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ther as Hai Phong, Vietnam, and Marietta, Georgia; houses near steep cliffs in the fishing village of Klima, on the Greek island Milos, and, midrenovation, on a tiny river in Winchester, Tennessee; a lone rocking chair in front of a one-bedroom house in Cuba. We spread them all out and sat on the floor, looking at what was or wasn’t there.
It took Griffin a very long time of looking at each photograph—and looking again—before he said anything.
Finally, when he did, he didn’t smile. Not at first. Then he did.
“I think these are good,” he said. “I think they’re very good.”
I gave him a disbelieving look. “That’s not biased or anything.”
He shook his head, his eyes back on the photographs. “Well, you can take my opinion for what it is, but I think they’re strong photographs. They’re interesting. And surprising. And unique.” He looked right at me. “They’d make me want to know you if I didn’t. Which, for me, is usually my first indication I’m around something pretty great.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Is that true?” I said.
“Very, very true.”
I covered my eyes in embarrassment. “Can we please change the subject now? ” Then I peeked at him. “And thank you,” I said.
He smiled, right at me. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Griffin moved the photographs gently out of the way and, less gently, pulled me toward him until my legs were around his waist, his palms cupping the back of my neck.
“I still need a plan. In my entire life, I’ve never not had a plan.”
“Maybe you don’t now.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “I think sometimes we plan the most when we’re the least sure and we want to feel okay about that. . . .” He paused. “You have something you want to do. Something you like to do. Something you’re good at. Why don’t we start with that? Why don’t you let that be the entire plan for now?”
“I can’t just . . . decide that.”
He leaned forward, our faces less than an inch apart. “What if you just did?” he said.
I kissed him. I kissed him softly and sweetly. Then I did it again.
“I really love you,” I said.
“I really love you back,” he said.
He started to undress me, slowly at first, and then more frantically. Messily. Hands cupping my neck, hands cupping my thighs. Right there on the floor by the bed. The bed too far away.
And it occurred to me, all at once. It occurred to me—despite my day, despite my past days—how happy I felt. It occurred to me in that way that you already know you’ll remember it later. You’ve already, accidently, locked it in.
And I couldn’t help but think—the last of my clothing falling away, falling behind me—that that moment, between us, was turning into many things: a turning point, a new beginning to our new beginning.
What it wasn’t turning into was the ideal moment to meet my mother-in-law.
17
“Hello, Griffin.”
We jumped up in quick succession, Griffin’s mother standing in front of us, fixed in her place, as we tried to get it together: Griffin turning and putting on his pants, me trying to pull my black dress back over my chest. Unable to find the strap, awkwardly holding the dress there. Hearing the zipper close on Griffin’s jeans. Trying not to die at that sound.
Griffin’s mother, on the other hand, didn’t look embarrassed at all. She was standing there in our bedroom doorway, looking surprisingly elegant, for midnight, in a pencil skirt, looking like the original incarnation of her children—Griffin’s skin, Jesse’s beautiful eyes. Her own silver hair falling just above her small shoulders.
“Mrs. Putney,” I said. “Or should I call you Emily?”
She looked at me head-on, and didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. I was apparently going to keep talking, talking in the way I did when I was compensating, desperately trying to change a moment from what it was turning out to be.
