Chapter 3

Griffin

Without my guitar, the other bus riders didn’t pay me much attention— a weekday morning crowd whose heading-to-work, wish-I-drank-more-coffee expressions matched mine. We avoided each other’s gazes. I missed my car, or rather my right to drive it, but at the same time, I didn’t miss the new nauseous swoop in my gut every time I’d gotten behind the wheel. The chicken part of me that’d had to be forced to drive again after the accident through sheer willpower was relieved to sit back and let someone else do the job.

How I’d feel about that come winter might be a different story. No more than I deserved, of course.

The bus let me off in front of the nursing home. I guess a bus stop right there made sense. As I turned in at the front walk, a familiar guy with a camera sprang out from the bushes by the entrance doors and shoved the lens in my face. “Griffin Marsh, you gave an unexpected performance for Wellhaven residents yesterday. Are you playing again today? Do you think it’s fair to your paying fans to offer free concerts they can’t go to?”

I managed to keep What the actual fuck? off my lips. Never respond to press provocation, they will always twist it. I wanted to say, “If those fans develop health problems bad enough to land them in Wellhaven, they can listen too,” but that would be far too easy to make into a nasty soundbite.

Instead, I said, “I’m not singing today.” I figured that was important to get out, so the nursing home wouldn’t have to cope with stray groupies showing up. Not that I had actual groupies these days, but I still had some fans. “If I play and sing again for the folks who live here, it will be rarely and unannounced.”

“Didn’t the judge sentence you to hundreds of hours of community service? How does that fit with only rare performances? Isn’t that a violation of your sentence?”

You think the only thing I can do for someone is sing to them? To be honest, I’d lived alone for so long, that wasn’t far off the mark, but I was determined to make myself useful in other ways. “No comment.” I stepped around him and headed into the building. He followed me back up the walk asking more inanities but didn’t come past the doors, turning away with his phone in hand, thumbs busy. I guess I wasn’t important or responsive enough to waste more time on. Good. Maybe he’ll quit dogging me.

I reached the lobby through the code-locked double doors and looked around. The common room space was big enough for a group, with chairs scattered around, but could’ve used more natural light. A grand piano sat in the far corner. I’d noticed a faint layer of dust on the keyboard when I’d sat on the bench to play guitar yesterday. Maybe I could do a little piano music sometimes. It wasn’t my best instrument, but I knew enough to offer up some old favorites for these folks.

Today, though, I was hunting for the entertainment director. She’d said she would find work for me to fill my morning. I liked Kashira. She’d seemed like a force of nature, full of energy, rounding up folks to haul chairs into an impromptu concert audience and herding the residents into them kindly but firmly, pushing wheelchairs into the gaps with a little flourish. She’d grinned brilliantly yesterday when she’d had my twenty or so elderly spectators seated.

This morning, a few residents sat or dozed in the armchairs dotting the lobby space. One of them waved to me as I crossed the room, but the others seemed oblivious or unimpressed.

You’re really not that special, Marsh. I waved at the elderly woman in return, then headed down the first-floor hallway. As I passed a couple of open doors, hesitating at each one, I realized I was bracing for a sight of Lee.

If that was Lee yesterday.

Twenty years had passed since I’d driven away while he yelled at me from the sidewalk. Lee had been a lean, angular young guy then, still growing into his frame, cleanshaven with a head of red curls he despaired of and I loved. Liked. Whatever.

The man I’d glimpsed yesterday was a bear of a guy, or at least a cub. Bulky and padded, with strong arms and half his face hidden by a full beard. Nothing like the Lee I remembered. But when our eyes met across that room, my recognition had been visceral, a jolt right down to my core. Lee Robertson. I’d stared into those eyes, kissed the tip of that nose. His full mouth might’ve been framed by a new auburn beard, but my lips remembered his.

I’d stuttered, lost a note, and glanced down. When I looked back up, the guy was gone.

After I’d finished playing, I’d chickened out on asking Kashira. That would lead to questions I had zero desire to answer. The big man had been in scrubs, meaning he worked here, so if it was Lee— I know it was — we’d no doubt run into each other at some point. Then I’d find out if he wanted to punch me, hug me, or act like he couldn’t quite remember my name. Any and all of those were possible.

And what do I want? I shoved that question away. I was the one who’d left, chasing a dream that had me on the road for the next two decades. If we ended up back face-to-face now, Lee would be the one calling the shots.

