But when his arms wrap around me, bringing my back to his chest, I let my body fall against his, breathing out the tension.
His chin rests on my head. “You and your grandmother were close?” he asks, his tone hesitant but curious.
“You don’t have to do this, Griffin. We don’t have to do this, the whole getting to know you, sad family history thing. We said no back stories, remember?”
His head falls so his warm breath tickles my ear. “That was for last week. This is tonight. We don’t have to do or say anything you don’t want to. I’m instituting another ground rule.” His lips brush against my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut but to no avail. Another tear escapes, this one not so much from what I remember but from what I know I won’t be able to forget. Him.
Stupid, stupid hitchhiking idea. If I had called Miles last week and told him I forgot to set my phone alarm, what would have happened? He could have sent one of the regular patrons to pick me up. Jeanie’s done it before. But I didn’t want to disappoint Miles again. As understanding as he’s been about my slow recovery, about whether or not I’ll ever fully recover based on my own standards, every friend has his limits. What would happen if I became too much, even for him?
“What’s the rule?” I ask, letting my head slide down his shoulder so I can see his face. His eyes stare back at me, dark and intent.
“That we keep making the rules up as we go, until we figure this out.”
I don’t ask him what this means, needing to leave any sort of definition of us unspoken. My rule, but one I keep to myself.
I slide back against the arm of the couch, out of his grasp but facing him, my knees to my chest.
“My mom died when I was really young, before I turned three. I never knew my dad. Not even sure if my grandparents did. It’s not something they liked to discuss, and I never really asked much. My grandparents raised me, so I always felt like I had a complete parental unit, you know? I didn’t need to know any more because I was happy with what I had.”
He doesn’t interrupt. I could stop now, but I don’t. Regurgitating what I do know, the parts of my life that are solid in my memory, feels good even if the memories are painful ones.
“My grandparents were big on board games. My friends used to come over for family game night when I was younger. Uno was our thing. My grandpa was fiercely competitive. It was pretty funny to watch him play.” I pause, the memory of him as clear as glass. What would those first weeks, or months, of recovery have been like if he was around to help Gram out, if she could have had a break from the repetition, the monotony of teaching me the rules of the game over and over again, when I’d known them all my life? Would he have been able to let me win like she did, watch me make the same mistakes in the same hand because I couldn’t retain the information?
Griffin pulls my ankles so my legs straighten and drape over his lap.
“You okay?” The skin between his eyes crinkles with concern, which means I must have been hanging out in my head for longer than it felt.
“Huh? Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”
“Are they still around? Your grandparents?”
His hand gently strokes my thigh, up and down, the movement soothing, reassuring.
“My grandma is.” I sniff back any more tears. This is not going to be how this night goes. I’ve let him see as much as he needs to, as much as I can handle him seeing. “But she’s in Florida now.”
“I don’t blame her,” Griffin says, not pushing the issue, letting his unasked questions go unanswered. “It’s fucking cold out there.” He nods his head toward the window.
I laugh, and so does he, the mood shifting for now.
“You hungry?” he asks, and I nod. “Well, then we better get to work. You okay being sous chef?”
I swing my legs off his lap and stand, offering him a hand to pull him up after me.
“It’s only pizza, right? Is there really that much to do?”
Griffin’s eyes widen, and he staggers back in mock horror, clutching at his heart.
“If at the end of the evening you still feel that way, I will have failed you. Now go wash your hands. You’re in for a treat.”
I know. You don’t have to convince me.
Chapter Eleven
Griffin
Maggie sprawls on the recliner, her bottle of water resting next to her in the cup holder. I offered her one of my IPAs, but she doesn’t drink. Something else about additives. I didn’t press the issue, and only now that I pick at the last piece of pizza do I notice I’ve barely had a sip of mine.
“So you cook,” she says, shifting to her side to face me on the couch. “Like, you made me pizza from scratch. This beautiful pizza. With basil that you grew.”
She retrieves her mini Polaroid from the side table, providing photographic evidence that the two of us put away an entire pizza.
“I cook,” I say. “Usually only for myself. Or on rare occasions, my family.”