Chapter 24

Lee

“You’re making me tired just watching you, honey,” Mom said.

I whirled at the waiting room window and paced back. “Sorry. Hey, at least I’m burning calories, right?”

Mom sighed and patted the other side of the loveseat she sat on.

Reluctantly, I lowered myself beside her and she rubbed my shoulder. I would never have expected to have Mom here with me, waiting for Griffin to get out of his surgery. Two months ago, I don’t know if she’d have been able to leave the house. But meds, counseling, and how much she liked Griffin had already made a difference. Plus how anxious she knew I was, even though the surgery itself was a piece of cake. Relatively.

I mean, Griffin had to be fully under and intubated, to work on the vocal cords. So yeah, anesthesia was always a bit of a risk, but Griffin was healthy and should do fine. The procedure would take maybe half an hour at most. There was basically zero chance of an uncontrolled bleed. Unless it is a tumor. I shoved that thought away. “I hate hospitals. I mean, as a patient or family member.”

“I’m not fond of them myself and I used to work here.” That was the other thing that helped Mom coming out to support me. She’d spent twenty years on the wards here. It was familiar ground.

In fact, a nurse stuck her head in to look for someone, did a double take, and said, “Ellen Robertson! It’s really you?”

“Gina! Good to see you.” Mom smiled brightly.

“It’s been forever. Damn, I have to run. Look, will you be here long?” the nurse asked.

“An hour, probably.”

“I have a break in half an hour.” She pointed at Mom. “Stay put, right? We need to catch up.”

“Well,” Mom said when the nurse was out of sight. “That was a surprise.”

“A friend?”

“We used to work together but yeah, I guess, a friend too.” She stared off into space, her smile fading. “Lots of people I lost track of over the years.”

“Maybe now you’ll have more time,” I suggested, as if time had been the issue. “You could get back on Facebook and reconnect with folks.” She’d left social media when the flood of messages after Alice died had overwhelmed her.

“Maybe.”

I didn’t push her to commit, but I felt a ray of hope. I still lived at home, but I was spending more and more time at Griffin’s place. Any sign that Mom was becoming less isolated and less dependent on me was a huge win.

Since Mom had put a stop to my pacing, I took out my phone and browsed, avoiding medical sites and news. No doom- scrolling today. I skipped my email too. If a crisis was looming at Wellhaven, it would just have to wait.

I landed on fan videos from Rocktoberfest. They were popping up online now the show was in the rearview. There was a new one of Griffin, and I pulled it up, putting my earbud in for the sake of the folks waiting across the room. It was that last song Griffin had played, the new acoustic ballad, filmed from somewhere near the front of the crowd but off to one side. Somehow, despite the waving arms of the person beside them, they’d found an angle on Griffin’s face that revealed his expressions. I saw the flicker of pain as he sang, “Didn’t say the words you asked,” and the bleakness of “our final chance has passed.”

Would I have reconnected with the man I loved if he hadn’t spotted me in the audience? Or would that ending have been prophetic? Would I have hardened my heart and walked away? I glanced sideways at Mom. She’d holed up in the house for six years, protecting her heart from the world. I’d come close to doing the same inside my head, pretending, because I could work my job with a hundred percent effort, that I was doing fine.

Griffin Marsh, you come out of this healthy, you hear me? I need you.

Mom set a hand on my bouncing knee and peered at my phone. “Is that Griffin? I’m so glad you took the time to go see his concert.”

“Me too. I got so lucky.” Finding tickets, the hotel despite its grunge, and Yolanda. Which reminded me I still hadn’t sent Yolanda the short video clip I’d meant to. I swiped through my phone, found the right one, and attached it to a text.

~Here, something for you. In the video, taken right after we got back from Nevada, a travel-drunk Griffin waved at the camera for me and said, “Yolanda, you’re the best. Thank you!” I’d meant to send it then, but we’d fallen into bed and not emerged till next morning, and then I’d had to rush to work and put out the fires that’d smoldered in my absence.

