Work for It, page 17
“No.”
“Here’s what I think: this could all be very simple.”
I sigh, stand, and pick up my bag. “Did you hear me say No?”
“Step one of Operation Griff and Keynes five-ever”—she holds out her palm for the five— “is deciding that, you know, you want him five-ever.”
I start walking to a different section of the field, carefully not looking at Olu, and Rebecca falls into step beside me. “I can’t decide that, because I barely know him.” Sensible. I’m being sensible. “But let’s say I did eventually want him for, uh, a bit. Or whatever. What’s step two?”
“Well, that’s easy. Step two is taking him.”
Taking him. Right. I swallow. “What’s step one-point-five?”
“Sorry,” she trills. “There’s no one-point-five.”
“Step three?”
She makes a sound like a negative buzzer on a game show.
“So I just… take him? How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
She shrugs. “Convince him to stay.”
I stare at her, completely lost. Convince him to stay? I’ve never been enough to convince anyone of anything. Not ever. Not fucking ever. “This is stupid. It’s just a… holiday… thing.”
“Fling,” she corrects. “But it doesn’t have to be! You know how fast I decided on Lewis. And now look!”
“That was luck,” I tell her.
“It was instinct.”
I have a feeling that’s what my mum would say. Then I shake my head to dislodge the thought. My mum can’t say anything because she’s not here.
“Mark my words, Griffin Everett.” Rebecca is poking me in the ribs for emphasis. I think she’d poke me on the nose if she could reach. “You’re head over heels for that man. He’s your destiny. In ten years’ time, you’ll be married with a bunch of posh little babies.”
Who do you call when you’re seriously concerned that your best friend is doing drugs?
Olu
Last night with Griff was lovely. In fact, almost everything with Griff is lovely—which means he will horribly disappoint and/or reject me very soon. I should already be pulling away from him in preparation. Instead, after a day spent simultaneously avoiding him and orbiting him like some pathetic satellite, I find myself leaving Fernley Farm by his side. Our steps are meandering, and our silence is… awkward.
The awkwardness is my fault, and I can feel Griff wondering where it’s come from. I will never be able to tell him the truth, since the truth is this: I have accidentally developed an emotional attachment to him, and it’s making me panic. Even burying myself in my journal didn’t help; I tried to faithfully record every detail of this village, but when I read the words back, Griffin was everywhere. My travel journal now reads like some ridiculous love story. He is stamped all over me.
Searching for a way to break the quiet, I clear my throat and murmur, “Busy day.” Obviously, I immediately want to shoot myself. I have never said anything so bland and useless in my life.
“Yeah,” Griff says, “busy. Seemed like you wrote a lot.”
Oh, just what I wanted to discuss: my massive, awful lies. I hum in agreement, press my lips together, and look away.
There are other people wandering Fernley’s main street, people with dogs on leads and children on little bicycles. Some of them nod at us in greeting; most don’t. No-one smiles. Instead, Griff gets constant, wary looks, as if he’s a suspected serial killer. People really do treat him like shit in this place, and it occurs to me, suddenly, that he shouldn’t be here.
So where should he be? Somewhere with me? Ha. Grow up, Olumide.
“Are you alright?” Griff asks me suddenly.
Oh, Christ. He’s noticed. Well, of course he’s noticed—I appear to have lost all the social charm and finesse I ever possessed. “I’m fine,” I say firmly, giving my own thigh a little pinch through my jeans. I have been taking my antidepressants for a week, and I decide to blame my moment of uselessness on them. It’s the sort of nonsensical connection my father would make, shortly before ranting about how depression isn’t real, and medication of any kind is for the weak—but I’m not him, so I’m still going to take the fucking pills.
I just reserve the right to act suspicious and blame all of my failures on them.
Changing the subject in case Griff decides to dig any deeper, I ask brightly, “How’s Rebecca?”
He slides me a confused, frowning sort of look—probably because he saw me chatting with the woman in question for a good half-hour this afternoon. “She’s good. Her and Lewis are looking for places to move. Houses to buy. In York.”
