Page 61 of How to Date a Younger Man
“None of that matters. He’s moving to New York.”
“Nope, not even close. He’s halfway to being passed out in the other room right now.”
All right, what the fuck is going on?
“He’s what? Is he okay?”
“No, he’s not okay, and you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t understand why. He just gave up the biggest opportunity of his goddamn life because he doesn’t want to leave you. If that’s not cold, hard evidence of how he feels about you, then I don’t know what the hell is.”
Before she can say anything else I can’t comprehend, I hang up, my mind reeling from all this new information.
Griffin isn’t going to New York.
He’s staying for me.
Because he loves me.
With these thoughts still swirling around in my head, I grab my purse and get in the car. I have to see him. I have to find him. And more importantly, I have to find out if what Wren was saying is true. My hands are shaking as I clutch the steering wheel, and my stomach is one gigantic knot.
By the time I arrive at Griffin’s place, I’ve gotten my feelings at least slightly under control, steeling myself for the possibility that Wren was just playing some sick joke on me, that maybe he’s not there at all, and I’ll be walking up to an empty apartment more humiliated than ever. But even if that’s a possibility, I know now that what I really need an answer. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I’d followed up on a weird phone call.
After knocking, I wait a few moments, pressing my ear to the door to try to hear any sign of life. I can hear the faint sound of music, maybe a TV on in the background, and decide to try the handle.
To my surprise, the door’s unlocked, and I swing it open.
The sight before me isn’t at all what I was expecting—cardboard boxes piled in the living room, half-eaten Chinese takeout containers strewn across the counter, an empty bottle of whiskey poking out of the full trash can in the kitchen.
Upon further investigation, I find a note on the kitchen counter:
He’s hammered in the bedroom.
Stop being an idiot. – Wren
It might have been sweet if it wasn’t so condescending. But that’s Wren for you, I guess.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. The walk to Griffin’s room reveals a similar scene—half-packed boxes, furniture moved around in odd places, the general disarray of someone beginning the process of moving out of an apartment. I take a deep breath before stepping into his bedroom’s open doorway, the smell of alcohol letting me know that this is exactly where Wren left him.
“Knock, knock,” I say, leaning against the door frame.
Griffin looks worse than I thought he would. More drunk than I’ve ever seen him, slumped against the headboard, a pillow tucked haphazardly behind his back. His eyes don’t seem to focus when he looks at me, his work shirt rumpled and partially unbuttoned. The dazed look on his face would be funny if it weren’t so out of the ordinary to see him like this.
“Layne? What are you doing here?” he slurs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and starting to stand up, only to immediately fall back on the bed.
“I could ask you the same question,” I reply, setting the water glass on the bedside table and helping to prop him back up.
He snorts and laughs, more to himself than to me, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. “I’m gone, baby,” he says, still stumbling through his words. “Gone, so far away. Forever.”
“All right, well, let’s get some water in you before you go, then.”
I hand him the glass and watch him drink, still confused by what exactly is going on. Maybe the job offer fell through or something happened with his contract. If he wasn’t such a proud, stubborn ass, I could have read through it for him and made sure they weren’t trying to screw him over.
I find his phone in the bedsheets. The screen is cracked to shit . . . that’s new. I enter the pass code I’ve seen him enter before, navigating through his email to try to find any clue as to what happened. Instead, I find a subject line from his airline that I wasn’t expecting to see.
CANCELATION CONFIRMATION: FLIGHT 5505 LAX TO JFK
Wait. Cancelled? What the hell is going on?
“Griffin, what’s this?” I ask, holding the phone in front of his face.
He squints at it and shakes his head. “Gone, baby. Totally gone.”
“Except you’re not gone, you’re here. So, what are you talking about?”
He motions for me to sit next to him, and I do, leaving a healthy distance between us. He jerks his head to invite me closer, but I simply raise an eyebrow in response, and he shrugs. Instead, he leans in close to me, his face within a foot from mine, and I can smell the sharp scent of whiskey on his breath.
