––––––––

He doesn’t wait for me to explain. He leaves the room, his walking cane thumping on the floor as he heads to his bedroom.

He breaks my heart. No, he broke it long ago and now I just bleed over everything we say to each other.

Griff...

I should get ready for work instead of just sitting here, my heart in shards, my tears drying on my cheeks, the most beautiful, damaged, enigmatic man I’ve ever met in the next room when he might as well be oceans away.

God, I’m tired. Mentally and physically. I’m spinning so many plates I don’t know how long I will last. Between work and classes and taking care of Griffin, I might as well be three people, not one.

It doesn’t matter, though. Who cares about classes? And work is just a means to get money.

Though, I’m scared to stop going to college, scared to put my life on hold in case he doesn’t change his mind, in case he doesn’t see... doesn’t care how I feel about him. In case he really doesn’t feel the same way, despite all the evidence I’ve uncovered and held close to my heart.

What if I’m wrong? What if the clues aren’t real clues, or maybe they’re clues he tried to be my friend, nothing more? What will I do then? How will my heart take it?

I’m holding on to the classes like a lifeline, in case it all falls apart, and so far... so far there’s no indication I was right.

It’s killing me, this sense that I’m stressing him, hurting him by being around. He always tenses when I speak to him, never meets my eyes. He snaps at me and avoids me. It’s killing me as surely as any poison, and I’m not sure how much more I can take.

So here I am, trying to tell him what I realized, to find the nerve to confront him about it, about all the little and big things he did for me, find out if he meant them the way I’m seeing them now.

If he still means them.

But his reaction tells me he may not know why he did the things that angered and saddened me. Nobody told him they weren’t his fault, and I compounded the problem by not knowing, not realizing back then why he lashed out all the time, why he couldn’t stand the things that made me so excited and happy.

Why he’s still lashing out.

Like the party.

Getting up from the sofa, I smooth my dress down, tuck my hair behind my ears and take a deep breath. No use sitting here, feeling sorry for myself and wondering what he did or didn’t realize, when what I really need to do is tell him what really happened.

What I’ve come to understand and how I feel now.

***

“Griffin.” I knock on the door of the guest bedroom where he sleeps, but he doesn’t answer. “Can I come in?”

He doesn’t answer, and I hesitate. The need for privacy is something I understand well, but today we have to talk, so he doesn’t get to hide away. I still turn the handle reluctantly, wondering if instead of fixing things, I’m making them worse.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping his knees, head bowed. He looks so defeated, it breaks through my hesitancy, and I close the door behind me, making my way toward him in the half-light.

So dark in here. The blinds are closed. I haven’t been in this room since he moved into my apartment months ago, and a thick layer of dust covers everything. It’s empty, apart from the bed and his suitcase, and looks... sad.

Just like I feel.

“Listen to me,” I say. “Let me tell you what really happened that night.”

That party. I’ll never forget it. How hurt I was. How upset. How frigging scared when he vanished and I couldn’t find him.

He looks up, dark eyes haunted. “That night I wrecked everything,” he says, “wrecked your joy, your patience. You were right to leave. I wrecked it all in my anger.”

He had. I had felt it, too, all that rage and stupid sorrow, the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t think of me, only of himself, on that night as on so many others.

Or so I thought.

I stand by the bed, force myself to speak. “That night, you didn’t want to go out. I remember that. But I wanted you with me. I thought you were being difficult, like every other time. That you wanted to have it your way again, stay home like hermits, watch TV and eat dinner.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “That’s me. Griffin the Arrogant Hermit. What the hell is this about?”

But I won’t let the harsh words stop me today. “You said you’d rather walk, and we got into a fight over that because the house was too far. It made no sense to go on foot, even if the night was warm, but you also refused to take the bus. I remember yelling at each other.” I shiver. “I marched out of your room.”

“And I followed,” he says.

I sit down beside him, close enough to touch, though we don’t, the space between us the distance from the earth to the moon. “You did. And you said okay, that I was right, that walking was a stupid idea. That you were sorry. I thought it would be fine, then. God, I hated fighting with you.” His lashes are long and dark, like soot over his cheekbones. My hand wants to touch him, feel his warm skin under my fingertips. My brain says no. “But when we flagged a cab and got in, all the way to the party you sat facing away from me, glaring, answering in monosyllables if at all. I felt guilty, and annoyed. I couldn’t understand why it was such a big deal, getting a cab, going out. Such a beautiful night, I thought. A chance to have fun and dance and maybe...”

