Before & After You
Page 12
And it’s only now that I see the looks on my friend’s faces, the way their mouths have all hit the floor. Every single one of them.
Except Ricky’s. He’s the one who invited him here, so he’s not at all surprised, obviously.
“Really, guys? We’re more civilized than this.” I say.
Kat is the first to pull her attention away from Greyson and back to me. “That’s Greyson?” she whispers.
Oh. So that’s the surprise: Surprise! Greyson is hot as fuck.
If I could love them any more than I do in this moment, my heart would burst. They could’ve easily looked him up online, behind my back, but it’s clear they never did. They kept their promise not to.
The surprise on Kat’s face, and Sita’s at the gallery, tells me that.
Maggie has seen him once before, though; she was there when I saw his viral video for the first time. But I’m starting to think I should’ve given them all permission to stalk him online, because holy hell but they really are over the top right now.
“Reign it in, bitches,” Sita says as Greyson closes the last few feet of distance between him and our table, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Guys, this is Greyson. Greyson this is Kat, Maggie, and Sita,” I introduce, pointing down the line of them. “And you met Ricky earlier.”
Greyson nods, smiling. “Nice to meet you all.” He sits down in the seat beside me, the seat that Ricky has magically vacated with the speed of lightning, and I watch as my four best friends immediately dive in and start interrogating him.
They ask him about his music, and life on tour, and how long he’s in Seattle for, and I really want to hear the answers to these questions, but my ability to listen is being drowned out by the mosh-pit of thoughts churning in my mind.
This is surreal. Greyson sitting here, in conversation with Maggie, Kat, Sita, and Ricky. Past and present colliding. Two worlds fusing themselves together.
Somehow, I can physically feel it happening. Piece by piece, stitch by stitch, they’re sewn together, and I’m left with the picture in front of me: Smiles and laughter on the faces of five of the most amazing people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.
It squeezes at my heart, tightening in my chest. A snapshot of this moment could never capture the way it makes me feel. Like being welcomed back home with open arms after years of being gone.
Warm and inviting. Strange, yet entirely familiar.
Laughter erupts again at something I’ve missed, and I pull myself out of my own head and force myself to be present, to take this all in and enjoy it. For however long it lasts.
Greyson is telling them about the first time he ever played for a crowd—how nervous he was. I remember it with a soft smile, my eyes on his side profile as he tells his version of the story.
“Mostly, I was nervous because of this one,” his knee nudges mine beneath the table as his eyes find mine, before focusing back on my friends again. “Of all the people I could’ve asked to come watch, I had to ask the one whose opinion mattered to me the most.”
They all smile, eating up his words. But it’s those same words that latch themselves onto my throat and constrict my airways with raw emotion. Because I didn’t see it then, but I see it now—how much he means that.
“You didn’t seem that nervous,” I lie despite my thoughts, and the conversation easily moves on.
“So, the showing!” Ricky squeals. “Can you believe it?!”
My friends are the best at this—rerouting my attention. I shake my head, because I can’t believe it. Any of this, really. But I’ve never had that many paintings sell this fast. “I can’t,” I say truthfully. It blows my mind.
Sita asks about a few of the sold paintings. If they mean what she thinks they mean. I give her some short, vague answers about some and a few in depth ones about the others, feeling Greyson’s eyes burning holes into the side of my face the entire time. He continues to watch me as I talk.
When I glance at him—mid sentence—he’s wearing a smile. A proud smile. An adoring smile. One that ignites a spark low in my stomach, and I have the sudden urge to reach over from my seat and straddle him.
Ricky clears his throat purposefully. “You were saying?”
I choke back my laughter. Wow. Get it together, girl.
But Greyson’s knee grazes mine again and again, until he gives up and lets it rest against me.
And that spark I mentioned a few moments ago? It ignites. Bursts into flames and rapidly spreads through my body. How does the touch of a knee feel like so much more?
“I was saying,” I refocus my attention with a much-needed breath, “that ‘Sign of His Time’,” the portrait painting of a man’s face gazing—smoldering—at the viewer—me—through burning smoke, “was really just the channeling of my unhealthy obsession with Harry Styles.”
Maggie and Kat burst into laughter, Sita with a, “Oh, god, not this again,” and Ricky with an, “Mhmm. I totally understand, baby doll.”
A funny look flits across Greyson’s face as he smiles at me, subtly shaking his head.
And yep.
I still want to straddle him.
Thirty-seven After
SITTING HERE NEXT to Greyson, in a private little bubble of friends and laughter and a past momentarily forgotten, has filled me with a buzz even alcohol can’t compete with.
I should be exhausted after tonight. After these past few weeks of battling with the sunrise, painting until its glow crept through my studio windows. But I’m filled with so much energy right now I could run a marathon.
“Alright, ladies and gents, I’m out.” Kat is the first to throw in the towel and call it a night, backing her chair away from the table.
“Yeah, me too. Sitter’s waiting.” Maggie boards the leaving train.