She told me as much herself. At the time, I thought, I wonder how Griff feels about her leaving—but I don’t dare ask him, because I’m leaving too. Not that he’ll care; he’ll be worrying about Rebecca, for one thing, and he barely knows me, for another. I’m not sure why I keep thinking about this. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
Then Griff’s footsteps slow, and I look up and realise why. We’re almost at the turning where our paths home separate. Right to Maria’s, Left to Griffin’s. He doesn’t know which direction I’m going to take, because we haven’t discussed it, and I don’t know which direction I’m supposed to take, because we haven’t discussed it. I’ve been a painful companion today, so I’m sure he’s silently praying that I’ll turn right and leave him to a peaceful evening. But when I think about actually doing that, it feels…wrong.
I should simply ask him what he wants, or tell him what I want—but did I mention that I’m feeling terribly nervous, today? Worst-case scenarios are rushing through my head so fast, I’m almost dizzy. What if I try to come home with him and he’s disgusted by my presumption? What if he laughs and explains that I was a shit lay, there was no chemistry, and watching I, Tonya with me was awful because I wouldn’t shut up while the film was on, and he’s sorry, he thought I knew?
I mean, that doesn’t really sound like Griff, but it could happen.
Then there’s the opposite possibility: what if I mention going home, and he feels rejected? What if he thinks I got what I wanted last night, and I used him, and he decides to hate my guts? The idea makes me feel sick, and the calming breaths I take to stave off this panic aren’t working. They’re too fucking fresh and clean. I hate the fucking country. Where is my lovely, horrible pollution?
“Olu?” The sound drags me out of my head, and I look up to find Griff frowning at me. He seems concerned, probably because I’m bent double in the street, gasping like a fish. Shit. When did that happen?
“I need a cigarette,” I manage.
“No, you don’t,” he says firmly, and then he kneels in front of me—in the street!—so we’re eye level. “Jesus, tell me you don’t smoke. No wonder you’re always wheezing.”
Now I’m glaring daggers, mortally wounded. “I do not wheeze.” I give a little shudder. “Nor do I smoke, unfortunately. I quit.” Worst decision I’ve ever made. I straighten up, and he stands easily, as if nothing strange happened.
“Good,” he says. “You’re already older than me. We don’t need to add emphysema into the mix.”
“What on earth does that mean?” I’m so outraged, I almost fail to notice that I’ve stopped hyperventilating. Stopped thinking in circles. Stopped hating myself, for now, which feels like being freed from the crushing weight of an anvil.
I’ve been thinking, lately, that I’d like to stop hating myself forever. I would like to try, anyway. But you know what they say: baby steps.
Beneath his beard, Griff’s face is bright pink. “Uh… I meant that…”
I wait stonily, pretending I don’t want to kiss his lovely, blushing cheeks.
“You might die first,” he mutters.
Die first? He’s speaking as if we’ll know each other after next week—but that’s not how things work when I run away. I disappear to places, and then I go home again and leave them behind. Leave some version of myself behind. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it has to be.
Or is that just another way of hating myself? The question strikes me as too much too soon, so I shove it away and pretend it never crossed my mind—which is easy, when I have Griff to distract me. He’s avoiding my eyes and walking briskly, the back of his neck burning bright red beneath his tan. I want to tackle him to the ground and press my cheek against that blush. I want to fall asleep on top of him like he’s a mattress.
“How old are you anyway?” I ask instead, which is a far more reasonable course of action, and might distract him from his embarrassment.
He blinks, then shoots me a look that’s almost… shy? “Twenty-eight.”
I narrowly avoid choking to death on my own shock. “Twenty-eight?” I shriek, and a woman walking two border terriers gives me a scandalised look. One does not shriek on Fernley’s main road; only tractors are permitted to make noise here.
“Yeah,” Griff mumbles.
“You didn’t think to mention the fact that you’re ten years younger than me?!”
