MIRA
Every dayfor the first two weeks post Michigan, Griffin shows up to Maddy’s door with coffee, pastries, or flowers. Every day, he asks me to breakfast, and despite desperately wanting to say yes, I decline. He sends me lunch deliveries, texts me every few hours to tell me he loves me and always will, and sends me random GIFs and links to things he thinks are funny. Every night, he shows back up, hazel eyes full of hope, to tell me goodnight before he hands me a love note or a new romance novel with his favorite passages highlighted and annotated.
It’s killing me. I miss him so fucking much it hurts, I’m not sleeping well, and I can’t seem to eat anything. I’ve lost enough weight that Isla noticed and has started to worry. To her credit, she hasn’t pushed me to talk about more than I’m ready to discuss, even though I know she’s dying to hear what happened.
The thing is, I’m worried that if I tell her everything, I’ll lose my nerve and what little resolve I have left. Because two weeks without Griffin has made a few things painfully clear.
One, he’s my best friend. And I don’t just mean he’s one of them—I mean he’s the best friend I’ve ever had in my entire life.He gets me in a way no one else ever has, sees me more clearly than even my mom and my brother, and has always been one hundred percent in my corner.
Two, I’m hopelessly in love with him. Although our marriage and romantic relationship started from a drunken night, I’d been fighting my attraction to him way before Vegas. And, yes, I know I told him that our marriage was a mistake and that one day he’d see the truth of it, but how can he believe that’s the truth when I don’t even believe it?
And three, I’ve been really fucking selfish. I meant what I said when I told Griffin he should have asked more of me. I’ve spent every single torturous night in bed thinking back on all the things he did to try to prove he was right for me while I, what? Marked off little tic-marks on some imagined list of requirements for a perfect partner? What did I do to prove my worth to him? What did I sacrifice for him?
I’m the reason he and Maddox have barely been speaking. I’m the reason he’s playing on the second line. Because I’m the one who demanded we keep this relationship a secret, and look at how that ended up? I goaded him into drinking more that night. I brought up chapels and marriage.
Griffin has every right to be pissed at me. He’d have every right to blame me for the rift between him and his best friend, and the fact that he’s not playing on the first line in the last weeks of the regular season like he deserves to.
I almost wish he was mad. Maybe it would distract me from the absolute misery I’m wallowing in.
Maddox and Isla are both gone and I’m alone in their apartment when the doorbell rings. Looking down at myself, I cringe when I realize I haven’t changed out of my pajamas or brushed my hair yet today. At least I’ve brushed my teeth, so I won’t knock out whoever’s at the door. That is, if I answer it.
Tiptoeing through the apartment, I look through the peephole to find Griffin standing there, a book in his hand. Since he can’t see me, I allow myself a moment to study him. He’s still as golden and gorgeous as ever, but there are signs of stress on his face that weren’t there before. The little crease between his eyebrows seems deeper, and his jaw is tighter. His hair is messy, and not in that artful way it normally is.
After a few moments, he looks directly at the peephole, a slow grin curving his lips as he says, “You gonna stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna let me in, sunshine?”
“Shit.”
His chuckle floats through the door and embeds itself in my heart, like fuel for my soul. I hurry to open it and step aside, allowing him to come in.
It’s the first time we’ve been alone in weeks, and I have to fight my body’s urge to throw myself in his arms, bury my face in his neck, and refuse to let him go. A similar urge plays across Griffin’s face, but to my dismay, he doesn’t act on it. I wish he would. If he made the first move, I could let myself sink into him and still tell myself I held my ground.
“Hey, baby.” Griffin openly drinks me in, those hazel eyes I know so well—every striation and fleck of color mapped over our months together—scanning me from head to sock-covered toe. “How are you?”
Miserable, I want to say.Missing you. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please ask me to come home. Please tell me you hate this as much as me.
“Good,” I lie.
His lips twitch, forming into a frown before he catches himself. Like he knows I’m lying but has the grace not to call me on it. “Good. That’s good.”
We stare at each other for a moment. “What are you doing here?”
My words snap him out of whatever trance he’s in, and he shakes his head, handing me the book.
“Brought this for you. I thought maybe we could read it together while I’m out of town for this away series like we did before. I’ve heard nothing but good things.”
God, I hate the tentative way he asks. I want my confident, cocky husband back. This is my fault.
“I’d like that.” I take a step toward him, my lower lip between my teeth. “Maybe we can FaceTime and share our favorite parts?”
Griffin’s lips curve again, this time into a smile, as he moves a step toward me. There are mere inches between us now. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My voice is breathy as I respond, and my breathing grows shallow when he reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers skimming along my cheekbone before dragging along my lips.
“It’s a date.”
Leaning into his touch, I close my eyes as a pained sound tears from my lips. “Griffin.”
“Yeah, baby?” Hot breath ghosts over my lips, and they part without a conscious thought.