A minute later, she texted back, ~Thank you!!!! And thank Griffin. Let me know if you’re going back next year.

I figured this had been a one-off, but if Griffin got invited again? Who knew? I sent back, ~Will do.

Griffin’s doctor came through the doorway toward us. I stuck my phone in my pocket and shoved to my feet. “How is he?”

“Doing fine. He’s in recovery. You can see him soon. Removal went smoothly. We did a fast impression of the mass and the pathologist didn’t see mitotic figures, but it’ll go off to the lab and we did the lymph node biopsies just to be safe.”

“Oh.” Relief sandbagged me. No mitotic figures moved cancer much further down the list. Griffin safely into recovery was excellent. I took my deepest breath of the morning. “Thank you.”

“The recovery-room nurse will come get you when he’s awake. My nurse will have discharge instructions once he’s ready to leave.” The doctor pointed at me. “You tell that man he should heal fine and with luck, he’ll get his voice back, but the important thing is to not abuse it during healing. Right?”

“I’ll tell him.”

She gave me a decisive nod. “Singers. I tell you. No self-preservation. Well, you folks take care.” She strode out, already intent on the next case, which was as reassuring as all the rest.

I slumped back on the couch and Mom hugged me. “See? He’s going to be fine.”

There’s still the final pathology report. But a load of fear had slid from my back. “Thanks, Mom. I super appreciate you being here for me.”

Instead of smiling, she looked sad. “I’m sorry I wasn’t so many times before. Years and years, even before we lost Alice. She was all I could see. I neglected you.”

“No, you didn’t.” I hugged her back. “Seriously, Mom. I never wanted you to focus on me and neglect her.” Half a lie, because yeah, there were times before we’d realized just how sick Alice was that I’d wished Mom could turn away from her now and then and see me. But it was all water under the bridge now.

“Well, I’ve resolved to do better. And I want you to know, I am so, so proud of you.” She glanced at the chatting family across the room and leaned my way, lowering her voice, but plunged on. “Not just as an awesome nurse practitioner, but how you jumped in and did everything you could for Alice, how you kept our home going when I couldn’t. And now, forgiving Griffin and taking him back. You’re such a strong man.”

“I didn’t have to forgive, really. It was kind of mutual.” I sighed. “And I think I might need a little therapy too.”

She patted my knee. “Doesn’t make you less strong. Or me less proud.”

I had to sweep her into a tight embrace, my cheek on her hair so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. That means a lot.”

A tall guy in scrubs coming our way made me sit back and quickly rub my face. They were used to tears around here, no doubt, but not for a simple polyp removal. I cleared my throat. “Griffin Marsh?”

“Yes,” the nurse said, stopping in front of us. “He’s waking up. One of you can come sit with him till he’s ready for discharge. Sorry, he’s still in recovery so space is limited.”

“Go on,” Mom told me. “I’ll stay here, see if Gina makes it back for a chat. Then I can get a cab home. You take care of your man.”

She sounded fine and relief was a heady drug. “You’re the best.” I got up, tugged my sweatshirt straight, and told the nurse, “Lead me to him.”

Griffin lay in a curtained alcove in surgical recovery. If I wasn’t a nurse, they might’ve waited a bit longer to let me in because he still seemed pretty loopy. He smiled widely at me as I pulled a chair up at his bedside. I put my fingers on his lips before he could speak. “Hush. You just had the polyp on your larynx removed and you’re on no talking for forty-eight hours.”

He blinked up at me, so I wasn’t sure the words had registered, but I was on top of things now. As his eyes drifted shut and his lips softened, I lifted my hand and checked his pulse instead. Nice and even. Color looked good. Breathing was slow and steady. When he stirred a minute later, I repeated the info, my hand over his mouth. That time, he nodded enough for me to remove the pressure. He fixed his gaze on me, his eyes shining bright— it’s the eye lube, you fool . I ran a fingertip under his lower lids.

