Page 131 of Love Felt Like This

Griffin swallowed. “I don’t want to get everyone sick.”

“We’ll be fine. Just come over, Griffin.”

Ten minutes later, Griffin walks over carrying Ava. Her head rests on his shoulder. The wooden bird, which she keeps calling Tom, is clutched in a fist. Her cheeks are red, and her eyes appear sealed shut.

“Poor baby,” Nana coos.

Griffin sighs, tucking her closer to his chest, stroking a hand over the back of her hair. His large palm holds her head steady as he lowers onto the recliner.

I rush to the hall closet for blankets, then immediately halt.

Slow down, Beverly.

Ava will be fine.

And he’s only here for a few days.

My hands shake at the thought of Griffin being in the house full-time. The knowledge that he’s always right down the hall is…well, it’s something I can’t put my finger on.

Griffin takes the blankets from me when I return, brushing the palm of his hands across the back of my knuckles. I’m choosing to ignore the zip of anxious energy shooting into my chest and instead turn on my heel to stir the soup heating on the stove.

My phone buzzes. It doesn’t help my nerves.

I don’t look at it. I don’t have to. Beau has sent me one text every day. Flirty things with emojis. Old, wistful memories. Where was this a couple of years ago when he said he was too busy to text? That I was being overbearing and needy when I asked him where he’d been for days on end?

I turn back to Griffin right as he kisses the top of Ava’s head. My heart melts down into my chest.

Griffin isn’t Beau. Griffin has never ignored me. Griffin gives all of himself all the time. He takes care of his bandmates and Ava. Sure, he doesn’t smile as much as Beau, and he isn’t pleasant in interviews. But how are you supposed to be endlessly joyful when you feel you’re responsible for everyone all the time?

Greg takes off his scarf the moment he walks in the house, sending little specks of snow to the kitchen floor. He sighs. “I was sick just a few weeks ago. This is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Griffin murmurs to him, his lips still buried in Ava’s hair. “Things like this go around.” He holds her so close, like he’s afraid if he lets go, she’ll never get better.

As she watches some princess movie on the TV, he scribbles into a notebook with his free hand. I shamefully steal a peek when I pass by to drop off soup. He’s writing lyrics. I sigh. I wonder if he ever stops working. But who am I to judge?

Midafternoon, Ava finally sits up with a low whine.

“Hey, munchkin,” Griffin says. His voice has that exhausted quality to it, sending shivers down my spine. “Want some toast?”

She shakes her head.

“Hmm. Applesauce? A banana?” he suggests instead. The moment she nods, I’m already snagging a banana from the bunch hanging under our cabinets. I cut it into small pieces and shuffle over with a plate and napkin.

“Thanks,” he says. I wind my palms together. I want to help more. But I don’t know what else to do. Instead, I sit on the couch beside their recliner with my laptop. I type out scripts. They seem boring and unsalvageable. But I’m on a deadline, and it’s either now or never—can’t edit words not written—even if I do get distracted by Ava’s weak giggles, which are trying so hard to be present.

“That’s funny,” Griffin says.

I turn. He’s staring at my laptop screen with a half smile.

“You’re not supposed to read this. It’s a mess.”

“It’s still funny,” he croaks out. His cheeks flush red, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Griffin blush. His scratchy, tired voice has my own cheeks flushing red. Has he rested at all since she got sick?

The wind outside whistles against the sliding glass door. The porch chairs rock, just inches from the railing that slowly gathers inches of snow. Steak makes his way to the recliner and hops up next to Ava. She’d be so happy if only she weren’t lost to the world. Her mouth is open, and she breathes heavily.

Griffin strokes Ava’s hair away from her forehead and rises.

“She can take my bedroom,” I offer.