Page 31 of Love Felt Like This

“Griffin?” Beverly murmurs into my chest.

“Yes?”

“I have a place we can go where they won’t find us.”

I don’t ask questions. I admire a woman with a plan. I squeeze her hand in confirmation.

“I’ll call my driver, and you tell him where to go.”

I turn around to look at our abandoned table one last time. As we turn the corner, I see Beau talking with the photographer. This is far from over.

My driver whisks us away to Beverly’s secret hiding spot. I text Jimmy about the ordeal to see if he can stop any leaks, but a photo of me and Beverly is already on social media making the rounds. Poe, Dom, and Royce all text me in waves of What the hell happened? but I can’t figure out what to tell them. I barely understand it myself.

Beverly must see the photo, too, because her fingers race across her phone screen. I don’t know who she’s texting—only that it feels like a lot of people because she doesn’t look up once in our thirty-minute drive.

We journey down roads that slowly become more potholes than street until we stop in front of a dingy little apartment complex. It reminds me of my grandma’s old place, with its stone stairs sprouting weeds and the cracks I’d draw on in chalk.

Beverly climbs out of the back seat, still focused on her phone. I silently follow her into a side stairwell that doesn’t require a key card and up three flights of stairs with matted-down carpet and the overwhelming smell of mold. We stop outside a bruised door, and Beverly finally tucks her phone into her pocket, ignoring a buzz as she wiggles the key in the lock. It doesn’t open until she shoves her shoulder into the door.

Inside, the two of us enter through a small kitchenette. At first, it seems to transition into a big living room. But then I realize it’s actually the only room. A bare mattress is in the corner. A single doorway on the left leads to a tiled bathroom (fine, there are technically two rooms). In the middle of the bare floor are two large suitcases. One is propped open. Familiar blue feathers poke out.

“I know this guy,” I say, taking a stroll over and then crouching down to see Bernie Bird in all his glory, beak open and lounging on top of rolled-up skirts and corduroy pants.

Beverly gives a weak smile, then shuts the door behind us, locks the dead bolt, and pulls out her phone once more.

“Is this your place?” I ask.

“Only for another day,” she says. “Figured this would be safer. The guy won’t think to look here. And, if somehow he does, it won’t really matter.”

Beverly lets out a deep sigh and tosses her phone onto the counter. It buzzes again. She doesn’t answer.

I lift an eyebrow. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just…my family group chat is blowing up.”

“Because of the photos?”

“Yeah. My nana thinks you’re cute, by the way.”

I scratch my fingers over my beard. “Good to know.”

She sighs and shakes her hair off her neck. The scent of grapefruit wafts over before she walks away, toward the window facing the street. She leans closer to the glass as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. It’s messy now, just like her wind-blown bangs brushing over her forehead.

“Where’d your driver go?” she asks.

I avert my eyes from her delicate wrists turning and flexing as she ties off her hair.

“He wanders,” I say, staring at the bare carpet. “He’ll be back whenever I call him.”

“Fancy.”

“It balances out the whole paparazzi thing.”

When she doesn’t respond, I look up at her again. She’s already watching me as her hands curl by her sides, absentmindedly chipping at nail polish with her thumb. Her ponytail sways behind her, driven by the slight bouncing on her knee.

“Do secret photographers happen often?” she asks.

“Yes,” I admit. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said…” I sigh. I should have known there might be paparazzi there. “I didn’t like how different you looked after Beau came over. I acted a bit quickly. I’m sorry for that.”