But really, that sheen wasn’t an artifact of moisturizer. Griffin stared into my face as if I was his whole world while fumbling across the blanket for my hand. I locked my fingers gently around his, and he shaped the words, “I love you.”

“I love you too. Thank you for not dying on me.” He squeezed my fingers at that and I managed to smile. “Now stay quiet and we’ll see about getting you out of here.”

Springing Griffin took a couple of hours, of course. But eventually I got him loaded into my car for the silent drive home. I turned in at his building, dodging a middle-aged man who’d plunged off the sidewalk and rushed our way, and parked in Griffin’s reserved space. “Home sweet home. Let’s get you up and into bed.” I climbed out and hurried around to his side of the car.

Griffin waved me off, hauled himself up out of his seat, then groaned loud enough for me to have to shush him. Although I sympathized when I saw the nondescript pedestrian had a cell phone raised and was charging toward us.

“Griffin Marsh!” the man exclaimed, phone up and no doubt recording. “Our sources say you were receiving treatment for an alcohol-related illness. Do you confirm or deny this?”

“A what ?” My mind boggled.

Griffin grabbed my arm, shook his head, and turned us toward the building. The phone guy dogged Griffin’s steps, shouting ever more ridiculous questions and accusations at him. Griffin managed to stay blank and stoic all the way into the lobby, and I mimicked him with an effort. The paparazzi grabbed the edge of the door in an effort to keep us from closing him out and I took no small satisfaction in leaning my full weight on it so he had to let go or lose some fingernails. When the lock clicked, I smiled blandly back.

Still stone-faced, Griffin tugged me through the lobby and past the inner door. Once we were out of sight, he heaved a sigh.

“Jesus, what an asshole,” I said. “I really wanted to flip him the bird. Or give him a big, huge grin and stick out my tongue.”

Shaking his head, Griffin pulled out the little notebook he’d been writing in and scribbled, “Not worth it. He’d say he asked about my victim’s family and that was my response.”

“Well, fuck.” I wrapped an arm around Griffin and squeezed his shoulders. “Was he still blathering on about how your conviction was a drunk-driving coverup? Seriously?”

“Slow news day.”

“Fucking bottom feeder.”

“No doubt. Hounded me whole trial.”

“Well, he’s not going to spoil today.” I pushed the button for the elevator. “At least, no worse than surgery and recovery does. I’m going to get you on the couch with a cold smoothie and we can watch some mindless TV.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Except when I opened the apartment door, a resounding crash was followed by the appearance of Cinder, tail bottle-brush erect until she saw us. Then her fur settled and she paced toward us, purring like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“What have you done, you little monster?” I asked her as Griffin scooped her up and buried his face in her fur. Whatever it was, I’d forgive her for the way Griffin’s stressed frown had smoothed out as he lowered her into his arms. I touched his shoulder. “Take your cat and sit down. I’ll check out the damage and make you a drink.”

Once my man was settled on the couch with the purring cat on his lap, I made a quick tour of the apartment. In the bathroom, the rack that usually hung from the showerhead lay in the tub, shampoo and conditioner popped open and leaking. The toilet paper had somehow been extracted from its cat-proof cover and spun out in festoons across the floor.

I popped my head out to call to Griffin, “No permanent damage, other than another roll of TP.” Setting things to rights was the work of a couple of minutes, then I headed to the kitchen and lifted the prepared pitcher of banana smoothie out of the fridge.

Cinder must’ve heard the refrigerator door click because she came prancing in, her head cocked.

“Nothing for you, brat,” I told her. “Sometimes the refrigerator doesn’t mean kitty treats.” As I turned away and began pouring two glasses full of creamy drink, Griffin came in, opened the fridge, and got out a half-full tube of tuna Churu from the butter compartment. Which was now the cat-treat compartment.

