6. Brynn
Chapter six
Brynn
A quiet campus library is the last place most thirty-year-olds would choose to be on a Friday evening, right?
Yet here I am, tucked into a mahogany carrel at the back of Bingham library, knee deep into research on nineteenth-century gender roles. I rub the fatigue from my eyes and close down the document I’ve been working in for the past few hours. After one surreptitious glance around, I open up the folder in my drive labeled Old Syllabi and navigate to the Google doc titled Draig 1.0 .
This 72,000-word document has been a bright spot for me over the past year. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s the main source of joy in my life these days.
Until my Tuesday afternoons were booked for the foreseeable future, that is.
I scan the paragraphs I added last week to refresh my memory, then bring my fingers to the keys and start typing. The words flow from me like the current of the mighty river a few miles west of here. I get lost in my imaginary world of knights and faeries and witches and magic. This fictional story of my heart is a retelling of the Arthurian legend, one where the character of Arthur is a fearless young witch named Eleri rather than a king. She discovers her magic when she encounters a mysterious knight named Gethin and his warrior dragon, Aethon .
Just as I get to a long-awaited first kiss scene, my phone buzzes on the table, pulling me back to reality. A quick glimpse out the library’s windows tells me I’ve been in my fantasy land for longer than I intended.
“Shoot.”
Jack
When will you be home? I’m ordering dinner.
I tap out a quick reply and pack up my things.
Twenty-five minutes later, I barrel into the house juggling my purse, laptop satchel, keys, and emotional support tumbler. “Sorry, sorry. Time totally got away from me.”
Jack pauses mid-bite to watch my entrance, but he doesn’t say a word. A paper sack and wrappings from my favorite sandwich spot litter the kitchen table. The scent of the food causes my stomach to churn with hunger.
“Thanks for getting dinner,” I say as I slide into the chair across from him.
His response is a curt nod. Then he’s back to scrolling on his phone.
With a sigh of relief, I unwrap my sandwich, so ready to sink my teeth into the soft bread and turkey and cheese and… pickles ?
Pickles. On my sandwich.
I open the sub on the paper wrapping and stare at the slimy green disks that cling to the top half of the bread.
There are six of them.
My whole body tenses.
Across from me, oblivious, Jack crunches on a kettle chip.
For a moment, I consider what I should do from here. Do I yell at him, demand he tell me why, after five years of dating and four under the same roof, our relationship feels more like that of roommates than lovers? Or should I rage at him about Andi-Andrea-whatever-her-name-is until he confesses that she’s the mystery texter who’s been stealing his smiles lately? Should I break down in tears about the fucking pickles on my sandwich? Maybe hit him with the trifecta, all three at once?
It really doesn’t matter. If I’m being honest with myself, I know none of those reactions will change the reality.
This relationship has run its course. I’m not going to grow old with the man across the table. And I’m tired of pretending.
It’s been a week and a half since I witnessed possible evidence of cheating, and I should’ve confronted him days ago, but I’ve talked myself out of it countless times. Am I willing to throw away a five-year relationship because of a perceived affair? One I don’t have indisputable proof of? Part of me has been convinced that this man—this man I moved to a new city for, whom I’ve shared my life with—would never do that to me.
Then there’s all the uncoupling logistics. The emotional upheaval of breaking apart a five-year relationship is daunting.
But I can’t put it off any longer.
I wish one of Mom’s crystals was tucked into my pocket. One for summoning courage. Which one would she suggest? Bloodstone, perhaps. No—aquamarine. Even though I don’t believe a pretty rock is that powerful, I’d give anything to have a piece of my parents with me right now.
Instead, I put on my proverbial big girl panties, clear my throat, and take a deep breath. “Jack, I think we should break up.”
His eyes snap to mine, his mouth turned down in confusion. As he processes my words, his brows pull tight, then even out, and his lips roll together, then spread into a thin line. He looks from my face to the table and back again, where his focus falls to my sandwich.
His eyes widen in understanding. “Sorry about the pickles, bun. I think they come on the sandwich.”
I resist the urge to remind him that I’m aware. That I’ve been ordering this sandwich on the app for years. That the customize button is there for a reason. That he himself has correctly ordered this for me dozens of times.
He huffs an impatient breath at my silence. “Just take them off.” He reaches for the sandwich, but I yank it away.
“Taking them off is not enough. The bread is soggy and soaked with pickle juice. Now the whole sandwich will taste like them.”