“Didn’t ask, did you?”
Good Christ. “I thought you were my age!”
“Cheers.”
“I just meant—you’re very serious, Griff. Why are you so serious? What’s the matter with you? You should be off doing stupid, twenty-eight-year-old things.” Then again, sleeping with me might qualify.
He shrugs his massive shoulders, squinting up at the still-bright sky. “I’ve always been like this.” The words are quiet.
And we’ve reached the turning point.
We stop, as if by some mutual, silent agreement, and the air around us turns sticky with awkwardness. I open my mouth, close it, open it again. Lord knows Griffin won’t say anything.
Except, just as I force out the words, “Should I—?” he blurts, “Do you—?”
We stare at each other like puppies who’ve just scared themselves with their own barks. Then he huffs out a little laugh, shaking his head, and his smile strikes me like lightning. Suddenly, I don’t care about showing my hand or being rejected; all I care about is seeing Griff laugh again. A voice in my head snaps that my feelings make me weak, but I smother that voice with a pillow and order a Burberry suit for its funeral.
Then I say to Griff, “Let’s go somewhere fun.”
He raises his eyebrows. “City’s an hour away.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?”
“I want to see bona fide country fun.”
He snorts.
“Let’s call it anthropological research.”
“You’re a dick.”
We’re both grinning as he takes my hand and leads me into the forest.
Olu
An hour later, I know entirely more than I ever expected about a game called Poohsticks. Also, I’m halfway up a tree.
Looking for Poohsticks, you understand.
“We can get them off the ground,” Griff shouts up, but I shake my head and haul myself higher.
“I’d said I’d climb a tree,” I pant, “and you laughed.”
I can see his grin from here, white teeth shining against all that thick, dark facial hair. “You just don’t seem like the tree-climbing type.”
“Well, look at me now,” I cry, swinging off a branch like a child. My reward is the hilarious sight of Griffin Everett absolutely shitting himself.
“Stop that,” he barks, “you’ll fall.”
“Catch me, then,” I say, and move on to the next branch.
“Olu, I’m serious. If you break your fucking neck, I’ll be fuming.”
I laugh for what feels like a century. Then I climb and climb and remember something I used to like about myself. No—something I still like about myself, even if it’s a characteristic I occasionally use to escape: I am adventurous. I’ve been beating myself over the head with that fact for so long, but now, as I look out over the forest and glimpse the little houses of Fernley beyond, I remember that it’s a positive.
When I finally come down, Griff mutters, “You didn’t even get any sticks.” His arms are folded, his scowl ferocious, his eyes avoiding mine. But there’s the tiniest curve to his mouth that makes me grin.
“Maybe I was making a point.” To him, or to myself, or both. I slide my hands over his broad shoulders, lean into his body, and kiss his cheek. “Don’t be grumpy.”
He grunts.
I kiss his ear. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. Then he turns all at once and grabs me—one hand cradling my head, the other splayed against my lower back in a hold he probably doesn’t mean to be so possessive.
Except, who am I kidding? He definitely does. Just like he means it when he kisses me so hard I almost collapse. It’s a laughing, breathless sort of kiss, but it says ownership all the same. Every touch of his tongue stamps his name all over me, and I like it. I like it so much I twist my fingers in the fabric of his shirt, stepping back and pulling him with me—until I’m pressed up against the tree I just climbed, caught between my rock and a hard place.
Then we kiss some more.
When we slowly, gently, come to a stop, he looks at me with cautious eyes and says, “Is this okay?”
“This,” I tell him softly, “is perfect.” Even though a week ago I would have been panicking, even though I should be panicking now. I can’t, not with him, not when he’s made a rose of my heart: it’s still thorny, but around him it’s also fragrant and lovely and full.
I can feel his hard cock against my abdomen, but he still kisses my forehead and rumbles, “Let’s take a break.” Then he moves away, giving me space even as he holds my hand.
Sometimes I’m so angry with him. How dare he make me feel like he adores me?
