Page 58 of How to Date a Younger Man
“Right now, Layne, I’m more interested in finding out why this whole subject is bothering you so much. Especially if you really don’t think that the two of you don’t have a serious future together.” Her brows knit together as she looks at me with concern, and I can feel tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.
I know the whole point of therapy is to better understand yourself and all that shit, but sometimes, it freaking sucks. I don’t want to tell her how I really feel about Griffin. More importantly, I don’t want to admit that to myself.
“What do you want me to say? That I like him? Of course I like him. I wouldn’t be sleeping with him if I didn’t.”
“Do you think it’s possible that your feelings go beyond wanting to sleep with him?”
“I don’t see why it matters what I feel. It’s too late. He’s going to New York. It’s over. There’s no future for us.” I throw my hands in the air at this point, completely exasperated by this whole conversation.
I don’t understand why she’s making such a big deal out of this. What’s done is done. He has a plane ticket and a job offer and plans for the future on the other side of the country that don’t include me. It’s over. Done with. End of freaking story.
“I understand why you might feel that way,” she says, “but I’m not so sure it’s as over as you may think it is.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he’s still here. And you still have time to give him a reason to stay.”
“I guess I just don’t know if there’s a good enough reason. What if I force him to stay here and we break up in six months? Then he’ll have thrown his future away for nothing.”
She pauses, leaning her head to one side in a half shrug, tucking her silver hair behind her ear. “It’s a gamble, sure. But wouldn’t it be better to take the risk and find out, instead of spending the rest of your life wondering how differently it all might have turned out if you’d taken the chance and told him how you feel?”
I don’t have an answer to that question.
With my stomach in knots, I leave Dr. Benson’s office, still unsure how to feel. On the one hand, she made some good points about the fact that Griffin hasn’t left yet, and there’s still a chance that he feels the same way I do. But on the other hand, I’m not exactly sure how I feel.
I’ve always cared about Griffin. He’s my best friend’s brother. He’s been there for me through some seriously shitty times of my life. But then everything changed. Now there’s a part of me that deeply cares about Griffin and wonders what a future could look like with him. But there’s another, louder part of me that has such vivid memories of the absolute player man-child he used to be, the stupid little comments he used to make to me all the time, and the fact that we’ve been going behind his sister’s back. Would the excitement, buzz and need for each other disappear if we didn’t have to hide?
And yeah, he’s grown up a lot in the past few years, but he’s still twenty-seven. We’re at totally different times of our lives with different goals and wants. At the end of the day, there are ten years between us, along with a million concerns and questions. And to be honest I don’t know how willing I am to go looking for answers. Because it’s possible I’m a big fat scaredy-cat, and all of this is going to blow up in my face, and even though I’ve dealt with my fair share of heartbreak, I’m not sure I could handle having my heart broken by Griffin.
20
* * *
GRIFFIN
“It’s a good move for you.”
Layne’s words are ringing—loudly—inside my pounding head. I press my palms to the hardwood floor, trying to brace myself against the spinning. Fuck. The bottle of Four Roses sits nearby, only a finger’s worth of bourbon left at the bottom.
When did I end up on the floor? Goddamn, what time is it?
“It’s a good move for you.” Those cruel words are looping like a broken record in my head.
Yeah, maybe it is a good move for me, Layne. If I was a fucking robot with no emotions. But not all of us are heartless workaholics who only care about career advancement.
God, I’ve resorted to name calling. I chuckle, the alcohol in my system helping me ignore the sudden intense churning of my stomach. If I only cared about my job, if that was my only source of happiness . . .
I reach for the bottle, determined to put those last drops where they belong . . . inside my drunk self. Through double vision, I vaguely acknowledge my wristwatch, remembering that I still have no concept of what fucking time it is. I draw the watch closer to my face, tilting the bottle and spilling the remaining sweet amber poison on my jeans.
