Page 174 of Love Felt Like This

“Me? He’s the one you’ve got to worry about.”

“Oh, please.” She waves me off.

If Birds gets the green light, I’ll be moving in with Finch for a few months until I can get my savings built up again. Finch told me he’s mastered Jeopardy! (“I didn’t know that was an award they gave out, Finch”) and I’ll need to prepare to watch it every night.

I’ve missed him, and we’ll have fun as roommates. We’ll be like some sitcom where the couple stands back-to-back with their arms crossed, cheekily smiling at the camera as if to say How’d we get into this mess? A seventy-year-old and his thirty-two-year-old protégé.

But then my thoughts wander in that nefarious way when I remember Griffin will likely be nearby. This city is only so big. Will we see each other often? Will we have the time?

We won’t.

I know we won’t.

Nope. Locking that thought in the vault and swallowing the key.

I roll my suitcase out the door, playing elevator music in my mind.

Easy, calm thoughts.

It’s chilly. The sun is still cresting the horizon, silhouetting the tree line through the morning fog. Pads of melting snow litter the dead leaves in the yard. The outside feels completely still.

I walk to the car and pop the trunk. Greg follows behind me, crunching over gravel with his Crocs, blowing out a cool puff of air with each exhalation. He takes the suitcase from me and drops it inside.

Nana walks onto the porch with Mom and Dad. Mom rubs the outside of her arms.

“I need a coat,” Nana says. “Glenn, help me back up the stairs, please.”

Momma clicks her tongue. “Since when can’t you go up the stairs by yourself?”

“Cheryl, you too. Get a coat. You’ll freeze.”

“Ma…?”

With a sigh, Mom waves to me and Greg. “We’ll be back! Don’t leave without us.”

“Ma!” is the last thing I hear her cry before Nana and my parents disappear back into the house.

Through the silent hum of winter, Greg clears his throat. “So…hey, kiddo. How are you feeling?”

“I’m good.” Bad. Sick.

Greg pulls down the hatchback top and keeps his hand rested on the window once it’s shut. “You, uh, talked to the big guy much?”

My stomach drops.

Why, why, why?

I want to run from this conversation. I want to vomit. Is the bathroom in the garage apartment unlocked?

“We text,” I answer instead because it’s more pleasant than puking.

We do text, but it’s always a game of tag. Sometimes I’d send a long response, only to wake up and realize I dreamed it. Then I’d see that, in fact, the last time I’d sent a text had been hours earlier, and now it was four in the morning in LA, so I couldn’t exactly send another because I was sure I’d wake Ava.

So, yes, we text, but also…I wish it were more.

Is that selfish?

Ava needs normalcy. They’re already struggling with this media nightmare. And Griffin and I can barely keep up with texting as it is. Is that healthy for her to have a woman enter her life, only to be ripped apart when Griffin’s and my careers take over? Is that responsible?