“Brynn.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. “Do you want me to reorder the damn sandwich? Do you want me to order something different? For fuck’s sake, what’s with the dramatics? I forgot to leave the pickles off your sandwich, and you tell me we should break up ?” He coughs a bitter laugh. “Please. Be serious.”
“I am being serious.” My voice is soft, but steady. I lift my chin and force myself to look him in the eye. “We need to end this. Neither of us is happy.”
“Who told you I’m not happy?” Nostrils flaring, he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Are you seriously breaking up with me over goddamn pickles ?”
Am I ending a five-year relationship because of six pickle slices? Of course not. The pickles were the last straw in an already stuffed-to-the-brim basket of straws on a geriatric camel’s back. They’re the last line squeezed onto an already filled-top-to-bottom page of scribbled, handwritten reasons.
We’ve been careening toward this breakup for a while now. But neither of us has been brave or determined enough to jump off the speeding train. Until now.
We’ve let complacency become a third wheel in our relationship. Only, recently, I’ve discovered that it’s no longer enough. We both deserve better.
“It’s not about the pickles.” I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles whiten. “We’re not a good fit anymore. Maybe we used to be, but we’ve both changed over the years, and we’ve become too comfortable.”
“What’s wrong with comfortable?” he sneers, chin lifted .
I close my eyes for a beat, wishing like hell I could fast-forward to the acceptance phase of this. “It’s not good enough for me. For either of us.” I sigh, forcing my shoulders from where they’ve risen practically to my ears. “Are you telling me that you see us getting married, growing old together? Maybe that vision existed in the past, but right now, in this moment, can you honestly look at me and tell me that I’m your forever?”
He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. And isn’t that telling? He can’t even find the words to fight for this. For me .
Instead, he straightens and squares his shoulders. “Is there someone else?”
A quick slice of anger flashes in his eyes, but I fight a reaction. I keep my features neutral, even though my heart rate kicks up. A six-five football hunk flickers through my thoughts, but I blink his image away. No, I’m not ending things with Jack because of Griffin. We’re friends, and even though I’m attracted to him, I can’t let myself go there. I won’t be a woman who dumps her boyfriend one day only to leap into a new man’s arms the next. I won’t judge women who do, but that’s not the path for me. And in my heart-of-hearts, I know that even if I’d never met Griffin, ending things with Jack would be the right decision.
Griffin isn’t even interested in me in that way.
“No,” I say, my tone even. “There’s no one.”
His jaw ticks, but he nods. “Nothing I say will change your mind, will it?”
With my hands clasped in my lap, I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry.”
That night, I sleep in our guest bedroom. I snuggle Barnaby close and ready myself for an onslaught of sadness. But the tears don’t come. I know then, without a doubt, that I’ve done the right thing. The brave thing.
And I sleep better than I have in years.
The sounds of tittering female voices followed by a deep, captivating male one rouse me from my research. Snapping my laptop shut, I peer into the short hallway that leads to the main English department office. It’s empty, but from the sound of things, there’s a group gathered in the main office. More laughs and giggles capture my curiosity.
As I’m rolling my chair away from my desk, ready to investigate, that male voice, closer this time, playfully scolds, “Y’all be good now.”
And then Griffin Lacey’s tall frame fills my open doorway.
“You-you’re here.” That last word squeaks out of me, and I forget to breathe.
“I’m here.” With his hands in his pockets, he props one shoulder against the doorjamb. He’s wearing a navy Hawaiian-style button-down covered in tiny pink flamingos. His chinos match the exact light pink shade of the birds.
Griffin Lacey is standing at my door. Wearing pink pants. Looking as effortlessly cool as ever.
“But…what, er, how did—” A glance at the clock allows me a moment to collect myself. “It’s eleven-fifteen. Your text said we’d meet at noon. How’d you find me?” I blabber on. “And did a tailor make those pink pants specifically for you?”
“Whoa, not-a-professor.” He straightens and steps into my tiny office, his bulk filling it almost completely. This space is only big enough to hold my desk, two chairs, and one overstuffed bookshelf. It wasn’t built to house NFL superstars with supersized charisma.
Griffin ticks his answers off, one finger at a time. “My text did say noon, but there’s been a change of plans. More on that in a moment. Google is very helpful in supplying campus maps when one needs to find the English building. And my new friends Helen and Trinity were happy to point me in the right direction.”
