“Mira?” I say her name so quietly, I know she and Bash are the only ones who catch it. My friend frowns when she remains silent, and my stomach drops.
I guess we haven’t made as much progress as I thought, and it calls to mind all my previous girlfriends who were more than happy to give me their bodies but were never willing to give me their hearts.
The pain of that parallel is like a physical blow.
“You know what?” I press my palms on the table and move to stand. “I’m actually beat. I’m heading out.”
The blonde’s face lights up. “Oh, do you want some company?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice tight, “I do. But not from you.”
And with that, I shoulder past our little fan club, ignoring the calls of my boys, ignoring Mira’s sharp inhalation, and walk out into the cold Minneapolis night.
I’m sure that little interaction will end up all over social media, but I can’t find it in me to give a single flying fuck.
twenty-nine
MIRA
He doesn’t come home.After the shit show at the bar and those stupid fucking girls—no, stupid fucking me for sitting there and letting them hit on Griffin while he was clearly looking for me to step in—I sat at that damn booth for another fifteen minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore. I made my excuses, ordered a rideshare, and ran home to talk to him. My heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest, and nausea made every pothole dangerous.
I hurt him. I hurt the man who’s done nothing but be sweet and patient and supportive of me.
I’m such an asshole.
Now here I am, alone in our bed, five ignored calls, twenty unanswered texts, and a solitary night of tossing and turning later, and it feels like my stomach is eating itself. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s still early—six a.m.—and still dark out. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep. Not with how worried I am about Griffin. Is he safe somewhere? Is he with someone? Is he done with me?
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging my exhausted ass out of our bed. I quickly use the bathroom and brush my teeth, then walk out of our room through the door I never closed and into the main part of the apartment. Will he be home? What will I say to him?
When I see Griffin’s broad shoulders and back in front of the kitchen island, the rush of relief that floods me almost knocks my knees out from under me. He’s slumped on a stool, his blond hair greasy and sticking up, as if he spent hours running his hands through it. His shoulders curve inward, and his head hangs so his chin almost touches his chest.
He’s here. He’s safe. But he’s so obviously not himself that my steps falter and I go still, just watching him.
“There’s coffee in the pot.” His voice is flat, and I hate it.
Clearing my throat to dislodge the lump choking me, I take a tentative step toward him. My hand lifts from my side like it has a mind of its own, and my fingers twitch as I reach for him. “Griffin…”
“I have practice this afternoon,” he says, shifting to avoid my touch and rising from the stool. He shuffles to the sink, where he rinses out his mug before placing it into the dishwasher. “I’m going to shower and grab my gear, then I’m meeting Bash for breakfast. Do you need anything?”
Look at me, I silently command.Look at me, Griffin.
He doesn’t.
“No.” My voice cracks. “I don’t need anything.”
I need you to look at me. I need you to let me make this right. I need you to be patient with me.
“Kay. Text if you do.”
Griffin walks toward our bedroom, and each step he takes away from me feels like the lash of a whip or the slice of a knife. I’m bleeding, but I deserve it.
“Will you… Will you be home tonight?”
His steps falter at the doorway. Does he hear how desperate I am for him to look at me? Does he hear all the words I should say but can’t seem to force out? “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be home tonight.”
And with that, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. The softclickof the lock reverberates through my very bones, and the first tear I’ve ever cried over Griffin Wright slips down my cheeks, followed closely by more than I can count.
I’m waitingfor Griffin on the couch when he walks out of our bedroom with damp hair and his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t look up at me, so I take a moment to study him.
