“Okay,” she says when we’ve both dressed at a safe distance from each other. “I’m ready to get back in the car.”
I’m just relieved she’s got her clothes back on. “Let’s go.”
She looks at me over the roof of the car. “I’m picking the music.”
“You’ve been picking the music for the past week.”
“And it’s been good music for the past week.”
She picks Fleetwood Mac.
Obviously.
Twenty-Seven
Piper
Here is what the last several days have looked like.
A roadside diner outside San Luis Obispo, where the coffee was burnt and the pie was not. We stayed for two hours, talking and laughing about everything and nothing at all.
We went to a night market in a town I’d never heard of, where I bought a pair of earrings from a woman who told my fortune without being asked and told Griffin he hadunfinished businessin a tone that made him stare at his beer for ten minutes.
Two more swimming spots—one planned, one not, one involving a slight miscommunication about how deep the drop from the rocks was, which I am choosing not to document in detail.
A car breakdown where Griffin did something confident and mechanical under the hood, while I contributed moral support and a granola bar.
A farmer’s market at six in the morning because we were up anyway, and it was there.
And a couple of amazing sunsets.
Gerald has been to all of these places. The penguin is accruing more life experiences than most domestic house pets.
We stopped making plans. It turns out that no plans are either hectic or perfect, depending on the day, and most days have been closer to perfect than I know what to do with.
Here is the other thing the last several days have looked like: Griffin.
Specifically, the ongoing and increasingly difficult project ofnotnoticing Griffin.
I notice things constantly. I’ve been noticing things since the beach—the way he takes his coffee, the way he sits with his back to the wall like he’s performing a structural assessment of every room he enters. The real laugh, the one I’ve been collecting and keeping safe. The way his tattoos catch the light when he drives.
I’m nine days out of the relationship I was supposed to spend my life in. I have zero business noticing the way he wrung out his shirt after the beach and stood in the sun, and ugh, I’m getting more beer.
The bar is called Terry’s, I think. The motel is across the road. It’s a Monday night, the place is full, and the food is barbecue. All of it is excellent. I’ve been eating ribs until I can hardly move.
I have sauce on my face, but I don’t care. This is who I am now.
“You’ve got something—” Griffin starts, pointing at his mouth.
“I know. I don’t care.”
He looks at me for a second, then picks up a napkin and wipes the corner of my mouth.
I freeze for a beat before I finish the job, but my hand is shaky and I only succeed in smearing the sauce across my cheek.
“You’re making it worse,” he says, his voice lower than it was a minute ago.
He doesn’t wait for me to try again. Instead, he leans in, his other hand steadying my jaw, and uses a clean corner of the napkin to wipe the rest away. His thumb catches the edge of my lip for a second. It’s practical. It’s quick. It’s the most intense thing that has happened to me all year.
