Page 81 of Love Felt Like This

“No, a soulmate.”

“No.” I must say it too fast, because Griffin’s head jerks back.

I tilt my head to the side. “I mean, maybe I did at one time. My parents are deep, desperate, hopeless romantics that are deeply, desperately, and hopelessly in love with each other. They aren’t super affectionate, but they’ve lived their entire lives together: childhood friends, marriage immediately after high school, opening Momma’s dream pancake house…and they’re still not sick of each other.

“Nana and Grandpa were the same way before he passed. They always acted like they were fifteen, experiencing their first love, even after over fifty years of marriage. They spent a lot of time apart because of his work, but I guess I kind of…”

But the words fade off. I don’t want to finish that thought. Truth is, I expected Beau and me to follow that same path. High school sweethearts. Achieving dreams together, going through the theater and music scene in LA hand in hand. Maybe we’d start a family later in life, maybe we wouldn’t, but we’d always have each other.

I was wrong.

If soulmates exist, I thought I found mine at sixteen. But then he changed, and so did I. Maybe if we were really soulmates, our souls would have grown together.

I shrug. “Soulmates is just something people say to make their relationship feel ethereal. Like it’s unattainable to everyone else because it’s mystical and unexplainable.”

Griffin grunts. “Hmm. Well, I think soulmates might exist.”

I scoff without thinking about it. It’s rude, and I immediately wince. “Sorry. What, um.” I aimlessly open a book, close it, and set it back. “What makes someone a soulmate to you?”

He cocks his head to the side in thought. “I think it would be easy. And I think Greg knows that, which is why this part hurts so much. He has to get through all the dating to get back to the easy. It’s that deep, desperate, hopeless love your parents have that we all want.”

I choke out a laugh. “You too?”

“Sure.”

“It’s that musician in you. A romantic.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you write love songs?” I ask.

“Sometimes.”

I grin. “Probably songs with a lot of feelings at least?”

“Too many.”

“You’ve got a lot of layers, Griffin Patrick Harvey.”

He chuckles. “Enough to make my three-name curse go away?”

“Maybe.”

His fingers pulse into his jacket pocket at my response. I notice they twitch a lot lately. Mostly when he writes music. But sometimes when he’s looking at me.

I look over my shoulder. Griffin’s gaze follows mine. We both see Taylor lingering in the corner of the other room, pretending to put things away but unabashedly staring at us instead. I avert my eyes, chewing my bottom lip and letting out a shaky breath.

Out of nowhere, Griffin sets his hands on my hips and spins me around. My back lands against the bookshelves. One of his hands grips the shelf above my head as the other stays locked on my waist. Griffin towers over me, crowding my body with his. The shelf squeaks above my head. The smell of him and books and old wood is suddenly intoxicating.

I’m out of breath, confused, and growing hotter by the second.

“What are you—”

“Look at me,” he says.

Where else would I look?

I stiffen, dancing my eyes between his. Dark. Intense.