Page 211 of Love Felt Like This

And then I’m stumbling forward, shoving with my hands.

“Griffin!”

I push, sliding past people much taller than me and much bulkier, slipping beside irritated embracing couples, and ducking under arms holding up phones. At some point, Rob’s palm leaves my shoulder. I turn around, and when I finally spot the top of his head, he’s too far back. He flashes me a thumbs-up. I barrel ahead.

Griffin is writing songs for me. He’s dedicating them to me in front of massive venues. He still loves me. There’s no way he doesn’t. And nothing else exists. Not the people around me, not the countless sneakers catching on the hem of my vintage dress. Not the way my heart is throbbing in my chest as my breath leaves in ragged exhales. It’s only Griffin and the stage and finding a way to him.

The world is a blur of white noise and tunnel vision as I hurl forward. It feels like the universe pushes me there with pounding legs as my hands grow numb with nerves. It’s like I’m flying, drifting on a wind, getting picked up and hoisted by ghostly hands toward him, him, him.

Griffin suddenly stands from the piano. His mouth drops open. And I know—I know—he sees me. He’s spotting me among thousands, and I’m desperately calling out, “Griffin!”

A clearing starts around me, people moving aside as Griffin walks a few steps away from his piano bench. I can’t hear him speak, but I see the breathy name leave his lips: Beverly.

I run and run until suddenly my stomach slams into the steel gate blocking the bottom of the stage. The wind rushes out of me. The security guard on the other side surges forward.

“Ma’am, you cannot—”

“Griffin!” I try to shriek, but the words barely come out.

Griffin removes an earpiece, letting it fall on his shoulder, where the cord snags on his shirt.

He walks, jogs, then sprints. The earpiece thumps against his chest. His hair blows past his shoulders, strands catching on his shirt and tangling in the earpiece’s cord.

The security guard stops me. “I’ll need to escort you out.”

“Don’t touch her!” Griffin’s voice booms. Even without a mic, it vibrates offstage like a command from Hades himself. “Let her through!”

I crawl over the gate, barely cresting the top, having to balance like a lizard clambering up a tree branch. I fall to the other side, but not before one of the wide sleeves of my dress catches on a break in the welding. With a sigh, the security guard steps forward and removes it for me.

I let out a breathy “Thanks,” and by the time I reach the stage wall, Griffin is a few feet away from the edge. His jaw tenses as he looks over the side. His hands curl into fists. Slowly, step by step, he paces closer, sliding a single boot toward the steep drop of the stage. He swallows, and I can’t help but grin. It’s funny how such a big man can be afraid of something so simple as heights.

People don’t know the heart of Griffin Harvey.

But I do.

I rest my fingers on the lip of the stage.

“I won’t let you fall,” I call up.

He chokes out a laugh, despite his hand shivering beside his thigh.

Griffin crouches down, lowering one knee to the stage. He extends his hand, and I place my mine inside. His is shaky and large, engulfing the whole of me in his grasp. His guitar-calloused fingers scratch against my sewing-needle-stabbed ones as he pulls, and I’m lifted off the ground. When my knees hit the stage, he gets to his feet and lifts me again. My feet scramble over the hem of my dress, but he steadies me in place. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck. We’re at the edge of the stage, at the edge of everything together. Toe to toe, with his bulky shoulders curled over, his long hair cascading down around us, and his eyebrows tugged in the middle.

My body shakes in his hands. I’ve been so tired these past few months, but with him, it’s like having every drop of caffeine course through me. I reach up and stroke his bearded cheeks. Griffin’s chest heaves. His chin shakes. He traces a finger across my jaw.

“You’re here,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You came.”

“You’re my right hand, remember?”

His jaw tightens, and he immediately ducks his head. His shoulders shake.

I tuck my hands behind his neck and pull his head up to look at me again. His beautiful brown eyes shimmer in the stage lights. The edges are rimmed in pink.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps out. He sniffs and tilts his head to the side. “I’m so sorry, B.”

My heart is cracking, crumbling down my chest, landsliding into my stomach.

“For what?”