Page 202 of Love Felt Like This

Griffin loves me.

“Beverly?” Nana asks.

“What?”

“Well, say something, honey.”

Griffin loves me.

Griffin has been miserable too.

I close my eyes and shake my head. “I mean…what do you say to that? I…” I clear my throat, and then my body feels so, so hot. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or the stinging behind my eyes, but I find myself choking out, “What was he thinking? He…he can’t just…make a song for me.”

“He can’t?”

“No! That’s unfair!” I stand fully, crossing my arms over my chest. “He wrote me a freaking love ballad! What am I supposed to do?”

I can’t parse through the feelings now rushing through me in waves of adoration, anger, confusion, joy, and love, love, love.

I feel crazy.

I feel happy.

I feel like I need to give Griffin Harvey a piece of my mind.

There’s a knock on the door. Rob peeks in, seeing me with my arms clutched tight across my chest and my foot tapping on the floor. My eyes sting with tears. Nana lounges on the armchair in the corner. We look like an in-progress therapy session gone wrong—or terribly right.

“Uh, what are y’all doing? Are we…” He looks at his phone. “Going to the concert or…” He gasps when he spots the open jewel case on the floor. “Whoa, is this the new album?”

Nana grins. “It’s all about Beverly.”

Rob’s nose scrunches. “What? Are you kidding me?”

“No,” I snap. Because How dare he write me a love ballad? I’m over here constructing Elton Emu, and he’s waxing poetic about my hair and my eyes and—

God, I love Griffin Harvey.

Rob groans. “I gotta hear songs about my sister?”

A ragged laugh leaves me in a cough.

Suddenly, it all feels so ridiculous.

He loves me.

Griffin loves me.

Or at least he loved me once.

Griffin Harvey wrote an album featuring songs about me.

Me and his daughter.

His girls.

Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore. Maybe this album was written in the past tense. Maybe this was a fever dream in Elk Grove. But I don’t care. I know that I love him. I’ve loved Griffin for far too long, and not a single ounce of it has changed since March. So if I’m lucky, maybe his feelings haven’t changed either.

“We’re going to the concert,” I blurt out. “I have to see him.” I fumble into my nightstand drawers and pull out the tickets.