Page 53 of Love Felt Like This

Mom crosses the kitchen with her hand stuck out and a beaming smile to greet Griffin.

“Hi.” My mom is relaxed around those she knows, but she approaches everyone new with intentional kindness. It’s professional. It’s years of practice being Albert Starling’s daughter. “I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier. You can call me Cheryl.”

Griffin firmly shakes with the hand not clutching Ava. My mom is short like me, and it’s funny watching how he towers over her, swallowing up her petite hand with his. Is that how we look side by side?

“Nice to meet you,” Griffin says. “Your home is beautiful.”

He’s polite. I would say it must be public relations training, but I doubt they teach you how to compliment moms at dinner or treat them with respect by not giving a limp handshake. Plus, his interviews are terrible.

Griffin attempts lowering Ava to the living room hardwood, but her legs wrap around his body in resistance, so she slides down his pant leg instead, landing with a plop on the floor.

“Want a drink?” Dad asks. “We have beer, wine, or whiskey, if you’re up for it.”

Griffin’s eyes follow Ava, toddling over to the sliding glass door and pressing her palms against it. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

Pudge gives a small woo-woo, waddling to Ava with a wagging tail. Griffin tenses the closer he gets, but Pudge gives one sniff and walks away uninterested.

“Pudge is harmless,” I explain. “Just overfed. Same with this one.” Steak tentatively watches from Mom’s feet, eyes narrowed.

“Cat!” Ava squeals, reaching her hand out. Steak doesn’t move an inch.

You couldn’t at least try? I want to plead, but Steak glares as if to respond, Don’t test my patience.

“Anyway, you’ve met my dad,” I say, gesturing to Dad, who gives a goofy wave with his fireplace poker. Oh God, please put that down. He looks like a casual serial killer.

“And this is Uncle Greg.” Greg is halfway over, Crocless and instead wearing his fluffy house socks with llamas.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Greg says, shaking hands as well. Greg is taller than my mom, inheriting their father’s genes instead of Nana’s, but even he can’t reach Griffin.

“And that’s my brother, Rob,” I say.

Rob is sitting on the couch, staring down intently at his video game.

“Robert!” Dad calls.

Rob finally blinks up. “Oh, sorry, what’s going on?”

“Griffin Harvey,” I say, pointing out the very obvious, very famous, stranger in our house.

“Remember?” Mom calls over. “You listen to his album on repeat.”

“Momma!” Rob’s eyes, once hooded and distracted, pop open. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sputters, tossing Griffin a twitchy smile.

“Didn’t you sing his song at that Christmas karaoke last month?” Dad throws in.

Rob shakes his head, messy brown hair falling into his eyes. “That is so not—I did not—”

“Wait, no, you bought valentines with his face on them,” Greg throws in.

Nana waves her hand, coming out from her bedroom in the hall. “Y’all, stop bullying my boy.”

“Nana, I’m not—they’re not bullying me.” Rob slouches into the cushions. “I didn’t get valentines with your face, man.”

Griffin shrugs. “I don’t think they even make those.”

Rob clears his throat. “They do.”

Nana paces toward Griffin with her arms extended.