Kashira turned my way from her desk when I knocked on her open door. “Right on time. Come on in and let me punch your timeclock.” She clicked through computer screens as I sat in the chair across from her. “Why do people call it ‘punch’ anyhow? Like, they got mad at the clock?”

“I think there was a paper card you put in and maybe a handle to punch? Or it punched a hole? I’m not that old either.”

She laughed. “Right. Got you logged in.” The terms of my parole meant my hours had to be confirmed by the nursing home staff at both sites. I was glad Kashira made it no big deal. “Now I have some options for you today. Lots of residents don’t get regular visitors and some of them aren’t interested in our group activities or are confined to their beds.” She pulled out a list. “Here. Reading aloud to Mary. Playing checkers with Tom.” She leaned my way and lowered her voice. “He cheats, but pretend you don’t notice. He gets a kick out of being sneaky, and there’s not much else makes him smile these days.”

“I can do that. Although my checkers skills are rusty.”

“Even better. He’ll enjoy winning. Then showing a video for Lisa. She can’t work a remote and needs to take breaks for her eyes. You stop it when she asks and then start it again when she’s ready. And a crossword for Mr. Harrington. His eyesight isn’t up to it but he’s sharp as can be. He’ll be answering the clues faster than you can read them. And most of our folk like to chat. A little time with someone new is a treat.”

“I can do that.” I took the list she held out, noting that she’d written down where to find books and checkers and crosswords. Impressively organized. “How do I know whether to call a resident by their last name or their first?”

“Look at their door whiteboard, hon. We encourage first names. It’s homier, more like family. But some of our folks, they prefer the respect of Mr. or Mrs. so we do what they want.”

“Makes sense.” I stood and hesitated. Don’t ask about Lee. Don’t. “What about the nursing staff. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way. Is there a schedule?” Will I run into him?

“If they need you to move, they’ll let you know. Can’t be shy and work this job.”

“Right. Of course.” Lee had never been shy. “I’ll go, um, start reading then.”

The morning passed more quickly than I expected. Mary was halfway through a Tony Hillerman book I was almost sorry to set aside when her half hour was done. She made me promise to come back tomorrow and I did. I would let Kashira know that needed to be one of tomorrow’s list items.

Tom was a roly-poly Santa of a guy with a wicked gaze, and a fast left hand. I saw him move a piece illegally once but pretended not to. My skills were bad enough he won fair and square three times.

He huffed. “Letting the old guy win, huh? Where’s the dignity in that?”

“No letting about it.” I stared down at my decimated pieces. “I suck at this game. Maybe you should give me some pointers instead.”

That brightened his expression and I sat through fifteen minutes of a checkers lesson with as little fidgeting as I could manage.

The end of my morning was twenty minutes away and I was reading to Carol, who appeared to have fallen asleep, when a voice I’d never forgotten said behind me, “Griffin?”

I put a bookmark in the novel, set it aside, took one breath, and turned.

Lee stood in the doorway wearing blue scrubs and black sneakers, a stethoscope draped around his neck. He gestured to me to follow him, and I eased away from Carol’s bedside. Ten feet down the hall, Lee stopped at the empty nursing station and leaned an elbow on the counter, his eyes on me. “So, here we are.”

“Um, yeah.” I tried a tentative smile, then let it die when he didn’t smile back. “How’ve you been? You’re looking good.”

He huffed like he thought I was lying, but said, “I’m fine.”

“You work here now?” Oh, that was smooth.

Sure enough, his lips twitched and he flicked the stethoscope. “Wow, you figured that out?”

“I just meant…” I let the words die because I just meant I had no clue how to talk to Lee right now. “It’s good to see you.”

His expression didn’t lighten. “We should probably talk.”

“I can ask my parole officer if there’s a way to change the home I’m doing my hours in,” I offered.

Lee waved me off. “Having you here has already brought us some publicity, and we have more visitors today than a normal workday.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s good. If folks are coming to see their family members in the hope of a Griffin Marsh moment, that still means they’re visiting. A side benefit. And Tom told me you’re the worst checkers player he’s met in the last ten years with an ear-to-ear grin.”

“You’re enjoying my humiliation,” I mock-grumbled before thinking that might be too friendly for how we were now.

But Lee smiled. “You bet your ass I am.” Then his cheer faded. “You’re off in half an hour, right? Do they give you a lunch break?”

