Page 18 of Under One Roof

Without thinking, I wrap my hand around his wrist, keeping him in place so I can taste the salt of his skin. Except he tears his arm away from me like I’ve burned him, and the whiplash has me frozen with my hand in midair, rejection slithering along my skin until I feel like peeling it off.

I sit back slowly, tucking my hands under my legs, chastened, and he shakes his head like the surfers I used to watch at Topanga Beach. Like he fell off his board.

Or maybe I did. Maybe I’d been aiming for too big of a wave, and I needed a dose of reality. A crush of cold water.

“I’m sorry,” Griffin mutters, not meeting my eyes as he stands abruptly from the table. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, repeatedly opening and closing his fists at his sides. “I need to maintain professional boundaries.”

“No, you’re right,” I say immediately, my voice brittle. “I overstepped.”

An awkward beat passes before he reaches for a drawer in the corner cabinet, pulling out a manila folder. He slides it across the table to me. So he doesn’t have to risk touching me, I guess.

The thing about shame is that it’s invasive. Once it’s been introduced to you, it’s impossible to completely ignore. That brand can’t ever be hidden or cleaned off. It can’t be cut out or thrown away. And my father’s voice rings in the back of my mind.

Whore.

Slut.

No man will want you now.

Ryder’s words echo.

She’s got those cock-sucking lips.

Worthless.

I know it’s not true. And yet…that scarlet letter is not only stitched on my shirt. It’s in my blood. I stand to refill my glass of water so Griffin won’t see me wipe my tears away.

“I made copies of everything you might need,” he tells me in his no-nonsense tone that must have served him well in his career. “Copies of insurance cards, basic medical history, contact information for doctors, and some authorizations you’ll need to fill out for the school.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll do that tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but neither does he leave, so after a few awkward moments, I turn to find him rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Anything else?”

He lifts his focus, resting his hands on his hips. I don’t know how someone can be so paradoxically imposing yet obviously uncomfortable.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” He shakes his head once, his five-o’clock shadow catching the light above us, highlighting the grays along his jaw. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Andi.”

I start to speak, tell him that he doesn’t have to worry. I’ll be professional. No more daydreaming and fantasizing. I’ll keep my hands to myself, though he clears his throat before I can get any of that out, and he informs me that he’s going in to work a few hours early. I assure him that everything will be fine and the kids will get on the bus Monday morning.

He nods. “That’s all for tonight.”

I’m dismissed. I very nearly salute him, but I keep my hands at my sides, taking the folder on my way to the basement.

Downstairs, I collapse on the bed, ignoring how it probably would have been easier for him to fire me. Because now I’ll have to pretend as if our first meeting never happened, and that I never felt an instant connection with him. And how it didn’t seem as if he wanted to kiss me that day in his sister’s bed-and-breakfast. And how he didn’t break my heart minutes ago in the kitchen.

Yes, packing my bags would have been much easier than this.

But I carry on. The following day, he leaves with nothing more than a wave, and I reread the schedule for Sundays even though I already know it’s for grocery shopping, Logan’s baseball games in the afternoon, and changing the bedsheets in the evening. The kids file into the kitchen, and I turn to them with high hopes.

“So, it’s just us now.”

They don’t answer.

“I was thinking I could make brunch. Maybe French toast and bacon and a fancy mocktail?”

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