Page 30 of The Check Down

We both laugh. God, it’s easy to be in his company. It’s comforting to know he’s aware of my quirks but likes me anyway.

As we cross over a small footbridge, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before slipping it into his back pocket. The back pocket of his pink pants. That are doing incredible things for his tight, round bu—

Nope. That is not friend territory. It’s no use berating myself. Now I’m thinking of how badly I want his tailor information to be de-classified. I’d like to send that person a cookie bouquet. With a card that says,You’re out here doing the Lord’s work. Thank you for highlighting one of His greatest creations—Griffin Lacey’s tightend.

“You know where you can get a killer soft pretzel?”

Griffin’s voice sends my inappropriate thoughts scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind.

I’m too stupefied to answer, but he doesn’t wait for a response.

“At the stadium.”

“Oh.”

“Those concession stands are legit. My brothers and I would save our allowance for weeks so we could buy snacks at the games we went to. One time, Tucker ate so much cotton candy that Dad had to pull over twice on the way home so he could puke.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and like I can read his mind, I know exactly what he’s going to ask next, so I brace for it.

“You ever, uh,” he stammers. “You ever go to any games with your, er, Jack?”

Without permission, a response that has nothing to do with football escapes me, as if I have zero control over my vocal cords and mouth. “Jack and I broke up.”

He halts, causing his body to jerk back, as if he’s slammed on the brakes, so I stop as well. The second my body stills, it’s wrapped in a solid, warm embrace.

Holy hell. Being hugged by Griffin Lacey is like being cocooned in a delicious-smelling weighted blanket. I bury my nose in those tiny pink flamingos and let it happen. I’ve been starved for affection for the past few months, so I take the opportunity given and find comfort in a friend’s arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against my crown. The words are followed by a slight pressure—his chin, resting on top of my head.

We stand that way a few moments longer. I ache to squeeze him back, but I refrain, because that way lies danger. I’m in too deep as it is, my overwrought brain rushing to document every nanosecond of this: Griffin’s cedar and fresh air scent. The softness of his shirt against my nose and cheeks. The weight of his chin onmy head. The perfect amount of pressure and warmth he exerts on each cell of my body.

I pull away first, but Griffin keeps a firm grip on my shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Right now, his irises are the color of the cloudless sky overhead.

“I’m okay.” It’s the truth. And I take comfort in it.

“When?”

“Friday night.”

“What—” He shakes his head once, then says, “And you’re really okay?”

We cross over a narrow portion of the miniature Mississippi and head back to the trailhead.

“I’m really okay.” I give him a smile that turns into a grimace. “Other than the about-to-be-homeless part.”

“Homeless?”

“The house is Jack’s. He moved here a year before I did. He isn’t kicking me out tomorrow or anything, but we can’t keep living together. I applied for faculty housing on campus yesterday, but they’re full until the end of the semester. I need to find a place to stay for three months, but most apartments want you to sign a lease for a minimum of six months.” This predicament is compounded by my lack of friends in Memphis. I considered asking Helen if she has a spare bedroom I could rent, but I couldn’t work up the nerve.

“You could move in with me.”

Now it’s my turn to slam on the brakes.

With my heart in my throat and my jaw on the ground, I stare at him. There’s no mistaking the pink that’s creeping into his cheeks. Or the sincerity in his gaze.

“Griffin, I didn’t tell you that so—”

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