“I bet they were,” I smirk. The feminine giggles that echoed down the hallway moments ago made that obvious.
His grin widens. “And as for the pants, that’s classified.” He folds himself into the ancient wooden chair across from me, trying and failing to hide when he attempts to get comfortable.
“Sorry. Those chairs were made for timid college freshmen. Not strapping tight ends.”
“No worries, professor.” He rests his laced hands on his abs and leans back as far as he can. Another grimace, followed by a flirty raise of his brow. “Strapping, huh?”
I ignore the look and straighten a stack of papers on my desk. When he grimaces again, I have to ask. “What’s wrong?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Eh, it’s fine. Just took a hard helmet hit to the ribs last night. Pads can only do so much.”
The Blues had the first of this season’s two Monday-night games last night. It was refreshing to have a few nighttime hours to myself, not having to tiptoe around Jack’s foul mood.
Nevertheless, I’m concerned about his pain. I angle forward, resting my forearms on my desk and clasping my hands. “We can save today’s outing for next week.”
“Nope.” He straightens. “No way I’m gonna let a little bruised rib ruin our day.”
An embarrassingly fierce wave of relief hits me, outweighing my concern for his comfort. It probably makes me a crappy friend. But I’ve been holding on to these Tuesday plans like a lifeline, especially since Friday night.
“What’s on the agenda for today, sir?” The text that lit up my phone Sunday afternoon only mentioned a meeting spot and time.
His eyes twinkle in that merry way that makes it impossible for me to resist any suggestion. “Did you know that fall is my favorite time of year? And not just because of football,” he says before I can answer his question. “There’s a hint of fall in the air today, so we’re going to take advantage of it.”
He’s right. That slight nip of coolness encouraged me to quicken my pace as I walked to the English building this morning. It’s unseasonably cool for the end of September, so if we’re going to be outside, I’m grateful I chose a shirt with longer sleeves.
“What do you have in mind, Mr. Lacey?”
He tips his chin, gesturing to the door. “Let’s find out.”
He waits in the hall while I pack my laptop and class notes. When we reach the main office, Helen, the head secretary for the English department, waggles her silver brows at me and eyes my companion. She’s a grandmotherly comfort to me here, and probably the person I’m closest to. Our unlikely connection began during my second semester at Townes, when she discovered me steeping a mug of tea in the department breakroom one winter afternoon. She asked if I had an Earl Grey in my tea tin and joined me at the table with her own mug of hot water. It’s become a ritual for us on the days I’m on campus until dark. We gift each other new flavors every Christmas.
“Have fun,” she calls as we breeze through the office, her tone making it clear she’ll want a detailed explanation about how this happened.
“No convertible today?” I ask when Griffin leads me to the passenger door of a huge silver Ram pickup.
“Nah. Dad only loans her out a couple days at a time.”
“So this is yours.” I climb up into the behemoth, and as I settle in the seat, I resist the urge to caress the supple leather. It’s the most luxurious truck I’ve ever been in.
“This is one of mine, yes.” He winks and shuts my door.
I study the dials and controls and large touchscreen on the fancy dashboard as he rounds the front of the truck. “How many cars do you own, Mr. Lacey? ”
I’m expecting him to admit to an exorbitant amount, but as he clicks his seat belt into place, he laughs and says, “Two.”
“Hmm, disappointing,” I joke. “I thought for sure you’d tell me seven.”
“Why seven?” He grabs my headrest and twists his upper body, then backs out of the parking spot.
My mouth goes dry at his proximity, but I manage a swallow and stutter out, “One—one for each day of the week.”
“Ahh.” He comes to a stop and straightens. “Nope. Just the two. One to carry each of my Super Bowl rings.”
“ Wow .” I drag out the word.
Head tipped back, he hoots out a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “I did buy a whole-ass building last week.”
For the rest of the drive, he tells me about the historic building and his apartment. And about the tattoo shop a friend of his brother owns below it. By the time we pull into a lot next to Mud Island Park, I’m drunk on Griffin Lacey—on his scent, on his laugh, on his charm, on him . He’s intoxicating.
“Here’s what’s on the syllabus for today, professor.” We exit the truck, and side by side, we make our way to a concrete path. “We’re gonna take a little walk down the mighty Mississipp . Then some friends of mine are hosting a barbeque, so I thought we’d stop by.”
I jerk to a stop. “Football friends?” I try to keep my tone neutral, hiding my anxiety. But like a switch has been flipped, my skin heats.
