Page 124 of Love Felt Like This

My instinct is to reach for Griffin’s hand—the show must go on!—but I can’t bring myself to do it.

Something is different now.

Right?

Maybe I’m being paranoid.

But whenever I look around, I see people staring. Eddie, Fran, Maria, Taylor…they saw the same thing the rest of the world did: two people on the red carpet, holding each other intimately.

I hang the plastic bag of jam jars from a handle of Ava’s stroller.

“Thanks, Maria,” I say, quickly steering us back to the river of walkers.

“Everything all right?” Griffin asks.

No, not really, but I feign a smile and nod. “Of course.”

“That’s a lie,” he says.

I roll my eyes with a smile but don’t counter. I can’t lie to him a second time.

“B…”

I like when he murmurs his nickname for me. That’s very real.

Fine, there’s a lot about our relationship that isn’t fake. Like how my heart races thinking about the award show and the party after.

I know what I like.

The words chime through my head like a clock, right on the twelve o’clock hour, over and over and over.

“You can do a lot with this jam, you know,” I say.

Griffin sighs, then smiles. His is also forced. “Oh yeah?”

“PB and J sandwiches. Crackers. Toast.” As I speak, Griffin stares. He’s trying to read my mind; I can feel it. My face is telling on me, the jerk. I’m actively cringing at my own awkwardness.

“Plus, it’s winter, so business is tough,” I say.

“So we bought pity jam, B?” he asks.

“Helpful jam, GP.”

His smile meets his crinkled eyes at my pseudonickname as well.

Real. That is one hundred percent real.

“I like that you think of others,” he says.

My heart—my stupid, silly little thing—absolutely bowls over.

Mom saves me a response when she appears next to me. Her fists grip a small baggy stamped with paw prints. “I got some treats for Steak.”

“Doesn’t he already have a ton?” I ask.

“Daisy says if I want to train him, I could. That I’d have him on a skateboard in a week.”

My dad walks up escorting Nana, who loops her hand through the crook of his elbow. His free hand clutches a flower bouquet. My family wanders like this, leaving conversations and eventually joining back in at will. It’s like good jazz: seemingly random but flowing.