Page 40 of Griffin
“I just locked up, and I’m upstairs in the apartment. I have sourdough everywhere, I have cookie dough ready, flour in my hair, and I can’t even tell you how many macarons I’ve piped.”
She laughs at herself, and I smile.
“Where did you get to today?” Her voice is soft. Like she cares. Feeling like a warm hug, like a safe space.
“I had to do a few things here at the house. You need me to come and check your locks? You alright?”
“I’m fine. You don’t need to.”
“What if I want to?” The words leave me before I can pull them back. My heart thuds, my chest tight. Fuck, what the hell am I doing?
“You know, I can’t remember if I locked the back door or not…”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Okay.” I swear I can hear her smile.
I end the call and blow out a breath. I have no idea what we’re doing. Dancing around each other. Spending time together like we’re friends. And we are. But there’s an underlying tension simmering that I can’t get a hold of. Fuck, I don’t even know what the hell I’m thinking, getting all excited to see her like I didn’t see her a few hours ago.
But I put my tools down and leave my shed, walking through my garden and heading inside to wash my hands. As I do, I look over my expansive lawn. Memories from roughhousing with the kids at the birthday party are vivid in my mind. I pause, staring at the space, imagining what it would look like with streamers and kids everywhere, celebrating a birthday.
Wondering if there’s even a slither of possibility that kids around here would even be an option. My mind imagines a little one. Maybe two. Running around on shaky legs, giggling, tumbling on the grass like Tanner’s little girl before I swoop them up and throw them in the air, hearing them squeal in delight.
I rub my eyes. I never daydream. Not sure why I’m starting now. Shaking my head, I stride to the house, pushing inside to the kitchen. Modern. Polished. Unused. The house is new, and I barely stay here. So I have no trinkets, no photos. Nothing personal. I don’t even keep that kind of thing anywhere.
It feels empty. Hollow. Yet it’s full of designer furnishings thanks to Victoria. But it’s a house. Not a home. I need to remember that.
My cell rings, and I pull it out, thinking it’s Savannah again, and answer immediately.
“Hey? You alright?” It’s my go-to. My worry for her constant.
“Griffin?” the voice on the other end is eerily familiar.
“Who’s this?” I’m immediately on alert, like my body knows exactly who it is, my mind not wanting to believe it.
“I guess it has been almost twenty-five years…”
I feel like a deer in headlights. It can’t be. It can’t be him. My heart thuds heavily in my chest and my body tenses. I breathe in and out of my nose, my jaw tight. Anger swirls inside of me like a tornado building, gathering every ounce of emotion that floats around my body and pulling in tight to create a storm so severe it’s unavoidable. I can’t stop it.
“Lose my number.” I end the call and throw my cell on the kitchen counter, my body now vibrating in anger.
“Goddamn motherfucker…” I grit out to the empty stillness of my kitchen.
My cell chimes, and I swipe it from the counter, ready to crush it. But this time, I look at my screen and see Savannah's name again. Looking at the time, I’ve been standing here for too long; she probably thinks I’ve forgotten about her.
I baked you something today…
Accompanying the text is a photo of a gingerbread man holding a hammer and wearing a scowl. He has a little lunch box in his other hand with the name Griffin on it. And just like that, she breaks my mood, and my anger starts to dissipate. My fingers move before I think too hard. The familiar, safe feeling I’ve had for years resurfaces, and I do what I always do. I run.
Sorry, something came up. I can’t come. Lock the doors. Rest up. I have to fly out early tomorrow. Not sure how long I will be gone.
I send the text to her before I change my mind. Then I send another one just as quick to get my jet and pilot ready for dawn, needing to leave, to go, to always be on the move as anxiety runs through my body like a full river after a storm. I swallow down the lump in my throat, hating myself for letting her down.
But it’s for the best.
That dream of kids playing on the lawn… It’s never going to happen. It can’t. And I need to stop thinking about it.
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