“We’ll see about that.” He pulled me by the hand to the far end of the field, dropping the ball to the ground and turning to face me. “So, first…kicking the ball is all about body position…and follow through. If your ball is here…”
He bent down and positioned the ball between his hand and the ground before letting it fall again, going all serious on me between one breath and the next. “You’re going to want to be here…”
His hands slid over my hips, wrapping around them as he walked me back three steps, and another two to the left.
The breath of his words fell over my lips.
He was explaining things.
Angles and degrees and body positioning, but all I really heard was the steady whooshing in my ears. My heart completely overreacting to our proximity—to his hands on me.
His fingers curved over the front of my jeans as he moved behind me. A hand on my thigh.
What was he saying?
“…eyes on center goal, and kick.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I was pretty sure I’d heard at least enough to give it a try. Right? Keep telling yourself that, Jess.
He kneeled down and held the ball in place as I positioned myself where he’d shown me before. “Perfect,” he said with a smile.
I stood there and stared at that smile for a few lingering seconds, my own lips curving higher before I shook my head, focusing on the ball in front of me.
And then I went for it, kicking it as hard as I could.
It flew out straight ahead, crashing right into the center pole of the field goal, maybe two feet up from the ground.
Oh well. I tried. I laughed.
I found the same laughter dancing in Greyson’s eyes as he attempted to suppress his smile. “Okay,” he eventually said. “How about something a little easier?”
And by the end of that hour, I had learned how to properly hold and throw a football, what each position on the team was responsible for, and why football pants were so distractingly tight.
Turns out, there was a reason for this—other than my own personal viewing pleasure, of course.
Greyson laughed as he explained knee and thigh pads and the way his pants held them in place, but a quick google search later that night confirmed my thoughts exactly:
It was all about the bulge.
“Eyes up here, Jess,” he said, and I tore my gaze away, unapologetic.
He laughed. “I’ll go get showered and changed really quick, and then we’ll head over to Maddie’s?”
“Okay.” I nodded, watching him walk away and disappear into the locker room.
It wasn’t too much later that we were sliding into a booth at Maddie’s Diner. The same booth as the first time we’d been there, I was pretty sure.
And it wasn’t lost on me, as I sat there, watching him talk and smile and laugh, his arm wrapped firmly around me, that I was just as desperate for him now as I was back then—all those months ago.
Desperate for one touch, one kiss, any piece of him I could get.
Only now, I was desperate for so much more—for all of him. For all of the pieces I’d collected, and for all the pieces I had yet to see. I wanted to own them all, forever. I wanted to sweep them up, and slide them into my pocket, and never let them go.
Sixty-one After
“HI, JESS,” GREYSON greets me with a kiss on my cheek, and then a second pressed softly to the corner of my mouth. “You look beautiful,” he says, and it does things to me, his words and the touch of his lips singing through me.
The feel of his mouth on mine lingers, and I so badly want to turn my face to his and steal some more of this. Of his lips. Of the way they make me feel, the way they send a buzz flowing through my body, flooding my thoughts.
The need to do it rushes over me, overwhelming. We could skip dinner, skip all the talking, and I think I’d be happy with that alone.
I reign all these thoughts in, wring them out, and force out a breathy, “Thank you,” instead.
“Come on in,” he says quietly with a knowing smile—more of a smirk, really—and I laugh under my breath, stepping into his house for the first time.
The intoxicating aroma of something cooking in his kitchen assaults my senses. “Oh my god, what is that?” I ask without too much thought.
“Chicken marsala,” he answers, half-smile, half-smirk still firmly in place. He guides me through his entryway and over to his kitchen with a hand at my back, steering me towards a set of barstools sitting along his kitchen island. I sit down and quietly take in the space around me.
It’s beautiful. And it very much suits him.
Raw, wooden floors and cabinets, crème walls, and black window and door frames accenting the otherwise muted furniture and décor. It’s somehow both simple yet intentional. Comfortable, yet intimidating.
Much like Greyson.
Especially when he studies me like he is now, his eyes raking over me, over the features of my face, carefully reading my reaction to his home, or to being here, in his home.
“Your house is very you. I like it,” I tell him honestly.
“Thank you,” he replies, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a slight blush tinging his cheeks as he turns towards the stove to dish up our plates.
“So, you cooked this all yourself?” I ask him.
“I did.” He nods.
I nod my head back in response even though he can’t see it. But this is not something I knew about him. It seems ridiculous, but…I didn’t know he could cook. Not now, and not before. And this is where my mind has decided to wander instead of forming the words for an actual response, because this tiny piece of information is entirely new, and it hits me…how desperately hungry I am for more of these revelations.
Hungrier than I am for the mouth-watering dinner Greyson is now carrying over to his dining room table. He places both plates at one end rather than on opposite sides, and I decide that I like this about him, too.
Intimacy over formality. Intention forward. I like it a lot.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks, drawing my eyes back to his.
