Page 54 of How to Date a Younger Man
It’s Sabrina, still in her coat.
“Just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I left? Dinner, maybe?” She peeks around Layne to the table where our dishes are still spread. “Oh, I see that’s been taken care of.”
“Thanks, Sabrina. I’m good,” Layne says.
I guess I’m the guy who takes care of dinner and supplies Layne with orgasms. It shouldn’t bother me—it’s what we agreed to, after all, keeping things casual and fun. So, why is there a sudden achy feeling in the center of my chest?
When did all this get so complicated?
18
* * *
GRIFFIN
I stare at the email on my phone for a solid two minutes before I fully comprehend the words. It’s a message from Milos Ruben, and if I understand this correctly, he’s offering me a job as an architectural designer on his team.
I roll out of bed, now pacing my room as I keep reading. Full-time salary, create my own hours, benefits package, and a plan to pay off my student loans? Am I still dreaming? He mentions some “out-of-town projects” that he specifically wants me to lead, which can mean a number of things. Is he just sending me down to Orange County, or is he putting me on a plane to Australia?
I quickly compose a response, explaining that I’d be honored to work for him but need some clarification. What does he mean by “out-of-town” in the offer? How much of the job will be away from home? Can I work remotely? I have so many questions for him, but these are the most critical.
I’m drying off from a hot shower, surrounded by foggy glass, when I hear the email notification vibrate on the granite countertop. I quickly tie my towel around my waist and grab my phone.
Griffin,
Glad you’re interested. More details to come, but to summarize:
Our NYC office needs a new junior designer to help with upcoming projects. We will pay for your flight, a moving truck, and three months of housing so you can get on your feet in a new city. Take the next forty-eight hours to decide. Let me know.
Milos
I swallow. New York City? Working for Milos Ruben would be a literal dream come true, but I didn’t expect this.
I stand at the mirror and take in my reflection. My stomach churns with the excitement of the offer. I’ve worked hard for years to arrive at this moment, and now there’s a world of opportunity before me and nothing to lose.
Nothing?
My mind flashes to the woman who’s been occupying my thoughts for a while now—really, since I was twenty-three. Four years of back and forth with Layne have only made me dizzy. But now it feels like the chemistry we’ve always had is finally catalyzing into something more solid . . . something more significant.
If only I had more time.
What if I leave, and I miss out on this chance to be with Layne for good? What if I don’t leave, and nothing ever really happens between us? I could miss out on the job opportunity of a lifetime.
The humid air in the bathroom is suffocating me. Phone in hand, I head to my bedroom and sit on the edge of the mattress.
I need to talk to Kristen, but first, I type a quick response to Milos.
Milos,
I appreciate the clarification. Thank you again for the opportunity. I will confirm either way in two days.
Best, Griffin
I press SEND and immediately dial Kristen. Her phone rings eight excruciating times before I hear her lilting voice.
“Hi, it’s Krissy! Leave a message, and I promise I’ll get back to you when I get back to you. Whenever that is. Buh-bye.”
Fuck. She must be with Max’s family. They have a strict no phones at family gatherings policy—a policy I’ve never had any beef with until this very moment. I clear my throat, waiting for the inevitable beep.
“Krissy, it’s Griff. I got a job opportunity, and before you stop listening and call me to sing my praises, it’s . . . complicated. I’m stuck at a crossroads, and I don’t know what to do. Call me back and help me walk through my options. Thanks, sis.”
I hang up, contemplating my next move. I need to talk to an actual person, not a voice mail. I dial another familiar number in my contacts list.
“Griffin?” Wren’s voice fills my ear, familiar and comforting.
“Hey, Birdie. Can we talk?”
“Of course, baby. I’ll be right there.”
“No, you don’t have to come over. We can just talk o—”
“I’m on my way.”
Wren hangs up on me, and I groan. That was a mistake.
I leave the bathroom to slide on a pair of dark-wash jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. Wren doesn’t live far from me, so she’s probably already yelling at some unsuspecting Uber driver to drive faster. Was there ever a time when she wasn’t the single most intense person I’ve ever known? Probably not.
