novelxo A False Start: Chapter 30
I walk inside Griffin’s cozy home, trying to force myself to look calmer than I feel. Because I feel distinctly not calm. But I’m putting my big girl panties on and playing it cool.
If he can bring himself to sit down and tell me whatever has been eating away at him, then the least I can do is handle it maturely.
Unless he murdered somebody. Maybe there’s a body on his land. Maybe he’s secretly in the mafia? Maybe we’re somehow related?
My mind runs rampant as I head toward the big kitchen table and plop into a chair. I take a really, really deep breath and stare down at my hands flattened on the tabletop. I’ve seen some shit, some terrible shit, and this can’t be as bad as that.
I gaze up at Griffin, who follows slowly behind me. There’s just no way. I know in my heart that Griffin is a good man. He’s not my father. He is gentle and considerate, and whatever he has to tell me will be completely surmountable.
I need it to be.
I check him out while he pours us each a cup of coffee. The way his shoulders bunch beneath his t-shirt in the most mouth-watering way, the hem of that shirt resting along the curve of his ass, his hair all mussed like he spent the entire night running his hands through it.
“Here.” He slides the coffee across the table and pulls up a chair opposite me before turning it around and sitting on it backward, the back rest pressing into his broad chest like some sort of shield.
His big brown eyes rest on my face, and he drinks me in. There’s a finality in his eyes that I absolutely hate.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap. “Out with it. You’re going to give me gray hair with all this waiting.”
His lips quirk up. “You’d still be hot with gray hair.”
He’s stalling.
“Griff.” I give him a pleading look. I know he’s trying to lighten the mood or whatever, but it’s not working for me.
He stares down at his coffee cup as silence stretches between us. He trails the pad of a finger over the handle of his mug, delicately, thoughtfully, and the veins on the top part of his hand bulge and ripple, almost hypnotically. His touches are always hypnotic. With purpose—with meaning. Never sloppy or rushed.
I love his hands on me.
“I’ve never admitted this to anyone except my mom. Not even my dad. I c-c—” He groans, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the tips. My heart lurches as he stumbles over the word. He’s nervous. “I c-c-couldn’t stand the thought of how he might look at me if he knew. Him and my mom, their relationship? It’s what I’ve always wanted. What I know they’ve wanted for me.”
I nod and wrap my hands around the mug before me. Not wanting to interrupt him but hoping the heat from the coffee might seep into me and chase away the chill that’s creeping through me.
“The day of my accident, I was drunk.”
Drunk. I hate that word. I hate it anywhere near Griffin. Hate to think of him that way.
“I was partying a lot. T-t-too much money. God c-complex. Surrounded by yes-men. Bad mix.” His throat bobs, and his cheeks go pink. He still won’t meet my eye.
“Hey. Hey.” I reach across the table and capture his hand, hating watching him struggle. “You got this.”
He nods abruptly but doesn’t meet my eyes. He knows what he’ll find there. The muscles in his hands relax at my touch though, and I watch his shoulders drop just a little when they do.
“I was still drunk from the night before, I’m sure. We were on the road for a game in Vegas, and the temptation was just . . . a lot. My decision-making was consistently getting stupider. I often wonder if I’d been sober, would I have made the play I did? Would I have seen the play coming? Would I have forgotten to strap my helmet? Everyone saw this wholesome superstar, the media’s version of shiny, perfect quarterback Griffin Sinclaire. But that’s not how things looked from where I sat.”
God. I had no idea. He said he partied too hard. He referred to himself as an alcoholic. But I did not know he tormented himself like this, no idea he’s hidden his struggle and buried himself in the shame quite this thoroughly.
Suddenly, a lot of things about his behavior make a lot more sense. I squeeze his big, warm hand in mine, lending him whatever strength he needs.
“That night.” He growls and glares up at the ceiling. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and I just wish he would look at me. “That night I got married.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a heavy whoosh. “You’re married?”
He snorts. “On paper. She was some jersey chaser who came to Vegas to cheer the team on. I’d never met her before then, and I haven’t seen her since.”
My heart is pounding so loud I almost can’t hear his words. Married. Married. Married. That one word is like a cruel fucking echo in my mind. Not that I’d been thinking about getting married to Griffin, not yet. Maybe I absently mused about spending my life with him.
“You’re married?”
He looks at me now, eyes drowning in pain as he wraps his other hand around mine. He looks fucking devastated. “Listen to me. I didn’t even know it had happened until I got a letter from her lawyer over a month later with a copy of the license, pictures of us with a fucking Elvis officiant, and a demand for a monthly stipend. According to her, there was a tape, a threat to release it. I mean, literally it was out of a bad movie. Less funny when it’s your own life.”
My tongue darts out over my lips as I try to piece everything together that he’s telling me, that little spark of rage I recognize so keenly growing in my chest. “Like a sex tape? She came for your money? She blackmailed you?”
“Nadia, I lost so much in that one trip. My career, my speech, my fame. Everything I used to define my value in life was swept away in a matter of seconds, and anger and sadness consumed me. And just this overwhelming sense of shame and guilt. Because there was no one to blame but me and the universe and just pure bad luck. And I wanted someone else to blame so badly. But all I could come back to was me. And I was stuck with my own company, with this deep sense of self-loathing. And that manilla envelope from a woman whose name I didn’t even recognize was a nail in the coffin. It’s what tipped me over the edge, because not only was my career gone—everything I’d ever worked for—but I’d spat in the face of my parents’ values and everything they’d instilled in me. The last thing I cared about was money or that contract. I didn’t want any of it coming out. My biggest goal at that point was to not entirely humiliate my parents. Or myself. That’s all I cared about.”
