Page 43 of When Lemons Give You Life

“I assume you haven’t been able to speak about that properly with him yet?” His tone is soft, the same patient question he’s asked me before.

I go quiet. “I’ve tried. You know what he’s like, though.”

“A clam?”

I nod.

He shrugs, fiddling with his Winnie-the-Pooh keyring. “Please keep trying. Griff doesn’t process pain the way you or I might. He shuts down. He runs. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

“He hides it well.”

“He hides everything well. It’s sort of his whole deal.”

“That must be exhausting.” I know how draining it can be to mask even a small part of yourself, but Griff seems to mask everything. The effort it must take makes my chest ache for him.

Beau nods, a shadow in his expression. “It is. Some of us get lucky and find people we don’t have to hide from early on. He . . . he didn’t have that growing up, with . . . everything the way it was.” He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and I can tell by the way he looks at me that he has more to say but won’t. I know Beau won’t break his trust, but the thought rattles—that Griff’s silence might not just be stubbornness, but something heavier I’ve never had to carry.

“Why won’t he let me in?”

“Give it time, my lovely. I’m determined to bring you two back together if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I don’t think we were ever together. Some days I think it would have been easier if I were an only child, like you.”

Beau just takes my hand, letting the quiet settle between us again, gentle and undemanding.

And then I look at him, really look, and there it is: the thing I’ve been pretending not to see. The soft lines of his face, the way his smile tugs at one side first, like he’s holding a secret. The scent of his citrus cologne. The way I could fall in love with him so easily.

The way I possibly already have.

But he’s Griff’s. Not mine.

“Well, I hope my brother knows how lucky he is.” I swallow the lump in my throat, glancing back through the windscreen.

Beau’s lips pull into a crooked grin. “It’s me who’s the lucky one.”

I want to stay here forever—in the fantasy. Instead, he puts the key in the ignition to drive me home. Because that’s what friends do. And that’s all I’m allowed to be.

“I don’t suppose you want to come up for a cuppa at Griff’s on the way?” he asks.

“Not sure Griff would like that,” I say, forcing a smile. “He’s not exactly a fan of drop-ins. Or me.”

Beau reads me easily, like always. “Nonsense. Come on. Just tea. I’ll even let you pick the mug.”

We pull up to Griff’s place, my heart tapping out a nervous beat.

The hallway light flickers as we climb the stairs. Beau knocks once and opens the door like he lives here—which, judging by the multiple pairs of shoes by the mat, he sort of does now.

Griff appears in the kitchen doorway. Barefoot. Blank expression. Dishtowel over one shoulder. When he sees me, something shifts slightly. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t retreat. He wipes his hands on the towel and opens the door the rest of the way. “Hi,” he says. “You coming in or just loitering?”

Beau nudges me with his elbow. “See? Practically rolling out the red carpet.”

Griff disappears back toward the kitchen without comment, but within seconds there are three mugs on the counter steeping with tea bags.

“Thanks,” I murmur, picking one up.

He shrugs. “Didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something neutral.”

“Chamomile,” I say. “The Switzerland of tea.”