Page 22 of The Check Down

“Me, too.” He bobs his head. “I’ve got a pretty sweet vinyl collection.” Our steps slow as we near the valet station at the hotel, where well-dressed Blues fans stand in clumps.

Griffin stops several feet away from the clusters of people, and with a gentle grip on my elbow, he pulls me into the shadow of the building. “Do you need a ride? Or do you want me to help you find your, uh—Jack?”

I slip my phone from my clutch, navigate to the ride-share app, and flash the screen at him so he can see the request I made before we left the cafe. “Jorge is driving me home. In fact…” I scan the street until I find a black Camry with the service’s neon sign on its dash parked along the curb. “Ah, I think that’s him.”

“Let’s make sure.” Confidence marks every step he takes as he approaches the now open passenger window and bends to peer inside. “Who are you here for?” he questions in his deep baritone.

The driver gapes at first, but then he checks his phone and sputters, “B-Brynn.”

My new friend straightens to his full height and shines his dazzling smile on me. “All right, Brynn not-a-gherkin-fan. I still have your number. I’ll text details for our excursion Tuesday.”

“Memphis magic and music.”

“That’s right.” His smile softens as he studies my features.

My chest aches with reluctance. Talking and spending time with someone new—a friend—has been such a balm to my soul. I wish the night wasn’t over.

“Until Tuesday.” I bridge the distance between us by extending my hand. He clasps it, engulfing it with his own massive hand.

We fumble through the sequence of grips, slides, and slaps we attempted earlier, both of us laughing as we make mistake after mistake. But we wrap it up with a fist bump again, and after a nod, Griffin opens the back door of the car.

As I secure the seat belt, he sticks his head inside and turns to the driver. “Hey, Jorge,” he says with a lift of his chin. “My friend here is precious cargo. No grand prix shit.”

Jorge, still stunned that an NFL superstar has escorted his latest fare to his car, only blinks back.

“Bye, Brynn. See you soon.” With a wink, Griffin closes the door and taps twice on the roof.

We’ve gone two blocks before Jorge snaps out of his stupor. “That was Griffin. Lacey.” He gasps. “Racy Lacey touched my car. Wait until I tell my boys about this. They’re gonna lose it.” He finds me in the rearview mirror, eyes wide. “You know him?”

“He’s a…friend.” A comforting warmth floods my body, but it dissipates quickly when I remember Jack’s waiting text.

Where are you?

What I want to respond with:Not where I want to be.

What I actually text back as Jorge zips through the streets of downtown Memphis:

Sorry, I wasn’t feeling good. Ordered a ride and I’m on my way home.

Those three little dots bounce at the bottom of my screen, and my stomach knots as I anticipate his reaction. Will I get anOk, bun. See you at home? Or aYou couldn’t tough it out a little longer?

Neither, it turns out. Instead, the dots disappear altogether.

In the five years we’ve been together, I’ve never told Jack more than a little white lie. As I go through the motions of my bedtime routine, the guilt of keeping the truth of where I went tonight already sits heavy on my shoulders. Before I turn off the lamp and snuggle Barnaby to my chest under the covers, I check my phone one last time. Jack still hasn’t messaged me back.

I toss and turn, my mind filled with nothing but images of Griffin. The way his smile lights up his entire face. The chameleon color of his eyes, shifting from slate gray to cornflower blue, like the sky. His strong hands, and the way his touch makes my skin tingle.

I’m on the verge of drifting off when the front door opens and closes again. My body locks up in dread. Do I leave the comfort of our bed to confront him about the blonde? Or do I put it off until tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day, ornever?

Will the two of us stay stuck in this holding pattern, more roommates than romantic partners? For how long?

In the end, Jack makes the decision for me. He’s not quiet as he moves about our cozy home, dropping my keys on the table by the front door, filling a glass with ice and water, opening our bedroom door. He pauses in the doorway, sees that I’m still awake, and then starts undressing with brisk efficiency.

“I’m getting a shower” is all he says as he emerges from our shared closet wearing only his boxers. Showers before bed aren’t unheard of for him, but I can’t help but wonder if the reason for tonight’s is because he smells like her.

I curl into a ball, my back to his side of the bed, and clutch Barnaby tighter. The white noise of the shower lulls me, blessedly, and the last thing I remember before sleep takes me under is the mattress dipping under Jack’s weight.

When my alarm wakes me Wednesday morning, I’m alone in bed, and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen,so I shower and dress as quickly as I can, determined to have this out before Jack leaves for work.

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