“Two hours. I have to get a bus to the other residence.”

“I usually take a half hour. I’d just as soon not say whatever we have to say in—” He cut himself off as a middle-aged woman in scrubs hurried up to the desk, grabbed a clipboard with a “Hey, Lee,” and a glance, and rushed off. “—here,” he finished. “No privacy.”

“I can see that.” I stepped aside for an aide trundling a cart of linens past us.

“There’s a park down the block with benches, some nice fresh air. The corner store by it sells sandwiches, if you didn’t bring a lunch.”

I hadn’t. Eating in the middle of the day had degenerated to a bag of chips or a candy bar. My appetite was still crappy. “You want to meet there?”

“Twelve-thirty? Can you make that work?”

“Sure.” As long as it was a short conversation, so I could make the bus, but I didn’t have hopes for anything more.

“Right.” Lee gave me a firm nod with far more gravitas than he used to have. “See you there. And… I’m sorry you’re here.”

He strode off, leaving me staring at his back. Thank you? I think? I’d have to wait an hour to find out what exactly he was sorry for.

Except as I was getting ready to clock out with Kashira, my phone rang. Parole Officer . One call I always would take.

“Excuse me.” I swiped green. “Yes, sir?” Respect never hurt.

“Griffin? We have a bit of a situation with your afternoon hours. I need you to report to my office.”

“Uh, now?” I was about to meet Lee.

“Half an hour. Can you manage that?” Officer Daniels’ voice was always gruff, so I couldn’t read much into it.

If the buses cooperated, I’d be okay. “Yes, I think so. I might be a bit late, though. The fourteen bus tends to run behind schedule.”

“When you get here, then.” He took enough pity on me to add, “We’ll work it out. It’s just a hiccup, not a disaster.”

“I’ll be quick as I can.” I hung up and cursed under my breath.

“Problem?” Kashira asked. “You’re good to go if you want to get out of here.”

“I have a meeting I can’t miss.” My mouth didn’t want to say parole officer , like it felt shameful— it should be — but I made myself add, “About my community service at the other facility. Is, um, Lee around? Lee Robertson? I was supposed to meet him for something and I’ll need to reschedule.”

“He’s in a conference with a supplier and the accountant,” she said. “I’ll pass that along.”

There was nothing I could do but nod, as if having someone make my apologies to Lee for ditching him— again— would be just fine. It’s not my fault this time. “Can I have a Post-it?”

She passed me a neon yellow square and I scribbled on it. “That’s my phone number. Let him know he can call me to reschedule or, I guess, I’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks for your help this morning.” She took the Post-it, and all I could do was hustle out of the building and head for the bus stop. The only blessing was that the paparazzi fool with the camera hadn’t bothered to stick around. There were a few upsides to being ten years off from my peak of fame in the public eye.

I made it to Officer Daniels’ door in just under forty minutes. He ushered me inside. “Come in, sit down.”

“Did I do something wrong?” I hated the way my heart pounded, but screwing up with Daniels was my ticket to actual prison.

“No, no, sorry. Two issues have come up with the Caring Hands facility. First, they expressed some concern about press attention. I gather a reporter was over there asking questions.”

I rubbed my face. “I wish I could control what the press and paparazzi do, but I can’t. I think any interest will die down fast. I’m a third-tier celebrity these days, only news on a really slow day.”

“I tend to agree. However, the other issue is that they’re having a flu outbreak and have decided to close the building to non-essential visitors for a week, beginning today.” Daniels looked at his computer screen. “You should’ve received a notice.”

I checked my texts. I’d silenced the damned ping noise, given the onslaught of crap I got that way. Yeah, sure enough, an hour ago, there was a text from Caring Hands about the closure. “Yes, I have it. What happens now? I’m not trying to avoid those hours.”

“Of course not.” There might’ve been a note of reassurance in Daniels’ voice. “You could just take the afternoons off this week, or we could look for an alternate facility that would offer you hours.”

“That. Please.” I wanted to get this whole community service over with. Plus, if I wasn’t busy volunteering, all I’d be doing was bouncing wall to wall in the apartment. The few local performances I’d now lined up were evenings and weekends, and so were my practice facility times. One neighbor had a small baby, so I didn’t practice at home anymore. I liked my liver right where it was, and her threats if I woke the infant from its nap one more time had been creative.

