Page 95 of Love Felt Like This

Whatever anxiety was already beating in my chest now pulses harder. “Nana!”

“And push your hotness in Beau’s face while you’re at it.”

Heat rises up my cheeks, and I choke out, “I am not hot. I’m a mess.”

“What is it Greg says? Oh! You’re a ten out of ten!”

“My uncle says that about me?”

“No, no, no. But he’s with the times.”

I shake my head, trying to erase thoughts about my uncle in his fifties being more in touch with culture than I am. “Well, I’m not a ten. I’m a middle-of-nowhere five,” I say. “At best.”

Nana scoffs. “You’re gorgeous. You’re funny. You’re successful. You’re about to become a showrunner.”

“Oh God.”

“Don’t spiral,” she says quickly when my face contorts. “What I’m saying is that you’re in a league of your own.”

“Maybe I should stay there, then.”

“Beverly.” It’s the same tone she’d use when I would talk back as a kid.

I look through the sliding glass door, past the thick draped curtains and the rocking chairs to Nana’s old apartment, where Griffin is probably sitting with Ava. Maybe they’re writing music or taking a nap or playing with cars. The thought pairs with a weird pang in my chest, a longing to go out there.

Steak appears at the top of the carpeted stairs, coming up from the den. I hold out my hand to coax him over. He gives me the stink eye before carrying on to the laundry room.

See? Small-town five. Steak knows the score.

I bring my knees back up to my chest and rest my chin on them, staring at the array of fabric and half-sewn puppetry.

“Don’t overthink it,” Nana says.

“I overthink everything.”

“Then find another hobby.”

I smile, and she pats my arm. “I think you’d regret not going. You’ll make time to hit your deadlines. You always do. Go live a little.”

I sigh.

I’ve lived a little with a musician before.

And I know what happens when that song ends.

Chapter Seventeen

Deeply. Desperately. Hopelessly.

Griffin

“Which coffee is that for today?” I ask.

“What?”

Beverly glances down at the foldout card table. We’re in the garage apartment, like we have been all day. Her laptop is propped open, notebooks are scattered, and colored pencils roll into each other at odd angles. It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and yet between her palms is another steaming mug of coffee.

“The number. Your sixth, maybe?”