I push my sleeves up, searching for relief, and work to contain the tension in my body. Do I tell him the truth? Admit that I’ve never felt welcome at the football events Jack has dragged me to? That the one time I tried to befriend a group of the team’s WAGs, they gave me the cold shoulder the entire night?
Griffin gives me a patient smile. “They’re friends. Some of them do play football, but they’re harmless, I promise. Beau and his fiancée moved into their new place a few months ago, so they’re having some of the offense over to celebrate and team-build.”
“Oh, okay.” My voice is small, and fear still grips me. I hate it. I hate it so much I can’t even look at him.
“Hey. Brynn.” He says my name gently, the word floating on the air between us.
Still, I keep my focus averted. I study my sensible sandals until two gleaming white sneakers that probably cost more than my entire outfit slide into view.
“Hey,” he tries again, and this time I acquiesce. When I finally tilt my chin up, I find genuine concern in his blue eyes. “I promised them I’d swing by, and I’d like you to meet them. They’re great. Meeting new people is a part of that Memphis magic I’ve been telling you about. But if you feel uncomfortable in any way, we’ll leave immediately. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He tilts his head. “Let’s stroll.”
He leads me to a sign marked Cairo, IL next to a concrete canal filled with gently flowing water. “You’ve never been here?”
“No, but I know what it is—a replica of the Mississippi River.”
“Correct, professor. Let’s walk through a few states since it’s such a beautiful day. Every step we take is roughly one mile of the river.”
As we amble along the replica, a breeze off the actual river to our right stirs tendrils of my hair, chilling me and compelling me to lower my sleeves. Since it’s lunchtime on a weekday, the park is relatively empty, though we meet a few moms with littles and a handful of couples as we make our way down the path.
“We’ve established that you don’t like pickles.” That stupid word— pickles —almost causes me to miss a step, but I recover, and he doesn’t notice my blunder. “What, then, is your favorite food?”
“Soft pretzels,” I answer, without hesitation.
Brows raised, he assesses me. “Really?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “It’s just…unexpected, I guess. ”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Cereal.”
“Cereal?”
“Yep. The more sugary, the better. Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
“Cap’n Crunch always tore up the roof of my mouth when I was a kid. Not that I talked my parents into buying it for me more than a couple of times. They usually bought Grape Nuts or Mueslix.”
“Then you didn’t have a chance to build up the mouth-roof immunity. I swear mine has calluses from the stuff. My brothers’, too.”
We walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, and I lift my face, enjoying the juxtaposition of heat from the sun and cool, crisp air.
“With cheese, right?” Griffin asks.
I assess him as I work to decode his words. “Pardon?”
“Soft pretzels. You dip ’em in cheese, right?”
“Actually, no. I like them plain. With all the salt, of course.”
“No cheese?” He splays a hand over his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, not-a-professor.”
We both laugh. God, it’s easy to be in his company. It’s comforting to know he’s aware of my quirks but likes me anyway.
As we cross over a small footbridge, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before slipping it into his back pocket. The back pocket of his pink pants. That are doing incredible things for his tight, round bu—
Nope. That is not friend territory . It’s no use berating myself. Now I’m thinking of how badly I want his tailor information to be de-classified. I’d like to send that person a cookie bouquet. With a card that says, You’re out here doing the Lord’s work. Thank you for highlighting one of His greatest creations—Griffin Lacey’s tight end.
“You know where you can get a killer soft pretzel?”
Griffin’s voice sends my inappropriate thoughts scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind.
I’m too stupefied to answer, but he doesn’t wait for a response.
“At the stadium.”
“Oh.”
“Those concession stands are legit. My brothers and I would save our allowance for weeks so we could buy snacks at the games we went to. One time, Tucker ate so much cotton candy that Dad had to pull over twice on the way home so he could puke.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and like I can read his mind, I know exactly what he’s going to ask next, so I brace for it.
“You ever, uh,” he stammers. “You ever go to any games with your, er, Jack?”
Without permission, a response that has nothing to do with football escapes me, as if I have zero control over my vocal cords and mouth. “Jack and I broke up.”
He halts, causing his body to jerk back, as if he’s slammed on the brakes, so I stop as well. The second my body stills, it’s wrapped in a solid, warm embrace.
