Page 19 of Bitter Truths

Unfortunately, when I woke this morning, it was after a delicious dream of Griffin, and I’m frustrated that everywhere I turn, I’m filled with memories of him. Because although he was a dick, there are a few sweet memories mixed in with the sour.

His infernal text messages and calls don’t help. Last night, I fell asleep to them, which is what I blame my restlessness on.

Griff: The house is really fucking quiet without you

Hals: Too bad. Maybe you should get a dog

I know I shouldn’t engage with him, but I can’t resist. He won’t leave my heart, which is why I glare at an article of him in the paper, his treacherously gorgeous face staring back at me.

I mean, how does one get over their first love when his face is in the damn newspaper?

And because I can’t resist, I scan through the article, more of a human-interest story about his gift for the game.

Of course, it reviews his stats and tells how he had a football in his hand practically from birth, which I can attest to because I clearly remember his complete attachment to the damn thing.

At the time, I thought it was cute, and I guess I can admire him for pursuing his dreams and never faltering, especially in the face of my own failures, but the memories still sting.

After skimming halfheartedly, I freeze on a sidebar photo of him from the seventh grade. He’s staring at the camera with a wide smile and glittering eyes. When was the last time I saw him smile like this?

Oh, he has his signature smirk, designed to either warn you off or make you burn. But what happened to the boy who laughed with abandon?

I used to love that laugh, thrilled that it was me making his eyes shine. Me. I miss that boy and his smile.

Glancing back at the picture, which I recognize because I took the damn thing, I rub my finger over the page with a soft sigh. Griff hated pictures, and he must have been the only one of us who did. He avoided them with a grumpy frown and barely posted on social media, saying he’d rather poke his eyes out.

Still, I wheedled because I planned to recreate him later in my sketchbook. I needed to make my one-dimensional portraits have the passion I craved.

At the time, I was so caught up in the crazy butterflies that zoomed in my stomach that I overlooked what he said to me after I took the shot.

It was innocent, meaningless, but now it rings in my ears because I’m greedy for any information that can explain how Griffin lost his way.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” I asked, and he shrugged, pointing at the picture.

Confused, I raised a brow, but he just smirked, saying in a playful tone, “I don’t like to look at myself.”

“Why?” I asked, dumbfounded. The boy made my toes curl with a smile, and he didn’t like pictures of himself?

How was that possible?

He looked away, his pretty smirk fading. “I guess I don’t like what I see.”

What did he see? Did he know even then that he was broken?

Sadly, I tuck the memory away and move to the caption under the photo. I worked on that picture obsessively, and still, I never quite captured the look I was hoping to achieve.

Griffin Hathaway, quarterback, loves football, music, and watching the stars with his girl, but bad news, ladies; he refused to reveal her name.

Does he mean me?

Clutching the article, I smile slightly even though an ache blooms in my chest. But after a moment, I let the feeling go and curl the paper in my hand, hovering it over the trash can.

He doesn’t get to send me secret messages. For all I know, it could be about the bitch he fucked in my stead under the stars he promised to me.

At the last moment, I smooth the article out, glancing at his face, before hiding the damn thing in my dresser.

With the itchy urge to create something, I open my art pad and draw, creating his face out of my memories. This time, I don’t have to make up his desirous stare when I transfer it onto the paper in rapid strokes, my painful tears of hurt blurring the image.

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