Page 192 of Love Felt Like This

At least he’s finding joy in remaining a mystery, underneath those tired eyes. And boy, he looks tired.

It hurts to know he was right when it came to tapping the brakes. Achieving our dreams with the added pressure of a relationship would make this whole thing even harder. But correct decisions are not always the easiest.

I look down at my phone. When I unlock it, my screen is still on our text thread. I received a new one this morning right when I woke up.

GP: Ava can’t wait to see you.

Ava.

My sweet, sweet girl.

I’ve talked to her a few times over video calls. She seems to be loving Europe, sometimes wandering away from our conversation to see whatever landscape they’re passing next. Selfishly, I wonder if, with each call, she remembers me less and less.

Is she excited to see me?

Is he excited to see me too?

GP: Tell Bernie I’ll squawk at him soon.

I can almost hear the words leaving his mouth. The gruff, rumbling tone that sends shivers down my spine if murmured close to my ear. Hell, even if they’re murmured a mile away.

I stuff my phone back into my tote bag.

“Can I listen to Griffin’s new song on the way?” Rob asks when he returns with his phone.

“Only if you have headphones,” I answer.

“You still haven’t listened to it?” Nana asks.

“Not the whole song, no.”

I can’t. I know it’s silly, but I simply can’t.

Griffin hasn’t released the entire Bird in Hand album yet, but the single he premiered while on tour, “Your Right Hand,” already skyrocketed to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 chart. I, however, am one of probably five people living under a rock who have not listened to it.

If the song comes on in a grocery store, I make a beeline for the checkout. One time it came on the car radio, and I nearly zipped into oncoming traffic leaning over to change the station. It’s hard to ignore Griffin’s song when it’s everywhere, though. And it’s extra hard ignoring how unique it sounds. What little I’ve heard of the song is filled with piano. It’s playful. Less somber than his other songs. Sure, there are people online who don’t like his altered sound, but for the most part, people are going nuts for this new single.

I’m happy he’s doing what he loves. And as long as he’s thriving, I can feel better about our decision. It never would have worked, even if I am miserable.

And I am.

Miserable, that is.

Sometimes, even after we’re done watching his performances on the big TV, I’ll curl up in bed and watch them again, taking note of his microexpressions, the little eyebrow lifts and jaw tics.

I’m miserable and pathetic.

“You’re sure?” Nana asks, jolting me back to the present.

“Of course,” I repeat, swiping my hands down the front of my shirt. “Just another day at work.”

Nana pinches the corner of my sleeve. “I like this.”

I look down at my outfit. It’s nothing special, but it’s not my usual high-waisted jeans and Birds on the Block ringer tee. It’s a dress with three-quarter sleeves and tights. Cute, but still functional for sliding around puppeteering.

“You’re pretty,” Nana says. “And he’ll find you very pretty.”

I scoff. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”