11. Andi
Chapter 11
Andi
I ’m in the middle of putting groceries away when Dahlia FaceTimes me. We haven’t talked in a few days, and I prop my phone up against the toaster before answering with my face close to the screen. “Where the hell have you been, loca?”
My best friend cackles with delight. “Hanging with a sparkly vampire.”
One of the things we often liked to do was play drinking games with movies. The Twilight series provided hours of drunken fun. Vic hated it, but he’d eventually give in and play with us. Two Christmases ago, I bought him a Jacob cardboard cutout. A few weeks later, he put it in my room in the middle of the night, and when I got up to pee, it scared me so bad, I went in my pants.
“I miss you and Vic,” I say, peeing my pants notwithstanding.
“I miss you too. How are you? Fill me in. Have you fucked the daddy yet?” she asks while making herself tea, and I snort.
“No. I told you. I’m not having sex with my kids’ dad.”
“That’s cute,” she says, arching a dark brow. “How you call them your kids.”
I toss the multigrain bread onto a shelf in the pantry. “What else am I supposed to call them? I’m taking care of them.”
“But it’s going good still?”
I texted Dahlia after my breakthrough with Logan and Grace, and while it’s only been three days, it feels like it might as well have been three months with how well we’re getting along now. Grace has taken to playing guitar like she completes her schoolwork, with single-minded focus and determination. Logan and I have played a round of basketball, and he’s been allowing me to wrap my arm around his shoulders as we walk back to the house after getting off the school bus. It’s not quite the cuddles I’m used to with Dahlia, but I’ll take it as a start.
“Everything is going great with the twins,” I say.
“And firefighter daddy?”
“I really need you to stop calling him daddy.”
“Why? Because you want to and need me to step off your man?”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t with you.”
She grins and pours her steaming water into the big mug I bought for her birthday a few years ago that reads May you have the confidence of a mediocre white man . Then for my birthday, she bought me one that says Little Miss Doesn’t Get Paid Enough for This Shit . I have it downstairs, to hold all my loose odds and ends since I don’t think Griffin would like me adding it to the shelf with his oddly beautiful matching ceramic mugs. They’re stonewashed blue and brown and look homemade. My Little Miss cup wouldn’t fit with the vibes.
Moving on from her obsession with my boss, I ask, “You ready for the gig tonight?”
She nods, sipping her tea. “I was about to go over the setlist. Want to help me?”
“Of course.” I finish up with the groceries as we go back and forth on the best order of songs she’ll sing, a mix of covers and originals we wrote together. I wouldn’t consider Dahlia a powerhouse singer, but she has a throwback vibrato that always reminded me of 1960s rock and roll. When we first started jamming together, I convinced her to sing the classic “Hey Lover” by Daughters of Eve. It was one of Mimi’s favorites and the first song I learned to play. Incidentally, Dahlia still sings it. Brings the house down as her finisher. She has an interesting intersection of music: the history of Tejano, a love of folk-rock, and a dash of country because of me. Put it all together, she’s like a Mexican American Brandi Carlile. Not to mention one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in real life with perfect bronze skin, black hair down to her butt, and the height of a supermodel.
I never necessarily wanted the spotlight, satisfied with playing guitar and writing music, so when we found each other, we instantly clicked in our aim for the business, as well as on a base level of friendship. Which is why I’m so happy to hear she’s been getting some interest from record labels lately, including from one she’s had her sights set on for indie folk-rock artists.
“You think you’ll ever come back?” Dahlia asks once we finish with her setlist.
“I don’t think so.” I plop down in a chair at the kitchen table. “After everything that happened with Ryder, I feel so defeated. All those years of working my ass off, writing songs constantly, going to open mics and sending demos. And for what? To be told I’m worthless.”
“You are not worthless.”
“I know, but…” I look off into the distance, recalling the night he fired me. Making fun of me in front of everyone, dismissing me like I didn’t practically keep him upright for three years, because I dared to have a conversation of my own about my songs. God forbid, I take a small advantage of the situation.
“Some days I feel like I’ll never write another song again,” I admit, and Dahlia gasps.
“Don’t say that. You just need time to heal and rebuild your confidence. You’ll be creating in no time.”
I meet her gaze on my screen, knowing she’s right but still feeling raw and dejected. “It’s hard not to feel like a failure.”
She narrows her eyes in answer, lip curling when she growls out, “I could actually kill Ryder. Fuck it, kill your parents too.”
