“Do you want to talk about it?” Rosie offers.
I snap out of my trance and flip onto my back, holding the phone out in front of me to focus on my friend. “Nope.” I force a smile. “Tell me about your first day.”
She ignores my change of conversation. “I’m going to kick his ass for you.”
As appealing as the offer sounds, Rosie would never do such a thing. She’s all bark with no bite. She might rip him a new one, but she wouldn’t lay a hand on him. And with Griffin’s temperamental nature, I wouldn’t want her to. That’s a risk I wouldn’t take.
“How was your Intro to Accounting class?” I continue to shift our talk. If we’re going to maintain our friendship with all these miles between us, I don’t want our conversation to revolve around that douchebag.
* * *
Icrack open a bottle of Beth’s wine’ my mother’s wine. I don’t know her well enough to know if she’ll mind, but I don’t really care either way. If she didn’t want me drinking her booze, she should have made that clear.
And right now, if I'm going to do what I have my mind set out to do, I need a little liquid courage.
I down the first glass in a hurry, not wanting to spend any more time than I have to with the bitter, dry red. I’ve never been a fan of wine, but it’s the only alcoholic thing in the house I could find.
I exhale, and it’s like the potent fumes have me breathing fire.
Tingling courses through me and my chest burns, but my mind remains fully intact. I give it a few minutes until the fog creeps in.
I sit on the edge of the stiff leather couch in the living room and glance at my phone. The message screen glares back at me. Griffin’s name at the top.
It shouldn’t be this difficult.
I drink another glass and decide now is the time. I have to do this.
With shaking hands, I grip the device and thumb a text to him.
Me:We need to talk.
I pause, not quite ready to hit send. There are two thousand miles between us, what is the worst thing that could happen?
I hover over the button.
“You can do this, Claire,” I reassure myself.
Without giving it another second, I push the little blue arrow to hurl the words into the universe.
Dots appear immediately and I hold my breath in anticipation of his response. This is the part that worries me most of all. How will Griffin react? He's like a ticking time bomb, a minefield I'm constantly trying to navigate to avoid a massive explosion.
He types, and then it disappears. Then it shows up again, only to go away.
My heart pounds harder each time.
What could he be saying that is taking him so long?
Finally, a text pops through.
Griffin:Call you later.
Three words took him over ten minutes to send? And with them, he offers me almost no insight into his mindset. Is he pissed? Is he fine? Why later? Why not right now? When exactly? In an hour? Four? Tomorrow?
I can’t stay slightly buzzed all night waiting for him to call.
I shove a cork into the bottle of wine and put it in the fridge. There’s no point in drinking anymore if he’s not going to talk to me anytime soon.
It’s already dark here and with the time zone difference, it’s almost midnight there. Apparently, he has better things to do than talk to his girlfriend.
I snatch my keys and cash off the counter. If he’s not ready to have a chat, then I’m going to sober up. A cup of Bram’s coffee will do just the trick.