And I wasn’t writing music. Hadn’t since the accident, beyond that one scrap of nothing on sentencing day. Slipping down into the creative part of me went to dark and depressing places lately, nothing worth saving. I tried not to worry whether I’d ever get unblocked.

“Right.” Daniels addressed his keyboard. “Let’s see what we can find.”

An hour later, we’d made arrangements with two other nursing homes for me to be able to contact them and volunteer on an as-needed basis, to fill gaps in my schedule. Busing would be a pain in the ass, but it’d work.

We were also an hour past when I’d agreed to meet Lee. Even with a rock-star Lamborghini— something I’d never owned— I wouldn’t make it back to Lee in time. Tomorrow. I headed to my apartment, checking my phone now and then for anything from Lee. Then, realizing I had no idea what Lee’s number was these days, I read every spam text, discovering I’d missed my wins in several sweepstakes, and was a wanted man in Texas. That was less funny than it used to be. Swiping and deleting kept me busy till we reached the bus stop a block away from home.

Home. Ha. I wished it felt that way.

My phone remained stubbornly silent as I ate a slice of bread for lunch, as I cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room. Busywork, because my apartment hadn’t had much time to get dirty since the day I headed to court, not knowing if I’d come back. Still, keeping my hands in motion kept my brain from short-circuiting.

Finally, after a dinner of scrambled eggs, I had access to the practice room at a local community college. Evening bus schedules sucked, but I’d have walked barefoot across glass to get my hands on the strings again. Two transfers were nothing.

The setting sun cast a mellow glow across the near-empty parking lot and glanced off the windows of the music building. I swiped my card, let myself in the side door, and headed downstairs. Muffled sounds came from two of the rooms. One of the empties was mine for three blessed hours.

I’d brought my electric since the school had great amps, and I put in my in-ears, plugged in, tuned the D-string up a fraction, and cut loose. No vocals, just me and my guitar. I played my own stuff and old favorites. The “Comfortably Numb” solo David Gilmour had made iconic sang through my bones. At the end, I went back to my own songs. “Off a Cliff” challenged my fingers and I shredded the hell out of it, ending with a flourish as good as any concert performance I’d ever played.

Someone knocked on the door in the ear-ringing silence when I was done. I set the guitar aside and opened up.

“Five-minute time check,” the student-monitor told me. Then their eyes opened wide. “Hey, wow, I was going to say that was some awesome Griffin Marsh you were playing but, uh, I guess that wouldn’t be, like, news to you, huh?”

“Not really.” The music had soothed me enough that I could grin at them. “Kind of a requirement. You new here?” The last monitor had known who I was and kept it quiet. Then again, she hadn’t been a fan.

“Work-study. Can I maybe get an autograph? It that really uncool?”

“Nah, happy to.” I hadn’t yet lost the habit of having a Sharpie on me, and I dug it out. “I’ll trade you all the autographs you want for not telling anyone I practice here.”

“Deal. Um, let me get my flute case. Wait here.” They scurried off, flustered, while I packed up my guitar and gear.

It wasn’t till I was back home with the echoes still singing in my head that I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. I fumbled it out, swiped through politicians wanting my dollars and an offer to sell my home, and hit paydirt.

Unknown number . ~This is Lee. Tried to call, but I guess you’re busy. I have lunch open tomorrow. Try again?

I quickly added his name to the contact and fumbled the phone, wondering what to do. He’d tried to call and I could call him back, but that was over an hour ago. What if he had an early shift and I woke him? In the end, I texted back. ~Works for me. Same time and place?

I didn’t expect much but a text pinged back a moment later. ~See you then.

So he was up, but now if I called, I’d look pushy. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. Maybe too soon, depending on what Lee said. I assigned him a ringtone I wouldn’t ignore. Then I got ready for bed, set my phone on the charger, and tried to sleep.

Nightmares and frequent waking were my new norm. This time, instead of images of disaster and death, crumpled metal and the screams of a woman I never saw or heard in real life, I got Lee. An odd jumble, at one point Lee bringing home a puppy we hadn’t agreed on and we argued; in another moment, Lee walking off along a narrow railroad bridge over a gorge, heedless of my warnings. Anxiety, frustration, loss, and at some point near morning, a vision of Lee with his new big frame and beard lying on his back on blue sheets, grinning up at me, his hand on his dick.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I woke up hard as well as exhausted. I didn’t give in to temptation, but found myself both eager and afraid of what the day would bring.