I sniff a pitiful laugh. While Ryder was the one to put the nail in the coffin, my parents were the ones to build it. No matter what I wanted, it wasn’t what they wanted, therefore a terrible idea. My dad wasn’t very good at compliments. Aside from calling me a whore, telling me no man would ever want me after he caught me with my high school boyfriend, he was quick to inform me I’d never get anywhere in life with my attitude and lack of work ethic. All because I preferred daydreaming and playing my guitar to wanting to stay on the farm and marrying that same boyfriend he caught me having sex with. The day I left, he told me I’d never amount to anything.
So, while I think keeping such strict schedules with Grace and Logan may not allow them to truly express themselves or their desire to spend time with their dad, I know Griffin loves them. He’s never once raised his voice or demeaned them. Besides, they wouldn’t want his attention so badly if he were anything like my father.
“I don’t have enough bail money,” I tell Dahlia. “So, thank you for the offer, but please do not commit murder on my behalf.”
“I will do it.” She huffs. “You really won’t come home?”
I shake my head, not sure where home is at the moment. “I’m liking it here for now. I’m having a good time.”
She relents. “Okay, but whenever you’re ready to start writing music again, I’m here. We’re a team, remember?”
Her words make my heart swell with gratitude and affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” she promises. “I’ve got your back, now and always.”
I feel myself tearing up a bit at her unwavering support and belief in me. It’s exactly what I need to hear right now. “Thanks, Dahl. Love you.”
“Te quiero mucho.” She blows me a kiss through the phone, and we hang up in time for the back door to open. Griffin’s home.
He’s in sweats and a firehouse T-shirt, but today, he’s got a cap on, like the day I met him, and he takes it off to run his hand over his hair a few times before tossing it on the counter. Then he lifts his gaze to me, and as always, I melt under those eyes of his. It’s like he can see right into my head, past all my smiles, to my heart.
Which is why I guess he frowns at me. “You okay?”
I nod, waving at my face, hoping I’m not red from the conversation with my best friend. I hate that my first reaction to any kind of emotion is to cry. If I’m sad, I cry. But also if I’m mad or embarrassed. Or even if I can’t find something. I’ll cry. My tear ducts were born in overdrive and have yet to let up.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing, which only allows him to crowd my space.
I don’t hate that he is mere inches away, towering over me, but I hate that I can’t touch him like I want to. Put my head on his chest and curl my hands into his T-shirt. This close, I can feel his body heat. I’d like nothing more than to wrap myself up in it.
And burn.
“What happened?” He studies every inch of my face. “Did the kids do something?”
“What?” I squeak, hoping he didn’t somehow find out about what they did to me or I to them in retribution. It’s our secret. “No.”
“What did happen?” His nostrils flare, exhaling heavily from his nose. I might find his irritation on my behalf humorous, if not for the emotion clogged in my chest.
I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “Nothing. I was talking to my best friend.”
“What did she say?”
I force a laugh. “What’s this interrogation about?”
“You look like you were crying.”
I turn away from him. “I was.”
That’s when he reaches for me but stops himself, his fingers millimeters away from my chin. I tip it up anyway to find him peering down at me with a steady, comforting gaze. I’m not sure what he reads in my features, but he nods a few times. “Why?”
“I miss her. I miss…” I bite my bottom lip to keep my chin from quivering when it hits me just how much Dahlia means to me. “She’s my family, my support system, and I miss having that.”
Griffin sets his hands down on the counter on either side of my waist and bends, lowering himself so he’s almost at my eyeline. “Someday you’ll tell me about why your best friend is your support system and not your actual family.”
I sniff a watery laugh at his order. “Okay.”
“My family means everything to me,” he says. “My brothers and sister. My kids. They’re my world, and I hate that it’s not the same for you. I hate that you’re crying in my kitchen because you miss your best friend. I hate that you ran away from something in LA, and I’d like to hear about that, too. But I want you to know that while you’re taking care of my children, while you’re in my house, you’re a part of my family. You have my support for whatever you need.”
Before I can stop it, a tear slips from my eye, and he knuckles it away. I blink a few times, clearing my sight, careful not to let go of the tight hold my arms have around each other. I can’t give in to the overwhelming pull to bury my head against his neck. Or worse, jump on him, cling to him like a koala.
