Page 27 of The Check Down

He huffs an impatient breath at my silence. “Just take them off.” He reaches for the sandwich, but I yank it away.

“Taking them off is not enough. The bread is soggy and soaked with pickle juice. Now the whole sandwich will taste like them.”

“Brynn.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. “Do you want me to reorder the damn sandwich? Do you want me to order something different? For fuck’s sake, what’s with the dramatics? I forgot to leave the pickles off your sandwich, and you tell me we shouldbreak up?” He coughs a bitter laugh. “Please. Be serious.”

“I am being serious.” My voice is soft, but steady. I lift my chin and force myself to look him in the eye. “We need to end this. Neither of us is happy.”

“Who told you I’m not happy?” Nostrils flaring, he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Are you seriously breaking up with me over goddamnpickles?”

Am I ending a five-year relationship because of six pickle slices? Of course not. The pickles were the last straw in an already stuffed-to-the-brim basket of straws on a geriatric camel’s back. They’re the last line squeezed onto an already filled-top-to-bottom page of scribbled, handwritten reasons.

We’ve been careening toward this breakup for a while now. But neither of us has been brave or determined enough to jump off the speeding train. Until now.

We’ve let complacency become a third wheel in our relationship. Only, recently, I’ve discovered that it’s no longer enough. We both deserve better.

“It’s not about the pickles.” I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles whiten. “We’re not a good fit anymore. Maybe we used to be, but we’ve both changed over the years, and we’ve become too comfortable.”

“What’s wrong with comfortable?” he sneers, chin lifted.

I close my eyes for a beat, wishing like hell I could fast-forward to the acceptance phase of this. “It’s not good enough for me. For either of us.” I sigh, forcing my shoulders from where they’ve risen practically to my ears. “Are you telling me that you see us getting married, growing old together? Maybe that vision existed in the past, but right now, in this moment, can you honestly look at me and tell me that I’m your forever?”

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. And isn’t that telling? He can’t even find the words to fight for this. Forme.

Instead, he straightens and squares his shoulders. “Is there someone else?”

A quick slice of anger flashes in his eyes, but I fight a reaction. I keep my features neutral, even though my heart rate kicks up. A six-five football hunk flickers through my thoughts, but I blink his image away. No, I’m not ending things with Jack because of Griffin. We’re friends, and even though I’m attracted to him, I can’t let myself go there. I won’t be a woman who dumps her boyfriend one day only to leap into a new man’s arms the next. I won’t judge women who do, but that’s not the path for me. And in my heart-of-hearts, I know that even if I’d never met Griffin, ending things with Jack would be the right decision.

Griffin isn’t even interested in me in that way.

“No,” I say, my tone even. “There’s no one.”

His jaw ticks, but he nods. “Nothing I say will change your mind, will it?”

With my hands clasped in my lap, I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry.”

That night, I sleep in our guest bedroom. I snuggle Barnaby close and ready myself for an onslaught of sadness. But the tears don’t come. I know then, without a doubt, that I’ve done the right thing. The brave thing.

And I sleep better than I have in years.

The sounds of tittering female voices followed by a deep, captivating male one rouse me from my research. Snapping my laptop shut, I peer into the short hallway that leads to the main English department office. It’s empty, but from the sound of things, there’s a group gathered in the main office. More laughs and giggles capture my curiosity.

As I’m rolling my chair away from my desk, ready to investigate, that male voice, closer this time, playfully scolds, “Y’all be good now.”

And then Griffin Lacey’s tall frame fills my open doorway.

“You-you’re here.” That last word squeaks out of me, and I forget to breathe.

“I’m here.” With his hands in his pockets, he props one shoulder against the doorjamb. He’s wearing a navy Hawaiian-style button-down covered in tiny pink flamingos. His chinos match the exact light pink shade of the birds.

Griffin Lacey is standing at my door. Wearing pink pants. Looking as effortlessly cool as ever.

“But…what, er, how did—” A glance at the clock allows me a moment to collect myself. “It’s eleven-fifteen. Your text said we’d meet at noon. How’d you find me?” I blabber on. “And did a tailor make those pink pants specifically for you?”

“Whoa, not-a-professor.” He straightens and steps into my tiny office, his bulk filling it almost completely. This space is only big enough to hold my desk, two chairs, and one overstuffed bookshelf. It wasn’t built to house NFL superstars with supersized charisma.

Griffin ticks his answers off, one finger at a time. “My text did say noon, but there’s been a change of plans. More on that in a moment. Google is very helpful in supplying campus maps whenone needs to find the English building. And my new friends Helen and Trinity were happy to point me in the right direction.”

“I bet they were,” I smirk. The feminine giggles that echoed down the hallway moments ago made that obvious.

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