“Maybe what?” he mutters, not looking up.

So I close my eyes. “Nothing.” A chance to see if he liked me, really liked me, but... “I really liked Amy, and the evening was warm but not too much. I remember the night air smelling of flowers. The whole Summer was in front of us and everything seemed possible, but you didn’t want to go out at night, didn’t want to go for a drive, didn’t want to go to a club or bar. And that night felt like one of the same.”

“I said I fucked up. What more do you want from me? Goddammit.” But his voice cracks, and I know, I know deep in my bones that I’m right.

How didn’t I know it then?

“You weren’t well. I knew your leg hurt, but I thought it wasn’t all that bad, given you’d suggested walking all the way to Amy’s house. I couldn’t figure you out, couldn’t figure out if you liked hanging out with me or hated it.”

His face twists, and he turns away. I wait to see if he will tell me. If he will set me right.

But all he says is, “My leg wasn’t the problem.”

Okay, that’s a start, I guess. An opening. I wait, but he gives me nothing more. Doesn’t say if he hated me, or he could barely stand me.

It feels like he can barely stand me now.

“Look, Griff...” I forge on. “In between his incredibly stupid jokes, Marvin told me you can’t stand noise. Especially loud noises. Not only since your time in the army, but from before that, too. He also let slip that cars make you uneasy since the explosion that almost took out your leg.”

He rubs at his thigh, gaze swinging back to the front, blank and distant. His throat works, but he makes no sound.

“So of course you didn’t want to go to a party, and of course you didn’t want to get inside the cab. And then came the fireworks, and that’s when you left. They startled you, didn’t they? Sounded like gunshots, like explosions. Marvin said that your Humvee was torn apart. You were the only survivor in that vehicle—”

He flinches.

I swear in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him flinch. Sweat beads his forehead, his face pales, his breathing becomes unsteady.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I breathe, watching him, studying his face. “You were always kind of grumpy and moody, and I thought it was because of me. That night, I thought it was because of me.”

“God fuck...” He rubs his hands over his face.

“Was it, Griff?”

“No, Jesus. It wasn’t your fault.”

“So I’m right? Is this the real story? Is this why you didn’t want—?”

“I tried,” he says from between clenched teeth, a vein beating frantically in his jaw. “Goddammit, I tried.”

“I know,” I whisper. I put my hand over his fist, I smile even if I want to cry. “I know it now, Griff.”

“It wasn’t...” he draws a shaky breath. “It wasn’t your fault. But I tried, for you.”

A breath catches in my throat. It tastes of regret and sadness, but also of hope.

For a while, we sit there, my hand on top of his, until his breathing slows. I don’t want to move, afraid to shatter the moment. Instead, I take the moment to study his face from up close. Even in the half-light, I can easily make out his features, his soft mouth, the arches of his dark brows, the strong line of his jaw.

He’s dressed in his typical black, black jeans and black T-shirt, a black ghost, and he smells of something woodsy and spicy.

So typically Griffin.

So good.

Long moments pass, and eventually, the silence feels like it’s too much. I’m not done yet. There’s more I need to say.

“Griff... everything I’ve just told you, all this... it’s to say that I wasn’t right to leave. If I’d known... if you’d told me. If I’d even suspected any of it, Griff, there’s no way in the world I’d have left your side.”

His gaze swings up to me, wide and unfocused. “What?”

It’s hard to say the words out loud, to admit it, but here goes:

“I was wrong to go, and an idiot to follow Marvin. I wanted to get back at you for putting me down. But you didn’t. It hadn’t been your fault that night, or the other nights, and for that I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

You deserve better. Better than me.

His hand unclenches, turns, captures mine. “I deserve nothing,” he says, his voice scratchy, but I hear a question in there, too, a doubt.

“Then you are wrong, too,” I reply, and turn so our eyes meet. “Griff...”

He leans in and kisses me, our lips meeting softly, a whisper of warmth and pressure, and then it’s over.

“Fuck...” Frowning, he starts to get up, but then I’m putting my arms around him, holding him tightly, holding him to me, and he stays, still and unyielding in the circle of my arms.

He stays, a shiver going through him, and his eyes are wet and too bright. After a moment, he leans ever so slightly into me, a sigh escaping him.

And all the while, the memory of that kiss... it’s burning my lips, my heart.

I’ll fight for this, for him, for us. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll unravel him and show him what he showed me, even without realizing it himself.

That he cares. That he gives a damn. That he wants me.

As for me, I’m so in love with him, no other man can ever take his place.