Page 66 of Love Felt Like This

“No,” Griffin says. “No, it’s fine. We can go inside. Maybe we can even play guitar or something.”

So here we are: crunching over melted snow and twigs to take the back door to the school—the same one I used when I was in theater. It’s a few days before winter break is over, so the school is mostly silent. The clacks of Griffin’s boots and my platforms on the linoleum echo with the distant hums of the band room at the end of the hall.

Griffin falls behind, keeping pace with Ava instead. His head jerks up, creating a waterfall of brown hair around his thick beard. His hooded eyes focus on mine, and my breath catches. I avert my gaze to another wall.

Griffin has been out of sorts all morning. I don’t know why he agreed to come with us. I’m sure the last thing he actually wants is to meet my little brother’s high school pals.

I call out to Rob, striding happily to the band room. “You know what? How about we meet your friends after? You’re running late anyway.”

Rob laughs. “Not my fault. You needed coffee.”

“Fuel. It’s fuel.” I shoo him off. “Go go go.”

Rob hikes up his backpack again, gives one final longing glance toward Griffin, then hurries to the band room. The door opens, momentarily sending out loud horns and conversation and sizzling drums, before shutting and creating a silent hallway once more.

Griffin clears his throat. “I would have gone inside.”

I wave him off. “I’m not gonna bother you more than we already are.”

“You’re not bothering me.”

“Well, you’re tagging along, though.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be productive this morning anyway.”

I tongue my cheek and nod. “Okay.”

I believe him, especially with how deep those creases carve under his tired eyes. He seems to believe me, too, because he nods.

Ava toddles down the hall, entranced by the way her shoes hit the hard floor, their sound reverberating off the white painted brick walls and library mural. She starts to shimmy in her jacket, wanting it off. Griffin chuckles, removing it and then tossing the small coat over his bulky shoulder. Finally, she spots a display case and freezes, slapping her palms against the glass and pressing her nose to it.

Inside are our mascots (go bullfrogs), participation awards from our football team (who never wins), and various photos from performances, including a photo from my senior year’s production of Little Shop of Horrors. Beau played the lead, still sporting his natural red hair. I tense as Griffin scans the display case, but before he notices the photo, another voice calls from down the hall.

“Beverly? Oh my God, Griffin! What are you doing here?”

Fran paces over. She’s wearing her usual variation of a cardigan. Buttoned up to the top. Slacks with a little white dusting of powdered donut.

“Ms. Dowdy—” The formality sounds rough on my tongue, but old habits die hard.

“Please,” she says, holding up a palm (also with hints of donut dust). “You’re older now. Call me Fran.” She points between us. “Sneaking around?”

I let out an anxious laugh. “Funny.”

She’s joking. She must be. But when her eyes shoot to the display cabinet, heat rises in my chest.

I’m not that girl anymore.

I’m not Beau’s sidekick.

As if with a mind of its own, my hand reaches for Griffin’s. His palm is large and warmer than mine, making heat spread up to my elbow like magma.

I’m holding his hand.

Why am I holding his hand?

Griffin goes stiff for a moment, then slowly wraps his calloused fingers around mine.

It’s weird.