Griffin’s hands clutched at his little pile of clothes. He could practicallyhearher saying it. So pleasant and calm and false, like how she talked to Robert and Manon, like how she talked to the ex, like how she talked to Samantha,easy as anything.
“I’m gonna get a shower,” he said, wishing he was alone. The room felt way too small for him and all this fuckingfeelinghe had. “You should go ahead. Get a cab, catch up to Emily. I’ll be right behind you.”
Michael unmuted the TV, resettled himself. “Nah, I’ll wait. Fifteen fewer minutes at another museum won’t hurt, I’ll tell you that.”
Griffin clenched his teeth, annoyed, as he went into the en suite and closed the door behind him. At first, he thought it wasbecause Michael hadn’t taken his not-so-subtle hint at wanting to be alone. That had been a thing between them sometimes, back when Griffin was in the thick of his recovery, when most days Michael was the absolute last person he wanted to see, or to be seen by.
But as he shucked last night’s clothes, waiting for the shower to warm to the temperature he’d spent twenty minutes two days ago learning how to get right, the exact temperature he needed not to want to scream—fucking hotel showers, why were they socomplicated—he realized he wasn’t annoyed about not being left alone.
He was annoyed about that museum comment.
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 saidWea few times.We had a reserved slot, orWe were there for hours.But when she talked about the art she liked best, she saidI, 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, hehadlet 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 thatFifteen fewer minutesshit. 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?”
“Emilyisyoung,” 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 toyouis 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 eversaidin 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.