Holy hell. Being hugged by Griffin Lacey is like being cocooned in a delicious-smelling weighted blanket. I bury my nose in those tiny pink flamingos and let it happen. I’ve been starved for affection for the past few months, so I take the opportunity given and find comfort in a friend’s arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against my crown. The words are followed by a slight pressure—his chin, resting on top of my head.
We stand that way a few moments longer. I ache to squeeze him back, but I refrain, because that way lies danger. I’m in too deep as it is, my overwrought brain rushing to document every nanosecond of this: Griffin’s cedar and fresh air scent. The softness of his shirt against my nose and cheeks. The weight of his chin on my head. The perfect amount of pressure and warmth he exerts on each cell of my body.
I pull away first, but Griffin keeps a firm grip on my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Right now, his irises are the color of the cloudless sky overhead.
“I’m okay.” It’s the truth. And I take comfort in it.
“When?”
“Friday night.”
“What—” He shakes his head once, then says, “And you’re really okay?”
We cross over a narrow portion of the miniature Mississippi and head back to the trailhead.
“I’m really okay.” I give him a smile that turns into a grimace. “Other than the about-to-be-homeless part.”
“Homeless?”
“The house is Jack’s. He moved here a year before I did. He isn’t kicking me out tomorrow or anything, but we can’t keep living together. I applied for faculty housing on campus yesterday, but they’re full until the end of the semester. I need to find a place to stay for three months, but most apartments want you to sign a lease for a minimum of six months.” This predicament is compounded by my lack of friends in Memphis. I considered asking Helen if she has a spare bedroom I could rent, but I couldn’t work up the nerve.
“You could move in with me.”
Now it’s my turn to slam on the brakes.
With my heart in my throat and my jaw on the ground, I stare at him. There’s no mistaking the pink that’s creeping into his cheeks. Or the sincerity in his gaze.
“Griffin, I didn’t tell you that so—”
“I know.” He clears his throat, which reminds me to take a freaking breath. “You weren’t hinting. I see that. But I own a whole damn building. My apartment is two stories. You’d have the top floor to yourself. I only go up there to get things from my office. And let’s be honest, I’m not an office kind of guy. I’m more a studies-plays-on-an-iPad-while-lounging-on-the-couch kind of guy. So I’m never up there.”
The rapid-fire heartbeats in my chest don’t slow as I consider his offer. Is this insane? Moving in with a guy I’ve only known for a couple of weeks? Of course it is . So why, then, am I about to agree to be his roommate?
He continues his hard sell. “I’m not there much during the day, and the weekends we’re out of town, of course. You’d have the place to yourself. Except weeknights. And you said it’s only for three months?”
I nod absently. Three months. That’ll pass in a blink, right?
My football star friend stands resolute, hands on hips. But his damn eyes twinkle. “C’mon, you know you wanna say yes.”
God, I do. This man could convince me to rob a bank. Or graffiti a building.
Or move in with him…
“Okay. I accept.”
Planned or not, the words shock the air out of my lungs. Like the free-fall at the crest of a roller coaster. Should I raise both hands in the air or cling to the safety bar for dear life?
His response? An undiluted, full-fledged Griffin Lacey smile. The kind that makes me feel weightless.
“Awesome, roomie.” He holds his hand out, ready to seal the deal. “We forgot this earlier.”
So we complete our intricate handshake, then, in a daze, I follow him back to his truck.
My chest goes tight as we park behind several luxury cars and SUVs that line the curb in front of a charming, two-story home. The tan siding of the home and the tall, white columns and trim showcase the slender floor-to-ceiling windows on each floor perfectly. And the welcoming front porch and second-story balcony lend a hint of quaintness to the whole package. The lots on this street are narrow, so homes sit close together in a way that resembles the historic double gallery houses I saw in New Orleans when Jack and I visited a couple of years ago.
On our way up the front walk, Griffin ducks and tilts closer. “Remember: we can leave whenever you want.”
I nod as we step up onto the porch and give him my best reassuring smile.
The interior of the house is modern yet cozy. Rich walnut floors, smooth eggshell walls decorated with bold, framed prints, and a mix of leather and upholstered furniture in shades of espresso and taupe. The space is crowded with bodies: tall, broad football players and their significant others. For a fleeting moment, I worry that they’ll think I’m Griffin’s date.
But after the players in the living room greet him with bone-jarring bro hugs and handshakes, he gets ahead of the assumptions.
“Yo!” he shouts, silencing the entire room. “This is my friend Brynn. Make her feel welcome, please.”
