Page 24 of The Check Down

This time I describe each step as we do them. “Regular shake. Slide into bro grip. Finger slide. Two snaps. Two slaps. Fist stack. Pinkie promise. Pull apart. High five. Fist bump.”

“Again,” he commands, giving me a glimpse of the intense singular focus he must possess when he’s on the field.

We attempt it once more, this time without my step-by-step commentary.

“Yes,” he growls when we execute it without a single mistake.

“So, where’s this music I was promised?”

“Patience, grasshopper. I thought we’d grab a bite first. Tuesdays are now officially my cheat days.” He pats his flat stomach, then points to the sign above the green- and white-striped awning. “This place has amazing burgers. I’m guessing you’ve never been?”

I shake my head, surveying the front windows and the patrons at tables inside.

“When our parents brought us to the city as kids, we’d take turns picking where we’d eat. This was Tucker’s choice, every damn time.”

“Tucker’s your brother?”

“Yeah, he’s the baby.” Griffin pulls the door open and waves me inside.

Once we’re seated, I ask, “What was your pick, when you were a kid?”

He barks a laugh. “I had a few favorites. They’re on the Tuesday agendas, don’t you worry.”

That he’s thought about our future Tuesday plans sends that giddy thrill coursing through me again. I bask in the warmth of his company.Finally.I’m finally building a real friendship here.

We spend the rest of lunch discussing our favorite musical artists and songs. He lists his favorite records in his collection, and I rank the top five best concerts I’ve attended. (Coldplay takes the top spot.)

He insists that we ride together to the next location, so I follow him to the lot. When he stops next to a vintage convertible, I gape at him. “This is yours?”

“My dad’s.” He smooths a reverent hand along the jewel-blue hood. “The three of us pitched in and gave it to him last Christmas.”

“It’s a Corvette, right?”

He nods and gives me an impressed smile. That simple move sends pride flooding my body.

“What year?”

“It’s a 1961. It doesn’t quite correspond with the era we’re about to experience, but it’s close.”

Griffin barely fits in the car. Nonetheless, he looks right at home driving it. With his ball cap and sunglasses, he’s an American icon behind the wheel. And when he grins as my hair whips around my face during the cruise to our next destination, despite my attempts to tame it, I laugh. Uninhibited. It’s freedom in my lungs. In my soul.

I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself the liberty to simplyenjoy.

“You ready to tour the birthplace of rock and roll?” he asks after we exit the Corvette.

I’m too busy wrangling the rat’s nest that my hair has become to answer, and I’m batting it from my eyes when the warmth of him seeps into me, stealing my breath.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Let me help.” A soft chuckle stutters out of him as we both smooth and finger-comb the errant strands.

His touch sends a heady shiver down my spine.

“I’ll make sure to have a hair tie next time.”

“I kinda like this look for you, professor.” The low rumble of his voice does funny things to my insides. “Wild and unleashed.”

The twinkle in his eyes is infectious, and I make a vow to myself: Tuesdays will be a day of yeses. I’ll enjoy every new experience, every bite of food, every moment of friendship with this man. I’ll let myselflive, damn it. And I’ll push away my worries about Jack and my dissertation and not fitting in, along with the myriad stressors that plague the rest of my week.

“Sun Studio is where Elvis recorded his first song.” He shares other tidbits as we step into the unassuming brick building.

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