Page 71 of Love Felt Like This

As I’m placing one in the coffee maker, Griffin leans down toward my ear. He murmurs so quietly the words almost rumble in his throat. “You all right?”

Definitely mint.

“I’m good,” I say.

“You don’t look like it.”

You’re one to talk, I think. My face must announce this for me because air leaves Griffin’s nose in a pseudolaugh.

“I’m fine,” I answer. “Just working a lot.” I don’t want to talk about it. “How’s the music making going?”

I shake coffee grounds into the filter. No scoop. We measure using our hearts in this house.

“Fine,” Griffin says. He strokes a palm over his beard. “I promise I’ll teach your brother songs that aren’t about bedtime or counting to ten, though.”

“You really don’t have to play with him if you don’t want to.”

“I said I would. I brought my guitar.”

“You did?”

His eyes dart to the guitar case in the corner.

“Also,” he adds. “No pressure, but…I wanna show you my song ideas.”

I blink. Maybe I’m still dreaming. But Griffin reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a ragged notebook in a beat-up black leather holder, pages folded and ripped and stained. He extends it toward me and sets it on my open palm.

“I…thank you,” I stammer out. “I didn’t know you were…”

“Like I said, it’s all I can write,” he says with a shrug.

My lips twist to the side.

He’s trying to get things moving. He wants to get out of here as soon as possible. This isn’t helping him write a new album like he thought it might. I’m wasting his time.

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

Griffin’s brow immediately furrows.

“Hey.” The back of his knuckle brushes against my forearm. “Don’t do that.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Normally, when you say ‘Okay,’ I can tell you believe me. You didn’t believe me that time.” His brown eyes—the color of old wood, of Elk Grove fir bark—dart between mine. “I want to write music for you. For your show. Okay?”

A chair screeches against hardwood back at the dinner table. I fumble the container of coffee grounds. Griffin catches it before it falls, accidentally sliding his hand against mine. His warm, rough fingers are like a whiplash lick against my freezing cold palm.

Greg rises from his seat. “Mayonnaise cake, anyone?”

I set the container on the counter and recap it. Griffin snags the bag of filters and slides it back into the overhead cabinet.

“I’ll try it, Greg,” Griffin offers, raising his hand.

“See?” Greg says, holding out his palm. “A brave man.”

But I’m still thinking about our conversation.

Griffin can tell when I’m lying?