I unwittingly scrunch my nose. Honestly, I don’t mean to, but I feel like such a child every time I explain this aberrant piece of myself.
“I feel like you may want to revoke my adult card after I say this,” I start, “but…I don’t understand wine. It tastes like an accident not meant to be consumed, and no matter how much I try, I can’t understand why people like it.” I immediately cringe at my response. A simple, no thank you would’ve easily sufficed, Jess!
He laughs, the sound of it making my chest warm. “A beer then?”
“Yes, please,” I practically hum the words, and he laughs again, amused, the sentiment reaching his eyes.
“Coming right up.”
I walk over to his table and sit down, scooting my seat forward just as he places two beers onto the table between us. A couple of napkins and a large bowl of salad, too.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he says, and with that, we dig in, a comfortable silence washing over us. Nothing but covert glances and small, addictive smiles are exchanged between us as I continue to eat and take in the space around us.
The view through his windows is breathtaking. Greenery stretches as far as I can see at one end of his house, but on the other, the city of full of lights shines and twinkles in the distance below.
It gives his house all the color it needs, and the aesthetic of his home makes even more sense now. Definitely intentional. A piece of art in its own right.
“I have so many questions,” he says, chuckling softly as his words slice through my thoughts, “that I don’t know where to begin.”
“Oh?” I swallow, fully accepting that this is the moment we’re finally going to dive in and dig through our past. But instead of the expected nerves, or the upheaval of my heart, I feel an easy calm wash through me. I’m ready. “What would you like to know?” I ask.
“How were you
discovered? Your art, I mean,” he starts simple.
I take a sip of my beer and set it back down onto the table. “My first year at WSU, actually. I was working part-time at a restaurant that was starting on a remodel, and one thing led to another, and my paintings ended up on their walls. A gallery owner asked about them a few weeks later, and…the rest is kind of history.” I shrug.
And I tell myself I don’t believe in luck.
Holding onto the belief that something will happen, manifesting it into fruition? Sure. But luck? That, I’m not so sure about. I don’t want to believe that everything hangs in the balance of chances and maybes.
But sitting here now, next to Greyson, looking into his familiar green eyes…
Maybe it was a stroke of pure, insane luck that the right person saw my paintings at the right time and liked them enough to ask about them.
Maybe it was a lifetime’s worth of luck paid forward that Greyson walked into my favorite coffee shop a few short weeks ago, and that somehow, I’ve ended up here tonight.
I don’t know.
But I still wouldn’t like to think this is all a matter of simple luck. I’d rather believe there’s something larger at work here. A deep, soul-path kind of thing, where his and mine were always meant to realign and no amount of luck or chances could’ve ever veered that fate off course.
“Wow. That’s amazing,” his response cuts through my thoughts, and my line of vision refocuses on his eyes again. “But you deserve it. I can see why so many people are drawn to your work.”
“Thank you,” I say. I can feel myself blushing, heat spreading through my cheeks. “Right back at you, by the way...I always knew you’d make it.”
He smiles, and it warms my insides.
“You still owe me an autograph to the face, though,” I add, attempting to slice through the increasing number of butterflies filling my stomach, but he laughs—unrestrained, warming me even further, and then my heart starts beating faster, too. I can’t take my eyes off of his—the warmth in them being directed right back at me. It makes it a little hard to breathe.
I swallow thickly. I need to find a breath of fresh air—out his back doors and into his backyard, maybe. Or I could climb over this table and into his arms and steal some of his breaths for my own.
He clears his throat, somehow aware of the direction of my thoughts. If the heat in his eyes has anything to say about it, anyway. “Would you like a tour?” he asks.
“Sure.” I nod, collecting myself with a not so subtle breath. “I’d love one.”
“Great.” He stands, and I follow suit, letting him lead me out of the room with his fingers wrapped around mine.
Sixty-two After
“HOW LONG HAVE you lived here?” I ask Greyson.
“About a year now,” he answers, glancing back at me as he leads me into his living room, hand still wrapped around mine.
A year? My eyes widen in surprise.
“I was on tour most of that time,” he adds. “We’re just finishing up now, with a few shows in-state over the next couple of weeks.”
“Oh, cool.” I nod. “And then what?” I ask as my eyes sweep over his spacious crème couches and dark, wooden coffee table. Only a single green plant, a black-marbled bowl, and a few books decorate the space, sitting directly on the coffee table.
But then he points above his fireplace, and I see my painting. Or his painting now. It complements the room perfectly, and vise-versa. I can see why he chose it—if not for the somber reason he already admitted to.
And I won’t lie. The knowledge that a piece of me has been taking up space in his home well before I walked through those doors tonight warms my insides. Makes my heart flutter in my chest.
“I like it,” I admit, though I’m sure it comes off as a simple compliment rather than the marking of territory my ego clearly intends it to be. I can’t help it, though. Some part of me likes it very much.
