into focus. White noise erupting into cheers. His arm slides up my spine, and the other winds down to my lower back. It feels like I’m dreaming, but I know even dreams aren’t this good. Griffin pulls me into an embrace.
No, I’m awake. I’m here. I’m absolutely alive with Griffin.
He darts his eyes toward the crowd, then back to me.
“B…I’m dragging you into this world we can’t escape from. We’ll always be watched. We’ll always be criticized. We’ll always spend too many days apart. And I’ll always want more. But damn it, as long as I’m coming home to you…”
I smile. “Griffin, you are always coming home to me.” His shaking lips quiver at the edges. He pulls me into a kiss, and we stand onstage together, under the spotlight, with tears spilling from his cheeks to mine. Breathy exhales from me to him.
I don’t care what will come tomorrow or who will recognize me or where that will leave us. I don’t care what our schedules will look like or how often we’ll be apart. I don’t care, because right now, I’m here. Right where I belong.