“I needed you to shut up.”
He says it like that’s explanation enough, but it’s totally not. If it were, it would’ve been enough in that alley when he said it. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. “Needed me to shut up because ...” I prompt.
“There are these two guys that are kinda, sorta, maybe ...fwabakingku.” He swipes his hand over his mouth, distorting the mumble so that I don’t catch what he’s said.
“I’ve heard of five guys”—I lift my eyebrows pointedly, assuming he’s seen the memes too—“and Five Guys, good burgers. But what about two guys?”
He doesn’t want to say it again, and he glares at me, furious I’m trying to make him. Or maybe it was my reference of five guys. I definitely don’t think it was the mention of burgers.
“Guys fucking me?” I suggest, trying to get the sounds he made to shape into words. “Fighting me? Feeding me? Somethingeff-ingme. Maybe try charades? I’m really good at it, though I haven’t played since high school at Mary Beth Lomer’s sleepover. But I kicked ass, figuring out Patrick Star fromSpongeBob SquarePantsin record time, which was harder than you’d think. At first, I guessed Mary Beth was being a dead body, because she just laid out on the floor, spread out like a star,” I demonstrate, sticking out my arms and legs at odd angles, “but I got there, and we beat Preston Barnes in the final round. Served him right. Guy was a prick.”
Griffin abruptly pushes to his feet, looming over me. “Following you,” he spits out. “Two guys following you.”
“Like in an IG fan sorta way, or a stalkery way?” I ask the question, but my mind is already rolling as I replay the videotapes in my head of the people on the street today. It doesn’t take long before I find the guys Griffin is talking about. One more second, and I realize that I’ve seen them before. “They’re not followingme. They’re followingyou! Those are the fans you said tried to talk to you at Yesteryear.”
He sighs heavily, sitting back down. “About that ...”
I can read him like a book. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set, and his eyes cold. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?” I guess.
Griffin shakes his head. “No. And let me start by saying I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but I thought I could handle things and you would never have to know.”
He might as well have slapped me. I don’t like people hiding things from me, like they know what’s good for me better than I do, or like I’m not capable of making choices for myself. I feel lied to, which makesme feel stupid for not realizing I was being lied to, and I don’t like this feeling. Not one bit. “Apologies don’t really work when you’re doing it because you purposefully hid something from me,” I snap.
Griffin doesn’t flinch a bit, taking the verbal blow like a champ, though it’s a much more direct hit than any of our usual banter. “I went into Yesteryear to ask about the ring, remember?”
I nod because, yeah, I remember—I was there, sitting on a bench, crying my eyes out at the unfairness of the world after having been mugged. It’s not the kinda thing a girl simply forgets.
“In there, I saw two guys talking to the lady behind the register. They were asking about your ring, said it was sentimental and an accident it was there in the first place, so they wanted it back. She gave them your card and then pointed you out. That’s when I got you out of there because I had a bad feeling about those guys.” He grits his teeth, making the muscle in his jaw appear and disappear, but his eyes are vacantly staring at the coffee table like he can’t look me in the eye while confessing his sins. “And then today, it seemed too coincidental for them to be on the same sidewalk, at the same time, as you when you just as easily could’ve been home today. I think they followed you. Have you seen them anywhere else? Near your apartment or the arena or the coffee shop, anywhere you go. Think hard.”
I replay my mental tapes again, and given they stand out with their size and vibes, I pretty quickly confirm that, until today, I haven’t seen them since outside Yesteryear. If I had, I probably would’ve guessed they were athletes, likely hockey players, since that’s the world I live in, and tried to figure out what team they play on. But that hasn’t happened, so I know I haven’t seen them. I shake my head, but Griffin doesn’t look convinced.
“How would they even know where I live?” I muse, thinking through everything he’s said. “If Carolynn gave them a card, it has my website and email, that’s it. No phone number, no address. And my website lists my PO box. I’m not a total idiot, I know how to be invisible. Basic business practices coupled with being a single womanin the city. Leave no trace isn’t just for national parks, you know?” I explain sagely.