“Me too,” he says, his voice rough, and I’m immediately proved wrong. His eyes communicate what his words don’t—that he knows exactly what I meant, and he wholeheartedly agrees. “Come on.” He pulls me outside with a soft smirk caught between his teeth, through his back doors. And the warmth I’ve been feeling tonight spreads somewhere else entirely.
His backyard manages to redirect my attention, though. For the most part, anyway.
“Wow, what a dream,” the words come out on a breath. Because this view is…wow. This view, it’s all of the most beautiful parts of Seattle, right here in his back yard. From the overgrown trees hovering above his guest house and pool, to the view of the city below—it’s incredible. “How do you ever drag yourself out of this house?” I ask him, more than serious. I’d never leave.
I mean, we live in a world where everything I would ever need could be brought to my front door in a matter of minutes—hours, days tops—so I actually don’t think I would ever leave.
He chuckles softly. “I’ve thought about it a few times. But there’s a lot of life to be lived outside of these walls, too.”
“This is true.” I smile. “I still think I’d like to try and bring that world back here, though, so I’d have to leave a whole lot less.”
A deep, insightful look passes over his features. “Note taken,” he says, and he clears his throat. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
I nod, swallowing thickly as he leads me back inside, the warmth of his hand enveloping mine.
We make our way down his hallway, and I stop to admire the pictures of him and his band hanging on the wall. There are four of them, spaced a good distance apart. I study them one by one.
A candid of them backstage. A posed photo in front of an old, crumbling building in Los Angeles. And two from mid-show, in a House of Blues somewhere. One from the front of the band, and one from the back of them—looking out at the impressive crowd full of excited eyes, and mouths held open, frozen in time, singing along to one of their songs.
“What’s that like?” I ask him, genuinely wanting to know the answer. I can’t imagine what that kind of success feels like. So many souls connected to yours in that way.
He thinks it over for a few moments, taking his answer seriously, and I add this to the growing list of new things I like about him. That, and the emotion that passes through his eyes. I can see how much he recognizes the weight of the gift he’s been given, and it’s obvious he doesn’t take any of it for granted.
“Indescribable,” he answers with a layer of awe and appreciation, and I know without a doubt that he means it.
I’m happy for him, incredibly happy for him; he deserves all of his success and more.
We continue down the hallway, initiated by the slight tug of my hand in his. “How long have you lived in Seattle?” he switches gears.
“Almost eight years now.” I swallow, pushing past the weight of that fact, and his head dips down in a nod of understanding as he pulls me around yet another corner of his house.
We go on and on like this, walking through each room of his beautiful home, asking and answering small questions, getting to know each other again.
His guest rooms are spacious and minimalistic, with small plants here and there and a single piece of artwork hanging in each room. Wooden filigree in one, a famous photograph in another, and an ornate mirror in the third.
“You said you went to WSU?” he asks.
“Yep.” I smile.
“What did you major in?”
“Business with a minor in Arts,” I answer, one of my smiles melting into the next.
He nods again. “Do you plan to open your own gallery someday?”
“I don’t know…” I consider his question, sliding my hands into my back pockets. “Maybe.” I shrug. The idea has been there for a long time, lingering in the back of my mind. But it’s always felt like a far-fetched dream rather than a realistic goal.
“And how’s your family?” he completely switches gears again.
“Good. They’re really good.�
� I smile again—for the millionth time tonight, really.
“Do you see them often?” He returns my smile, and I want to kiss the tilt of it away from his face, starting at one perfect corner and ending at the other.
I take a deep breath instead, releasing it as I follow him out of the room. “I do. They live here in Seattle too, actually,” I tell him.
His eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, wow. I had no idea. That’s great, Jess.”
“Thank you…It is pretty great.” The thought of my family fills my heart with happiness. They’ve lived here for about five years now, but they visited me every year before that. I’ve loved having them close. Especially since my little brothers are getting so damn big now. They make the past eight years feel like they’ve flown by.
We walk into Greyson’s office next, and it washes away those thoughts. It’s probably the busiest room I’ve seen so far. Paperwork is strewn across a mahogany desk; there’s a bookshelf that spans one wall, filled top to bottom with books; and then there are the framed pictures and articles that cover the majority of the other three walls.
“And how’s your family?” I bounce the question back at him.
“Good. They’re good as well.” He answers with a purse of his lips, thinking something over. “My parents are divorced now. For the better,” he adds.
“Do you still talk to your father?” I ask carefully.
“Just recently, actually. So, yes, I do.” He leans back onto his desk, gripping the edges with his hands. “We’ve been working on building a relationship—slowly,” he says.
“That’s good.” I nod in acknowledgement. “I’m glad to hear that.” And I mean it, I do, but I still can’t keep my gaze from lingering on his tensed forearms. From trailing up his biceps and across his chest, up to his face. The echo of our words drifts away, and his eyes feel like they’re penetrating mine, begging me to come closer. To close these three or four feet of distance that separates us.
I almost give in to the need, but the look in his eyes tells me it’ll go much further than a kiss, and there’s still too much of our past hanging between us to allow that to happen.
Before & After You Page 19