73
Griff
“Extra strong flat white, please,” I say.
The cafe next to the hospital is filled with people and the sweet aroma of chai. I take a seat on the squeaky vinyl chair
near the door, watching people go in and out.
The large coffee is rich and bitter. As the caffeine buzz starts to kick in, a familiar face ducks his head under the doorframe.
Every muscle in my body locks. I never paid much attention to the gigantic guitarist who used to play at the home. I heard
and loved his music but never really saw him. Now I could be looking at my future brother-in-law. If he’s as kind as he is
tall, then we might be alright.
I scramble for a menu to hide my face, but it’s too late.
Frank scans the room for a spare table, initially overlooking me, before his head snaps back in my direction. He stumbles
over into the chair opposite me, his long jaw wide open. The guy looks like crap—the bags under his eyes wouldn’t fit in a
carry-on compartment.
Finally, he speaks. “Griff? Are you . . . allowed out? Is there a carer with you?”
I take a deep breath. “Let’s order you a coffee, extra strong. You’re going to need it.”
Frank, still wide-eyed, is soon cradling a cappuccino, his hands so large that the mug is hidden beneath his trembling fingers.
I down a second flat white and explain everything from the start. About Beau’s diagnosis and my big charade. He doesn’t say
much—must be a great match for my motormouth sister. I start to get to the bottom line. “So, long story short, I came clean
so that I could d—”
But Frank slams his cup down on the table. “How could you, Griff? You let her think you were disappearing, like Beau. You
let Lisa mourn you while you were sitting right in front of her.”
I blink, surprised that the mild man’s voice could live up to his size. “I didn’t—”
“You did. And you, what? Thought you were doing her a favor?”
“I never meant to hurt her.”
“But you have. And you’ve been doing it for years. You ran out on your dying mother and never looked back. You ghosted your
own sister because you couldn’t handle the mess.”
A familiar defensiveness rises in my chest before I can stop it. “Well, she got her own back, didn’t she? I assume she told
you what happened at our engagement party. With Beau.”
“She did. And it’s gutted her for years. But withholding your forgiveness? That’s what’s tortured her.”
I shift in my chair.
“That’s not the only thing you’ve lied about. Lisa told me—” Frank’s phone vibrates on the table; he snatches it up. “It’s
the hospital. I have to take this.” He stands and heads outside.
I stare at him through the glass like I’m watching a giant TV, a viewer who is powerless to change the narrative unfolding
before him. Is it a feel-good story where everything turns out okay in the end? Or is this a tragic drama where the leading
lady is too late to receive a transplant and dies?
Frank’s face crumples. His shoulders cave in as he bursts into tears, letting out a sound I feel in my chest.
The hope I’ve been clutching slips through my fingers.
He comes back in, slower this time, and sits opposite me. His cheeks are wet, but he is smiling. “They found her a match.”
I nod with relief. “I know. You’re looking at him.”