“Damn it,” I told Griffin as he held the fish paste down for Cinder to lick. “I’m glad I’m never parenting kids with you. They’d be spoiled out of their little minds.”

He picked up the cat and she gave me a smug look from his shoulder. But when he came over to me, she struggled down and trotted off, intent on more mischief.

Griffin drank a sip from his glass, then took my face between his hands and kissed me. His mouth was tinged with antiseptic and banana, and was still the best thing I’d ever tasted. I hugged him close and gave in to my need to just hold Griffin and breathe against him. He was safe and here with me and he loved me. Those were more miracles than I ever had a right to expect. After a few perfect, silent moments in my arms, he brushed my cheek with a kiss, then picked up his glass and gestured me to the living room.

I grabbed my drink and followed.

We sat down side by side, his thigh pressed to mine. I put my arm around him, loving that I could be the big guy, the support, the safe haven for his tired frame. He leaned on me and sipped his drink, coughed, then wrestled his notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“Someday I’ll write a song about how safe, how loved you make me feel.”

I chuckled. “You can dedicate it to me and make Yolanda jealous. Oh, I sent her that video hello. She was over the moon.”

“You’re a good man.”

“She was awesome when I needed a friend most, and you’re the one who made the video.”

Griffin flipped to a new page. “I can’t be sorry I left, twenty years ago, although I’m sorry we didn’t manage to keep in touch. I can’t even regret Rocktoberfest. Because whatever we did led to this. And this is perfect.”

“You smooth-talker, you.” I kissed the rim of his ear. Off in the bedroom, something fell with a thump . I sighed. “Almost perfect. Because I really, really want you to move. Not just to avoid creeps with cameras who ambush you in the parking lot, but so we can have a bigger place.”

He scribbled, “We?”

I let go of him so we could see each other’s eyes. His were wide and blue, a little tired and so, so gorgeous. “Yeah. You and me, together. I don’t know when. Mom’s not quite ready to go solo and that house is big for her. But one day, you and me, and someplace with a roomy shower, better windows, and three bedrooms.”

“Three?”

Ticking them off on my fingers, I said, “One for us with a large soft bed, one for your music stuff, and one to create a giant playground for your demon cat so she will stop pouncing on us at night and biting our feet and knocking things over.”

“You think that would work?”

“If we put, like, a dresser and a bookcase in there and set up all kinds of unbreakable knick-knacks on them, and a giant climber, and maybe a running wheel—?” I broke off as Cinder paced into view dragging a pair of cheap ear buds by the cord. When she saw Griffin, she dropped them, gave a soft meow, and scurried over, leaping into his lap and curling up.

I mock-sighed, looking down at her. “Will it work? Nah. But maybe we can reduce the body count.”

Griffin eased his wrist out from under her possessive paw to write, “She’s a sweet cat.”

“She’s an awesome cat.” I stroked her head, then trailed my finger over the back of Griffin’s strong hand where the veins stood out. Damn, I liked every bit of him. “She’s perfectly imperfect like you and me, so she fits right in.” I moved my touch to his cheek where his stubble had been trimmed short and tidy for the surgery, then to his soft, slightly chapped lower lip. Crooking my finger under his chin, I raised his gaze to mine. “Do you want that as much as I do? You and me and the holy terror of a cat in our own place, for all the days and months and years we can have together?”

He raised the pencil as if to write something, then dropped it onto the coffee table, cupped the back of my head in one warm palm, and kissed me. His mouth and his touch said everything I’d ever wanted to hear. He let the notebook flutter to the floor and threaded my hair with his other hand. Between us, the cat purred softly, contemplating new and better evil, no doubt. And no hit song ever written, not even Griffin’s, could top the look in his eyes as he sealed our love with groggy, stale, post-op, unbeatable kisses.

When we broke the kiss, I snugged him close against my body. I could be his pillow now, his shelter from the storm, the place he came home to. “Get some rest,” I told him with my mouth in his hair. “Forever is just starting now. We’ve got all the time in the world.”