He shrugs. “Because everything I’ve worked for since my education mattered has been for a life I don’t want.”
I sigh, wanting to fix this for him but knowing this problem is not mine to solve. But I can still ask him the unanswered question.
“You’re good at so many things. Languages. Cooking.” At the mention of the last word, my eyes fall closed as I smile at the memory of our non-date. “Bullshitting,” I tease. “You have so many talents, Griffin. So much you could do. What do you want?”
His posture loosens as he sags in the chair, and he looks down at his hands before bringing his eyes back to mine.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I never considered what I wanted because I thought I wanted this. I made myself believe I did until it got too close, too real. Now I guess I’m just—lost.”
I smile against my sadness. “I can understand that.”
I pick up the folded piece of paper he must have had in the pocket with his phone.
“What’s this?”
I start to unfold it, and he doesn’t stop me.
“It’s stupid,” he says. “Just something on the job bulletin board in the business building. Kinda ironic, isn’t it?”
When I flatten the paper, I bounce in my chair, then look up at him with the biggest, goofiest grin.
“AmeriCorps? Griffin, this is fantastic!”
He shrugs and looks down, but a small smile tugs at his lips.
“My father does want me to give back…”
I read through the description on the flyer.
“Wow,” I say. “An anti-hunger coalition. This is amazing, but it’s a huge change.”
His eyes fall to the table. “You’re right,” he says. “It was a stupid thought. I wouldn’t know what the hell I was doing.”
“No.” I reach for his hand. “That’s not what I meant.” He meets my gaze, his eyes unsure and searching. “This is amazing. You’d be amazing. All the stuff you’ve never done before, you’d learn. And the food part of it? You grow basil on your freaking windowsill. You just caught me off guard.” I smile at him, hoping he knows how much I mean what I’m saying. “I can tell you want this, Griffin, and that’s all that matters. If you want it, I know you’ll be great at it.”
He raises his head, his brown eyes gleaming.
“I could be pretty good at it, couldn’t I? There’s no money in it, though. I mean, there’s a stipend, but it’s not enough to live on.”
I slide the flyer back to him.
“Maybe not the way you’re living now, but you’re creative. You’d think of something.”
He folds it up again and sticks it back in his pocket.
“It’s an option,” he says, the unsureness creeping back into his voice.
“Consider it,” I say. “For real.”
“I will,” he says. “You want to know what the most fucked-up part of the day was?”
I nod.
“This girl I wanted to see, who maybe wanted to see me, too…” He pauses, then relaxes his features into a revelatory smile. “You’re still here,” he says.
I don’t try to hide my shared happiness. “I’m still here.”
He clears his throat, attempting to get back into his over-confident character, but it’s too late. The masks are off, and this silly thing—me waiting for him in the library and him hoping I’d be here—it makes me feel bare, more so than that first night in the shower, so very different than removing our clothes for each other.
“I don’t ever want you to think I’m not showing up again, okay?”
He waves his phone between us, an explanation for his initial strange request.
“Okay.” I take my phone out of my bag, ready to make the same request, when it vibrates with one of my alarms. “I need to catch the bus,” I tell him.
“Wait for the next one,” he says. “Come have dinner with me.”
I purse my lips in contemplation. “This isn’t a date, is it, Mr. Reed?”
He shakes his head. “Impossible. We’re not dating.”
“That’s a relief,” I say, ignoring the butterflies dancing their betrayal in my belly.
“But I want to ask you something,” he says.
I lead him outside and down the street, to a small Chinese take-out shop that makes any dish I ask for without MSG. We bring the food back to the library basement to eat, since I don’t want to be far when the next bus comes.
Griffin asks his question, and for reasons I still can’t comprehend, I say yes.
Chapter Sixteen
Griffin
I load my suitcase into the truck and start her up so it’s warm when Maggie gets here. While I wait, I reread my most recent text. It’s from Jordan Brooks, the girl I met in Scotland. For so long I’ve seen her as the one who got away, but that label doesn’t seem to work anymore, not since Maggie.