“Okay, so maybe they don’t know where you live,” Griffin echoes, making it sound like he came to that conclusion all by himself and wasn’t baby-stepped there by my awesome plan-ahead business skills. But at least I know he’s listening, because he looks on the verge of crashing out, running his fingers through his hair and his eyes bouncing around like he’s worried one of those guys might’ve followed us here and will burst through the door any second.
I’m mad at him—furious, actually—for lying, but I also care if he winds himself up into a panic attack when I’m safe. I mean, I’m sitting here in Griffin’s apartment, a place I’ve never been to, with a man who would apparently go to extreme lengths to protect me against some vague threat. It’s not the worst place I’ve ever been. That’d be in a dark closet, playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with Preston Barnes at Mary Beth Lomer’s sleepover after that charade game. He wasn’t only a sore loser but an octopus who suddenly couldn’t understand the word no, at least until I kneed him in the balls the way Dom always told me to do. Comparatively, Griffin’s couch isn’t half bad.
“If they were actually following me, why would they wait to approach when you’re with me? They could’ve intercepted me anytime today—on my way to Mad Dog’s or when I was talking to him, or while I was waiting for you at the café. There’s no reason for them to have waited to approach me until I was with someone like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he sneers, angry eyes jerking to mine.
I stare back at him like he’s an idiot because, surely, he’s not serious. Has he ever seen himself in a mirror? Waving a hand around to encompass all of him, I explain, “Big and muscly and obviously on the verge of a throwdown at a moment’s notice. Your presence turns what could’ve been a chill ‘hey, about that ring ...’ conversation into a ‘don’t speak to her without my permission or I’ll end you’ vibe. And that doesn’t make any sense. So maybe it’s just a coincidence?”
Some people don’t believe in coincidences. They think fate or God or the universe conspires to put things into place, exactly as they’re destined to be. I’ve been in too many weird situations to believe that’s true. Unless the universe has a really twisted, sick sense of humor. Which I guess might also be a possibility, but I’m going with weirdcoinkydinkthis time. Griffin doesn’t look convinced of that.
“Hey! Someone messaged me through my website about the ring too. I wonder if it’s one of them? Probably, right? Unless there’s someone else out on the hunt for the elusive Cursed Ring of Bad Luck-landia.”
“They messaged you? And you didn’t say anything?”
I recoil, confusion and a don’t-yell-at-me bitchiness warring on my face. “Why would I tell you? Considering I didn’t know there was any reason to be concerned because you didn’t warn me?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed like he’s praying. It’s a look I’ve seen before, many times, from many people. He’s annoyed with me and trying not to lose his shit. But my point is valid. We’ve never really talked about my business. I mean, he hears it when Dom asks or my parents brag, and he’s been super helpful with this whole ring deal, but there was no reason for me to bemoan my continued misfortune with him specifically. I handled it myself, the way I always have.
“Can I see?” He holds out his hand, expecting me to give him my phone simply because he asked. Thoughaskis a relative term. There might’ve been the littlest question mark on the end of what he said, but it was an order all the same.
I could refuse. I could get up and leave. I could just wash my hands of this whole catastrophic episode of season twenty-five in Penelope Lee’s life. Instead, I pull my phone from my pocket and, after a few clicks, show him the messages and my responses. He nods as he reads like he approves. Not that I care, and not that it matters, but a tiny piece of me wants to show him that I’m a businesswoman who can string together a professional email in an unfortunate circumstance. I’m not a complete clusterfuck, current situation notwithstanding.
“I haven’t responded to the latest message. When I saw it, I got inspired to try to find it again. That’s why I went to talk to Mad Dog this morning. Maybe I should respond, though?” I hover my fingers over the buttons on my phone, trying to figure out what to say.
