“You know it’s still going to be here tomorrow, right?”
Griffin’s voice comes from behind me, but I don’t turn around. “I’m aware.”
I bend down to pick up a stray nail that isn’t in anyone’s way and toss it into the bed of my truck, before rounding my truck, opening the passenger door and organizing my tool belt on the seat.
“I feel like this doesn’t need to be said,” Griffin says, still behind me and resting a hand on my shoulder. “But in case you need the reminder, you don’t ever have to pretend to be strong around me. You know I’m always here for whatever you need.”
“I don’t know what you mean?” I say in a semi teasing tone over my shoulder. “I’m not pretending.”
He studies me, eyes flicking over the way I reorganize my tool belt. “Right.”
“I’m not,” I repeat. “I’m just cleaning things up here before heading to the bar.”
“You work too much. You don’t give yourself a break.”
I shrug, turning to face him. “I like working. You know this.”
He rolls his eyes. “No one likes workingthismuch.”
I lift my chin, trying to keep the conversation light and even teasing to avoid wherever my gut thinks Griffin is going with this. “Well…I do.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’m not here to drag up old shit. I’m not here to call you out or argue with you about how much you like working. I’m here to be your friend—your cousin. And because of that, I know when a break is needed.” His gaze drifts toward the house looming behind us. “Tonight, you need one. You’re off.”
“You just gave me a night off recently,” I argue.
“And maybe it’s time for another,” he says, his tone softer but he doesn’t back down. “You can pretend all you want with the show, with life, and with whatever is going on between you and Scottie. But you can’t pretend with me.”
I look down at the grass at my feet no longer clawing its way up my ankles, trying to come up with something funny to say back and make him take it back so I can work. Keep the jokes going as I always do, to maintain a light, optimistic mood. But nothing comes up. My jaw tightens, andnothing comes up.
He gestures toward my truck parked behind me. “Go home, Tucker.”
And before I can say anything more, he walks away.
Part of me is glad he did, because I know anything that would have come out of my mouth would have been bullshit. Griffin knows all about my past. The trauma. The devastation. The way my life changed entirely in one single night.
The night I lost everything.
I swallow hard, dragging my sweaty palms down my jeans as if it will wipe away the feelings. Something stirs beneath the surface of my mind. The memories push, demanding space I refuse to give them.
Flashes of light.
Heat.
Screaming.
I shove them back down where they belong so they can’t touch me, because letting them rise only makes me feel things I don’t want to feel. I’ve spent far too fucking long building walls strong enough to keep it buried, and I’m not about to let a moment like this crack them open.
Maybe I do need this night off after all.
But when I get back to my house, everything feels wrong. I shower and throw on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. Then I find myself walking around the living room and kitchen like I don’t belong here, like a stranger in my own space. It feels like I’m forgetting to clock in somewhere. I’m not used to being here when the sun is still in the sky; even if it’s cresting over the mountain for sunset, it’s still illuminating my place just enough that I forget what it looked like before tonight.
I move around the kitchen more by muscle memory than by intention. Pulling out a pan and some things stuffed away in my refrigerator, I get to making dinner. It’s not until I’m standing over my sink that I catch the light turning on in the apartment above my garage. My movement stills because I was so lost in my own head when I got home, that I didn’t even look up the stairs the way I find myself doing every night when I get home from the bar.
I tell myself I’m just watching the window to make sure she’s okay.
But the moment the light switches off and I see her making her way down the stairs, I bolt for the door, ready to invite her in for dinner because it’s basic courtesy to offer her food.
I scoff to myself. It’s a lie, and even I don’t buy it.