But I’m not ready to go, I want to whine like a five-year-old. Just five more minutes.
But everyone begins to stand and pull themselves—and their belongings—together, getting ready to head out. Everyone except for me. And Greyson. I’m glued to my seat, and he’s glued to his, and we sit here, in this mildly uncomfortable state of limbo.
I have no idea what’s running through his mind right now.
Why he’s still sitting there, eyes drawn to mine.
Maybe there’s a tiny toddler dictator in his mind, too, screaming that he doesn’t want to go home yet either.
I laugh at myself, and eventually embarrassment wins over. I give in to the pressure building between us, the pressure to say or do something—anything—and come to a stand.
“It was really good to see you again,” I say at the same time that he asks, “Can I drive you home?” His lips softly say the words, but his eyes beg the question, and my heart beats a little faster.
“Ricky is supposed to drive me.” I don’t know why I say it. Who cares who’s supposed to drive me; we all know who I want to drive me. And God knows I don’t want to play another round of Twenty Questions with Ricky. He certainly didn’t hide his excitement over this turn of events on our way over here, so I can only imagine what the ride home will be like.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” Sita interrupts my thoughts.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. I already know she’s going to be my calm force, the grounding words I need to settle these thoughts running haywire in my brain.
She guides me away from the table, far enough to keep our conversation private but close enough that I’m still distracted by Greyson standing from his seat and sliding his jacket over his muscled arms and wide shoulders.
“Holy shit, that man is attractive,” Sita whisper-shouts instead of the calm I expected, making me laugh. “And not just here,” her palms hover around her face and body, “but in here, too,” she taps her forehead.
I meet her eyes. And laugh. Again. Because I know. I know. He’s kind of amazing. Maybe a little more than I’ve let on.
That sunshine that used to radiate from him shines even brighter now, somehow illuminating the s
pace around him.
He’s light, and he’s warmth, and he’s drawn me into his orbit all night with his smile alone.
“My face is right here, drooly-pants,” Sita says, and her fingers grasp my chin, dragging my attention away from him and back to her.
“Sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Yes. That.” She takes a deep breath, reigning herself—and the dozens of other comments I can see playing behind her eyes—in. “Okay. Now, listen to me,” she says. “You are not going home with Ricky.”
“I’m not?” I ask, amused.
“No! You’re not. This is Greyson we’re talking about.” Her entire demeanor shifts with that statement, going from lighthearted and playful to concerned and sincere. “Your Greyson. And he’s offered to drive you home. How often do these kinds of opportunities present themselves to us, Jess?
“You have your questions; I know you do. You’ve had them for a long time, and the answer to all of them is standing right there. Do not let this opportunity go.”
I know she’s right. I do. It’s just that I think I’m still too scared to hear the answers. Terrified of what some of them might be, really.
We’ve done an excellent job of keeping conversation light tonight, barely skimming along the surface. I’m not ready to dive deeper yet.
“The fact that he showed up at the gallery—and waited hours for it to be over just to talk to you, says it all,” her words cut through my thoughts. “He’s clearly still into you, too.”
“I never said I was—”
“Oh, put a lid on it, would you? The sexual chemistry between you two is so palpable that even I need to go home and take a shower.” She shifts right back into her smartass self. Crazy, this one. In the best way.
“Right.” I hold back my smile.
“Let the man take you home, Jess,” she orders.
“Yes, ma’am,” I give in. Because I know I don’t want to go home with anyone else—regardless of what’s to come.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on for a while longer than I’d planned, taking in a deep, calming breath. “Thank you,” I say.
“Of course, babe. Good luck,” she whispers, and I swallow her parting words down like a shot of tequila, hoping they give me the courage I need.
Thirty-eight After
“NO WAY,” I say under my breath as Greyson rounds the front of his car and pulls the passenger door open for me. It’s Lady.
Lady.
I feel almost as nostalgic for her as I do for this man in front of me. Almost.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling as I slip into the warmth of her embrace. She’s exactly like I remember her—clean leather, sharp lines, and smooth class. “I can’t believe you still have her,” I tell Greyson as he slides into his seat, his eyes immediately finding mine—a sea of green, warm and inviting. Addicting. The way it makes me feel to look into them more than anything.
He seems to take up more space than he used to, sucking the air from the car like it gravitates towards him, and I’m left with a minimal amount of oxygen left to breathe.
“Of course I still have her,” he says, jokingly offended as he turns the engine over, and I finally find my breaths. I fidget with my purse, slowly opening and closing the clasp on the front. “Lady and I are in it for the long haul.” He smiles, pulling away from the restaurant, away from the safety of surface questions and surface answers.
“Of course.” I smile back, trying not to dwell on that fact. “I didn’t mean to insult your one true love.” I laugh, but the wounded look that passes over his features quickly robs the sound from my lips. I’m not sure I even saw it. It was fleeting, there and gone too quick to be sure, but my heart still beats faster.
He clears his throat. “How’ve you been, Jess?” His demeanor grows serious, his voice a little rough, hinting at the emotion I thought I saw in his eyes just a second ago.