My well to be touched and petted and soothed needs to be refilled, but like he said, our relationship has to remain professional. So, I smile and say, “Thank you, Griff.”
His gaze lingers on my mouth, and in a poor attempt to escape these close quarters, I blurt, “I have to talk to you about the kids.”
This makes him stand up straight and back away from me, all the way to the island so there are a few feet in between us. He braces himself, and I assume it’s because he thinks I’m going to quit or tell him about some awful thing the twins did. Now that I’ve been let into their evil mastermind plans, I learned they once placed a fake tarantula on the pillow of the nanny that came two before me, and when she woke up, she flew out of bed, hitting her head, giving herself a concussion. There was also the male nanny who liked to go running, so they put Cat’s turds in his very expensive running shoes.
Really, I got off easy.
Though there’s no telling what they would have moved on to next if I hadn’t shown them I could play their game. A fake tarantula would most definitely make me pee myself again.
Griffin waits, a little impatiently, if how he checks his watch is anything to go by. The man lives and breathes by seconds.
Under his intimidating stare, I take a breath and set my shoulders, mentally reminding myself of my affirmations. You’re smart. You’re capable. You have really great eyebrows.
“I wanted to suggest that maybe you could ease up a bit on the rigid schedule with them.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
I twist my fingers together nervously. “I know you run this house like a well-oiled machine, but they’re kids. They could use a little more…fun. Spontaneity.”
Griffin’s jaw tightens, and he slants his attention to the side. I hurry to continue so he doesn’t get the wrong idea.
“The structure is good for them, but they’re desperate to hang out. Play some basketball in the driveway, watch movies together, whatever. They want to spend time with you, that’s all.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his expression indecipherable.
“I want what’s best for them,” he finally says. “I’ve had to be both their parents, the disciplinarian and the good guy, and still, I have to make sure things run smoothly.”
I nod in understanding. “I know. And you’re doing an amazing job with them. I can tell how much you love Logan and Grace. But I think, maybe, they’d appreciate the time you spent relaxing with them. They know Captain Stone as their dad, but what about, like, just…Dad. You know?”
He considers this in silence. An entire day passes before he meets my gaze. He seems like he might snap the marble top right in half for how hard he’s gripping it. Then again, that’s not much different from his normal appearance.
That’s the thing about Captain America—he’s strong as hell, but he only uses his power for good.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he says and stalks off. I make myself scarce and stay downstairs even when I hear him and the kids come home from the bus stop. Although I don’t catch every word, I specifically hear my name and “told me” and “hang out” and “more time.”
An hour later, about when dinner would usually be getting started, Griffin calls down to me. “Andi? You want to play some basketball with us?”
I’m caught so unaware I drop the laundry I’m folding.
“Really?”
He pads down the few steps, enough to bend down so he can talk to me. “Logan told me you two have been playing together.”
“Only twice,” I reply, as if we’ve been naughty.
“Come on.” He juts his chin up to the door. “Meet us in the driveway.”
Then he marches back upstairs, and I don’t waste any time. I throw on his sweatshirt and lace up my sneakers to head out to the driveway, where Griffin’s dribbling the basketball with an ease that makes my skin heat. His hands are big, his legs long, and he arches his brow in a challenge before tossing the ball to me.
Logan bounds over to my side. “It’s you and me against Gracie and Dad.”
Although I know Grace isn’t much for sports, I love that she’s grinning. So is Logan, both of them openly happy to be out here with their father. When I turn to him again, butterflies take off in my stomach at the way he tilts his head, studying me, “Time’s ticking, Andi. Are you in or out?”
“I’m so in,” I say with a laugh then proceed to do the complicated handshake Logan and I came up with the other day. After, I throw the basketball back to Griffin, who catches it with an audible breath, surprise crossing his features at the power behind it. “Losers get the ball first,” I taunt. Trash talk is half the game.
Griffin shakes his head and dribbles right up to me, a full, heart-stopping smile curling his lips. “That’s tough talk for someone who was born in the Keebler Elf tree.”
“Yeah, I was born sweet.”
He looks me up and down lasciviously. “I’ll bet.”
And I go weak.
Absolutely lose my place in time and space, unable to intercept the pass when he tosses it to Grace. But it’s worth it when she takes a shot on the basket, missing by a mile, and Griffin tells her, “That’s all right, sweetie. We’ll get it next time.”
Dead.
Died.
Gone to heaven