“Back to the stream?” he asks, and I nod, swallowing a pain I don’t understand. We take a few steps through the trees and return to the stream he led me to in the first place. This is where we’ve been for the past hour, until I got grand ideas about climbing trees. The stream is shallow, rushing over pebbles and babbling like a brook in a children’s story. I see tiny fish wriggling in the water and stalks of long, yellow grass floating lazily on the surface. There’s a rickety, wooden bridge above the deepest section, which is where Griff leads me, picking up twigs on the way.
I take one, and we stand face to face on the bridge, arms held out over the water. “Ready?”
“Ready.” We drop them. Then we rush to the bridge’s other railing and stick our heads over the side.
“That’s my stick,” I crow with zero sophistication, pointing at the twig in the lead. I have grass stains on my jeans, bark grazes on my palms, and my shirt sleeves are rolled up to a disgraceful height. I am thoroughly enjoying myself.
“That’s mine. You’re full of shit,” Griff says fondly, and looks at me like I’m a precious stone.
“Can you prove that in a court of law?”
“I can prove it with my bloody eyes, you toff.”
“Language, sir. I will eject you if necessary.”
“Eject me from what?” he laughs, and slides an arm over my shoulders, kissing my temple. I’m still trying to decide how I feel about such casual sweetness—giddy is not the correct answer, Olu—when he speaks again, his tone sober. “My mum used to bring me here.”
Carefully, I look up at him, and the expression on his face breaks my heart. It’s not grim, resigned grief. It’s pure longing. He stares down at the water as if he might see his mother’s face, and he is full of nothing but longing.
I know I should keep my mouth shut, keep my distance, but all I want to keep is him. “Would you tell me about her?”
Softly, he says, “Okay.”
We leave the bridge and sit in the dirt as the sun sinks low over the trees. Griff’s shoulder touches mine, or maybe I’m touching his, and then we’re leaning on each other.
“Her name was Gemma. She was my only family and I… I really loved her.” He swallows, then says with the air of a man trying to shock away sadness, “Also, she was a witch.”
Surprise makes me splutter. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know,” he grins. “Phases of the moon. Candles and herbs and all that stuff. I fucking loved it. She used to take me out with her at night to watch the stars. We’d go to the forest and feed all the animals we could find because she said we were the earth’s caretakers. And they were never scared of her. She taught me how to make things grow and how to be silent.”
“Your two favourite things,” I say dryly, and he shoves my shoulder with his, but he’s laughing.
“We were always on our own.” His smile fades. “Her family, they all died.”
I stare. “That sounds ominous. What do you mean, they all died?”
“It was her eighteenth birthday. They wanted to take her out to dinner, but my mother, she wasn’t feeling well. She was depressed,” Griff says, “all her life. Sometimes it was better, sometimes it was worse. I suppose, on that day, it was worse, and she wouldn’t go. I don’t think they really understood—I don’t think anyone around here understood. So they went to the city without her, because they’d made the reservation. Probably wanted to teach her a lesson. Probably thought they’d come home, full and happy, and she’d regret being difficult.” He makes the word soft but venomous, as if he’s remembering it in the mouth of someone else.
I imagine depressed women are called difficult rather a lot.
“But they didn’t come back,” he finishes. “They were hit by a truck and died.”
“Oh my God.”
“So she was alone in the house—my house. She never told me much about that time, the time when she was alone, which means things were bad. My mum, when she wasn’t well, she’d do anything to hide it.” Griff’s voice is soft, like a touch, like a hug. His eyes are distant, like he’s seeing something else. “She used to tell me she had a migraine, and that she had to stay in bed. I’d be as quiet as I could, trying not to disturb her. But when I got older, I figured a few things out and realised it wasn’t a migraine. Then I started trying to help—bringing her things, making her eat.”
Our hands are side by side against the earth. I put mine on Griff’s and squeeze. He turns it over, laces our fingers together, squeezes back. He even smiles at me, though it’s a small, sad echo of his usual grin.