“I’ve been good,” I tell him honestly, even though here, in this moment, it kind of feels like a lie. But my life has been good. Better than I could’ve imagined for myself at sixteen-years-old, and I’m incredibly grateful for every beautiful piece of it. It’s just that the reminder of the one thing that’s been missing from my life all these years is now sitting right here next to me.
“How about you? How have you been?” I ask for the second time in as many weeks, avoiding the weight of those thoughts. I direct him onto the freeway, and he takes his time merging over the three lanes before answering.
“I’ve been good too, Jess,” he says, but his eyes betray his smile. They mirror my thoughts, of years missed and lost, and it’s too much to handle at once.
I turn and look out the window, watching the city lights disappear behind us. What are we doing here? What are his expectations?
What are mine?
I have no clue. I have no fucking clue.
But why does it feel like my chest wants to cave in?
No matter how much I sit here and try to fight it, the pressure behind my eyelids surges forward, along with everything unspoken wanting to settle between us. Eight years worth of questions waiting to be asked and answered.
My heart climbs its way up into my throat. I force in a steadying breath of air, blinking my tears away from my eyes.
In the very next breath, Greyson takes my hand in his.
“I know…I know,” he says with a resigned sigh, and I shift in my seat to look up at him. His green eyes are dark and intense, sinking into the depths of mine. “How about we save this conversation for another day—soon—but not right now. I say we take things slow. We’ve got time; I’m not going anywhere.” He swallows, and I watch the movement in his throat. “And something tells me that this time, you’re not either.”
I wipe the tips of my fingers beneath my eyes, catching my tears before they fall, and nod. I can’t say anything past this lump in my throat. Wouldn’t even know where to begin if I could. Except, maybe: You’re right. You’re absolutely right. There’s no way in hell I’m ever running from you again.
His fingers tighten around my hand, and I find comfort in his grip. Firm. Like he doesn’t want to let go yet, either.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the curb in front of my house—thoughts, feelings swirling. I unbuckle, and we turn to face each other. Watching, not saying a word.
It’s pretty amazing, after all this time, to be this close to him again.
My fingers ache to touch him; my heart screams out for his. I feel empty. Empty of his touch, and empty of his kiss.
And I’m pretty certain these feelings are written clear across my face, because at the same exact moment, both of our lips twitch and slowly pull up into two matching smiles. Smiles that connect between our eyes. Between his heart and mine, gently tugging them back together.
“I’ve missed you,” I finally admit, and I can breathe a little easier, now that I’ve ripped it off my chest and thrown it out there.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he replies easily, his hand wrapped around mine again, thumb grazing my palm, and I’m still smiling. I can’t help it. I never could when I was with him.
And I want to heed his advice and take things slow, however they may come, but I also feel the intense need to throw myself over this center console between us and land myself in his lap. To kiss him stupid after eight long years and not come up for air. I can hardly breathe, anyway, with the way his tongue has slipped out of his mouth to graze his lips for a brief moment as he continues to watch me.
Focus. Say something, Jess.
“I’m pretty busy the next few days, unfortunately,” he says first, his hand slipping behind his neck in a firm grip. “But do you think I could come by sometime this week?”
“Yeah, of course.” I nod, relieved. “Here.” I pull my phone from my purse and unlock it, opening up my contacts list. “What’s your number?”
The nine digits slide off his tongue with ease, and I shoot him a quick text: Jess here.
But in the very next moment, my hope catches fire, bursting into flames and falling to the ground in a fiery mess. Because right there, on his left hand, I finally see it. Different from the other decorative rings that adorn his fingers.
A slim, smooth, slap in the face.
A wedding band.
Thirty-nine Before
JAYMES LAUGHED AND bellowed in the middle of Maddie’s Diner. He could hardly catch his breath.
“When I finally sleep with Jess, you’ll damn well know it! It’ll be plastered across my face like a fucking tattoo of bliss and happiness, because I’m pretty sure her p—”
I slapped my hand over his mouth, mildly mortified. I looked at him pointedly, shut up, shut up, shut up! written plain across my face. When I was sure he would, I peeled my fingers from his lips.
“—would be like holy water, cleansing me of all my sins,” he finished anyway.
The guys laughed, and Sara’s eyes brightened in a way I hadn’t seen in a while. In a few weeks, at least.
But I didn’t care about any of that right then. Not really.
Not when my heart was beating a mile a minute. Not when Greyson was sitting at the end of our long table, searing two identical, matching holes into the side of my face.
I had let him believe that I’d slept with Jaymes—willingly. But now that it was out there, that I hadn’t? I could feel the tension crackling between us like an atomic bomb getting ready to explode. Thick enough to strangle every person that sat between us.
I scooted my chair away from the table and stood up, quickly making my way to the bathrooms, avoiding the inevitable confrontation of Greyson’s knowing eyes. I felt like such an idiot, far beyond embarrassed and straight into humiliated.