His other hand lands on top of mine so that we’re practically clinging to each other over the top of the table. “Until you. I want a fresh start with you. I don’t want to drag this shit around with me. I’ve been sending her divorce papers for years with no response, and it never bothered me. The money. The legal implications. I just didn’t care. I had no reason to. It was easier to hide. But now . . . well, now, it really matters to me.”
“You can’t shoulder this all, Griffin. It’s not fair.” My eyes scour his face, his strong features, the fine lines from years of pain and suffering that he just doesn’t deserve. Self-inflicted pain and suffering. “You don’t deserve this kind of misery.”
“You should hate me.”
I tilt my head and stare at him. Hard. Trying to pierce through the haze of shame in his eyes. “No.”
“You should.” He takes a harsher tone with me, no doubt trying to push me away. I know because I recognize that spark in his eyes. The anger. He looks as angry as I felt on the inside. Except I’m not angry anymore.
I dig my nails into his skin, hard enough that he shifts in his chair. “I could never hate you, Griffin Sinclaire. I tried, and I failed. You hate yourself enough already. I hate that this happened to you. I hate you didn’t tell me sooner. I hate that you feel you can’t tell anyone. But I do not hate you.”
“I’m sorry.” His thick lashes flutter down, pushing away the moisture building there. My entire body aches with the need to wrap him in my arms and show him this changes nothing for me, but something holds me back.
It doesn’t change how I feel about him. That much is true. My heart pounds to the same beat as his. That’s why it hurts like it does right now. But there’s an inkling of my survival instinct creeping in, words from my therapist, words from my journal, thoughts of desperately not wanting to become my mother.
Attached to an unhappy man, who, in turn, makes everyone around him unhappy. Griffin is not my father, but sometimes I worry that I’m my mother.
“I’m so fucking sorry. I tried so hard to stay away from you, to keep you away from me. And I failed at that too.”
I smile sadly, pulsing my fingers on his. “I’m persistent, Griffin. You never stood a chance.”
He smiles back, but it’s forced. “She’s apparently finally going to sign the papers, my lawyer told me last night. Then the divorce would just need to process.”
“Did you pay her off?”
“No. I decided I didn’t care if she wanted to run her mouth about it anymore.”
I nod in approval. “Good. I’m thrilled for you.”
He laughs, but it’s angry. “You have no business being this mature about my mess, Nadia.”
“In my head, I’m not being very mature. In my head, I really hate that bitch. It’s more like, Good riddance, you money grubbing whore. Come around, and I’ll kick you in the box.”
He stares back at me, shaking his head, lips pulling up a fraction. “You’re vicious, Wildflower.”
“Is there really a video? Did you sleep with her?” I blurt it out before I can even stop myself. I guess my maturity knows some bounds after all. Obviously, he slept with the woman.
Griffin grimaces, looking physically uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I’ve never spoken directly to her, and I don’t remember that night at all.”
A pained sound escapes me as I lean back, untangling my hands from his. The air is cold against my skin, and what I really want to do is crawl across the table and curl up in his arms. My mind is telling me to sit back and take some space though.
“What will you do if she releases it?”
His eyes slam shut, and he sucks in a raspy breath. “Pray you never see it.”
Heaviness lodges in my throat, and my stomach drops. I feel like I might be sick, so I promptly change the subject, not wanting to think about seeing him with someone else, or having the world see him so exposed.
“Did you ever go to rehab?”
His hands lay limp on the table before him, and he looks completely flayed open. I fucking hate it. I hate seeing him hurt. Because I recognize it so perfectly. The pain, the anger, the sadness—it was me a few years ago. Before I worked on myself.
“No.”
“Therapy?”
“No.” He winces, like he knows those aren’t suitable answers.
I pick up my coffee cup and sip it, but I don’t taste it. I turn this all over in my head. His story. His sadness. His growth.
Leave it to me to want someone normal and happy, but to end up head-over-heels for one of the most complicated men in the world.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He groans. “Old habits die hard. And I’ve buried this secret for a very long time. I’m so embarrassed. I wanted to be a normal, happy person for you, and I thought I could just . . .” He drops his head into his hands before speaking straight into his palms. “I don’t know. Get this all dealt with and then tell you and I’d be the fresh slate you deserve. It sounds really dumb now that I say it out loud.”
I chuckle. It does sound dumb. Well-meaning, but dumb. Dumb and impossible. “We’re not normal, happy people, Griffin. Remember?”
He leans back with a heavy, ragged sigh, letting his arms go limp at his sides in defeat. “Yeah. I know.”
Does he?
“I need to go for a walk.” A panicked expression crosses his face as I push the chair away to stand. “I’m not leaving. I’m not quitting. I just need some processing time.”
Griffin nods, schooling his face back into that unaffected look as his lips thin and press together. He’s totally freaking out. And as I walk out that front door, emotions warring inside of me, I realize we’re both faking.
Because I’m freaking out too. School. Family. Life goals. I see them all slipping away right before my eyes.
I’m in love with Griffin Sinclaire, but I refuse to give up everything I’ve wanted in life just to hear him say he loves me back.