Cheeks burning, I plaster on a smile and give the crowd an awkward wave. Griffin remains a steady presence at my side as curious eyes scrutinize me. When I realize those inquisitive stares are paired with friendly smiles, I lower my shoulders.
A cute younger guy with smooth brown skin and a flirty smile pulls his beer from his lips and tilts his head, thoughtful. “Hey, Lacey, isn’t she—”
The Blues’ quarterback smacks the back of his head affectionately, cutting him off. Without missing a beat, Beau Dempsey closes the distance and extends his hand. “Hi, Brynn. I’m Beau. Nice to meet you.”
His slow-as-molasses southern drawl is a balm to my insecurities. With a smile, I slip my hand into his. He stands a couple of inches shorter than Griffin, his body a little less bulky, too. But the man is gorgeous. He’s the only Blues player besides Griffin that I could pick out of a lineup, and that’s only because the city has plastered his handsome boy-next-door face everywhere.
“Thanks for having me. Your home is beau—”
“Oh, hello! Welcome!” An enthusiastic blond sidles up to Beau and happily allows him to pull her into his side. She’s beautiful. Perfect sun-kissed skin, thick blond waves that hit just below her shoulders. Eyes a blue so dark they’re almost violet. A beauty pageant smile that showcases straight, white teeth.
She and Beau are a perfect match.
“I’m Paige Keller,” she says, her voice light, bubbly.
“Brynn.” I hold out a hand.
Rather than shake it, she swoops in for a hug. “Oh, gosh,” she warbles as she squeezes me, the last word sounding more like gawsh with her accent. “I’m a hugger. I hope that’s okay.” I’ve literally just met her, but strangely, her fresh scent is comforting, so I let myself bask in a hug for the second time today.
“Now.” She takes both of my hands in hers and backs away from the group. “Come hang out with the girls in the kitchen. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
My blood pressure spikes, but I allow her to pull me away from the safety of Griffin’s side. Before I can panic, though, a large, reassuring hand presses into the small of my back. “I’ll go with you ladies, grab myself a drink.”
He doesn’t let go until after all the introductions have been made, and, feeling more at ease than I could have imagined, I give him a tiny nod. With a secret wink, he returns to his teammates. And I spend the next half hour getting to know some of the nicest, funniest women I’ve met in Memphis. These ladies are nothing like the group I tried to befriend shortly after moving here.
When Paige announces it’s time to eat, I excuse myself to find a bathroom. I make a wrong turn as I’m headed back to the kitchen and end up near the butler’s pantry, where Paige fetched my beer earlier. At the sound of deep voices in the walk-in space, I freeze .
One voice belongs to Griffin. I recognize the next voice, too—it’s the young guy Beau smacked when Griffin and I arrived. “She dumped Cockburn’s ass, and now she’s gonna be your roommate?” I slap a palm over my mouth to keep from laughing at the butchering of Jack’s last name. Do they really call him that? Griffin almost slipped up a couple of weeks ago, so that’s likely.
Holy hell, they call my ex-boyfriend Cockburn .
“And you can handle that—having her as a roommate?” That voice, full of concern, but also authority, belongs to Beau. He asks the question confidently, like the team captain he is.
“Yeah, it’s cool.” My future roommate’s tone is nonchalant. “I told y’all—this season is my one priority. I won’t let anything stand in the way of finishing strong. No distractions, right? Besides, it’s not like that with her. We’re just friends.”
Scuffs of footsteps in the pantry send my heart racing. Without a second of hesitation, I rush back to the bathroom. By some miracle, I make it without being discovered eavesdropping. My stomach twists with guilt for listening to their conversation, but more so because of Griffin’s words.
We’re. Just. Friends.
I’ve been telling myself the same thing since he offered his friendship. And our time together has been so good for me.
So why does hearing that phrase from his mouth hurt so damn bad?
I rewash my hands, stalling so I don’t meet them in the hallway, and assess myself in the mirror. My cheeks and nose are tinged pink from our river walk, but the dark half-moons under my eyes are less prominent than they’ve been in years. Must be all that peaceful sleep I’ve been getting lately. That’s something to celebrate, I suppose.
I take a deep breath, focus on my mirror image, and whisper the reminder once more: “You’re just friends. And that will have to be good enough. ”
But the sheen in my eyes proves that neither of us—real Brynn nor her reflection—believes the lie.