Page 123 of Love Felt Like This

They’re not bad. They’re just…different.

Griffin and I keep our distance. I hit the ground running with my Connection pitch. He holes up to write music.

We’re acting very—capital N—Normal, like we were before the awards show: working and brainstorming, even if we are huddling in our own spaces, meeting up only once a day to share ideas, have dinner, then close up again.

It’s crunch time. It’s do or die.

Scripts are soaring from my calloused fingers, stabbed from sewing puppet samples and rough from gluing felt together. But underneath my headphones drowning out the world, I hear the same phrase on repeat:

I know what I like.

I must have imagined those words in my drunken stupor.

I made an absolute idiot of myself.

He saw me puke.

I brought up his hard penis.

I turn the music louder and accidentally stick myself with the sewing needle once more.

Ugh.

By the time our indoor farmers’ market rolls around, I’ve forgotten how to be a person. The market is held in the enclosed barn on Daisy’s property. Everything smells like hay or wood. I sidestep running kids, mumbling awkward “Sorrys” while trying my best not to focus on the man beside me.

Griffin walks tall and imposing. It makes me wonder if Elk Grove makes babies smaller than the rest of America or if he’s just that big. God, he smells like glorious leather, so I turn my head and breathe in hay instead.

It’s funny going from the busy limo rides in LA, with honking and drinking to pushing a stroller down an aisle of white-tented booths. Chalkboard signs prop open to advertise flowers, peppers, and jams. A hum of conversation echoes off the lofted ceiling while neighbors clutch hot coffees under their red noses.

And then there’s Griffin “I Know What I Like” Harvey. I visually trace the lines of his face but then sheepishly look away after his eyes snap over.

Ava’s hands extend from the stroller, pointing at Maria’s booth full of jams.

“Good call, Ava,” I say, “We definitely need some more jam in our lives.”

It’s a distraction I’ll take.

I leave Griffin’s side and snag a random jar or two, only to be overwhelmed by his warmth once more. Griffin appears behind me, digging in his back pocket for his cash. He flicks through the folded bills to locate a twenty, then hands it to Maria.

“No,” I say, swatting at it.

He huffs out something like a laugh, but it’s probably pity at how I couldn’t even budge his hand.

Griffin won’t pay for interior decorators, but spending cash on me? On Ava? He can’t burn through it fast enough for us.

Maria smiles at Griffin, taking the bill despite my grimace. “Was the Grammys fun?”

“It was great,” I say, as Maria tucks our jams into a plastic Thank You bag.

“You’re all over the internet now,” she adds. “Did you know that?”

“Are we?” I ask, but the words squeak out.

I know that we’re going viral. I shamefully checked social media under my private account to see what the word was. I needed to make sure I didn’t embarrass him. Instead, I found uncomfortable video essays analyzing our body language and short-form thirst traps of his exposed chest hair.

The internet seems…supportive. For once. It’s not what I’m accustomed to.

“You two looked so good together.”