Chapter Eighteen #2
Fifteen fewer minutes.
It made him think of Layla: Layla and that afternoon at the Louvre she’d told him about.
She’d left the ex out of it, but Griffin still got the sense that he was there—she slipped and said We a few times.
We had a reserved slot, or We were there for hours.
But when she talked about the art she liked best, she said I, always.
I thought she would be glowing, I guess, she said, when she’d been telling him about that one painting that had surprised her most. But she wasn’t.
Her skin was so sallow. Her ankles were swollen.
She looked really dead, you know? I’ve seen that—death, I mean—up close.
I thought it was so beautiful, to paint her that way. To let her be human, in the end.
By then, he’d been well clear of the panic, but maybe he’d lied a little. Fidgeted just enough to keep her talking. He could’ve listened to her talk about art he’d never seen all night.
You could’ve kissed her all night, he thought, the memory shifting now. Her mouth, her skin, her scent. Her holding him, and how for a while, he didn’t let it matter that it sometimes hurt.
He had to turn the shower to cold to help him remember that Michael was still out there.
To help him remember that, in the end, he had let it matter.
He’d let it matter, and he’d hurt her in return.
The rest of his shower was quick, utilitarian, and when he got out, he was in control enough again to remember that Fifteen fewer minutes shit. He was clearheaded enough to realize why it bothered him.
He dried off too fast, hitting and scraping against spots he usually babied, tugged on his clothes and tried to ignore that parts of them stuck to him damply. Miserably.
He opened the door, saw Michael more sprawled on the couch now. At the sound of Griffin coming out, Michael said, without taking his eyes from the television, “I don’t even know why I have this on. Can’t understand anything they’re saying.”
“Mikey,” Griff said, and at that, his friend finally looked over.
“Yeah?”
“Emily is young,” he said, and before Michael could get indignant about it, he added, “I don’t mean it to be insulting.
I know she’s an adult. I know she’s mature.
Your equal. I mean—lots of things are probably still pretty new to her.
Or at least, showing them to you is new to her.
That’s probably why she likes the museums. Going with you to them, I mean.
Telling you about what she knows, or what she likes.
I bet it’s as important to her as the talking. Or the sleeping over.”
For a second, Michael stared at Griffin like he’d never seen him before in his life.
And given that everything that had just come out of Griffin’s mouth was probably unlike anything he’d ever said in his life, that was probably fair.
Then, Michael seemed to move on from the messenger to the message itself.
He stood from the couch, the remote clattering onto the floor from his lap.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding once, a look of determination coming over his features. “What am I doing?”
“Getting your asshole friend out of bed,” Griffin answered, crossing to the door and shoving his feet into his shoes.
“You’re not an asshole,” Michael said when they got into the hall, barely a minute later.
Griffin snorted. Stabbed his finger at the elevator button.
“You’re not,” said Michael. “That was helpful. A good reminder. Thanks.”
Thank Layla, he wanted to say, but that would require too much of an explanation. Anyway, Michael didn’t need the distraction.
Michael needed Emily, and Emily was—
“Which museum?” Griffin said, when they stepped onto the elevator.
“Rodin,” Michael said, and Griffin tried not to be relieved that it wasn’t the Louvre.
Still, he might’ve liked to see that painting Layla loved so much.
“A lot of outside stuff,” Michael said. “Sculptures.”
“That’s good,” Griffin said, and meant it. Outside would be good for him today, probably. Fresh air always helped.
When they got into the back of the car that Michael ordered, Griffin took out his phone.
He did it to not think about Layla, to look up shit about this museum and these sculptures so he wouldn’t have to keep thinking about what it would be like to see her again. What he would say to her once he did.
How he would fix what he’d broken. If he should even try.
But of course, even the phone reminded him of her.
Of being next to her on the train, passing it back and forth.
She would squint, sometimes, and he wondered if she wore reading glasses ever.
He should’ve asked her that last night, not that it mattered.
He shook his head, frustrated with himself.
Navigated to a page with a list of the outdoor sculptures, started scrolling.
Stopped and blinked at what he saw.
He couldn’t help but let out a huff of ironic laughter.
“Figures,” he said to himself, staring down at the little screen.
“What?” Michael said from beside him.
Griffin had to admit: For a second, he’d almost forgotten his friend was there.
“Nothing,” Griffin said, pressing the button to black out his screen again. “Just realized we’re about to see The Gates of Hell.”