Page 60 of Sing For Me

“Only because of the jiujitsu.”

“And judo.”

I scowl, clanking my cup back in the saucer, making coffee slosh on the table. “It’s complicated,” I say finally.

“How’s it complicated? Either you’re seeing her or you’re not.”

I grit my teeth.

Griff says nothing, just stares at me unmoving. He knows I’m hedging.

“Okay fine!” I say. Fucking interrogation tactics. “We’re… fake dating.”

At this Griff furrows his brow. “What the hell does that mean?”

I lower my forehead into my palms. Then I sit up and explain the whole thing.

At the end, I’m surprised to feel a wash of relief. I know now why Reese told Nora. I hadn’t realized how hard it was to hang onto a secret so huge.

Griff purses his lips. “So are you still in love with Kelly?”

“I don’t—” I don’t know? Or I don’t think so?

“So why don’t you just ask Reese out for real?”

I laugh, though it’s not really funny. He acts like I said no. Also, the thought is absurd. “No. She hates me.”

“Why would someone who hates you agree to fake date you to make you look good with the ex-wife who broke your fucking heart?”

I falter slightly. I’ve purposefully avoided examining that question. “Because she’s a good person,” I say finally.

“That may be true. But she’s also a grown-ass woman.”

And I’m a grown-ass man.

I run my hand over my chin. The scrape of my stubble is loud in the sudden quiet between us, though the restaurant still thrums with its normal clinking of dishes and chatter of patrons. My pulse picks up speed. Could I really just ask Reese out?

The thought of going out with her for real—just us, unfiltered, unwatched—makes my heart thud. And the thought of her saying no—or worse, saying yes but me fucking it up—makes me feel ill. I can’t fuck up twice with her.

I’d lose her forever.

Griff finally takes pity on me and claps his hands on the table, as if he’s said all he could.

Maybe he has. While we wait for the bill, I tell him about the Waterfront Block, mentioning the studio, but telling him I only built it after talking with Stu, the music producer, who said he could use space to record outside the big bad city and all its influences on bands made up of hard-partying twenty-somethings.

I drive us back to Rolling Hills, and as I’m walking back to work, I pause next to his truck. “Listen, Griff, I’m only saying it because I don’t know when you’re going to grace us with your presence again. But…thanks.”

For a moment, my brother doesn’t say anything, just rests a hand on the roof of his truck. Then he looks up toward the east wing and its scaffolding, where workers stride in all directions, then back at me. “I always wished I felt half as much as you did, Eli.”

I’m so surprised, for a moment I’m speechless. Then I clear my throat, shoving my hands in the pocket of my coat. “You have feelings, Griff, as much as you think you don’t.”

Griffin shrugs. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving someone the way you are. I hope you figure this shit out, Eli. And I hope it’s with Reese. I like her.”

As he drives away, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the most I’ve heard my brother talk about feelings in our whole fucking life.

* * *

I make it through poker night that night, with Seamus and our friend Winona asking me when I’m going to bring Reese to one of our games and Ben asking me about how it went with Stu. I make it through toddler T-ball prep the next day, too, which frankly, is all-consuming with the tears and screaming.

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