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Chapter thirty-five

Danae

I tems not on my bingo card for this year?

I knew, in theory, our relationship would eventually progress to a point where I would have to communicate something to my parents about us. But that anxiety can of worms was one I was nowhere near opening. Or touching. Or even acknowledging its existence.

But now, here I am, pacing Griffin West’s back porch while I listen to the ring, ring, ring of my outgoing call. To my parents. Griffin went inside to retrieve my phone and a box of tissues, correctly anticipating how this will likely go. Now he’s standing guard next to me.

When my mom answers, she quickly announces that she’s putting me on speaker so my dad can talk too.

“Danae, it’s so great to hear from you, darling,” my dad says.

Like nails on a chalkboard, the sound of his voice grates against my ears.

His words—subtly scolding, as though I’m the one who cut off communication—add insult to auditory injury.

I’m tempted to hang up without a word, until I meet Griffin’s eyes and see the encouragement there.

Encouragement that he’s here to support me.

Not encouragement to blindly patch things up with my parents.

“Mom, Dad, hi. I’m just returning your missed calls,” I state .

“Well, it’s been such a long time since we heard from you, we wanted to check in and see how things are going for you and that dear little boy who’s living with you,” Mom’s saccharine voice cuts in.

It’s the overly-soothing kind of tone that you think is only used by actors in soap operas, but, nope—Judy Collins has it down to a real-life art.

“Need I remind you, I’m not the person who exited our familial relationship,” I say. I hear the wobble in my voice, but Griffin rubs my back, infusing me with strength. “Why are you calling now?”

“It certainly seems like you’re rewriting history a little bit,” my dad says, his voice gaining an edge of frustration.

“What your father means”—Mom cuts in with that falsely soothing tone—“is that you might have overreacted and taken things the wrong way in the past. But we want to know how you’re doing.

Especially with the news story that broke last week.

Of course, we want to make sure our daughter is okay after such a dramatic turn of events. ”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking. Is that all?”

“Well, if you really are in a new relationship, don’t you think we should meet whoever it is that you’re dating?” my dad asks.

Pursing my lips, I choose my words carefully. “You didn’t seem at all interested in meeting the guy I dated right after I started teaching. So, no, I don’t see your point.”

There’s a jealous glint in Griffin’s eyes, and the sight is enough to bring a small smile to my face. I reach up and stroke my fingers through his beard, and his fingers dig more possessively into my back. I’d really like to end this phone call so I can pay more attention to the man in front of me.

“That relationship was over before it started,” my dad says, prompting an eye roll on my end.

“Besides, it’s a different story now that you have Jason with you. We should probably meet any man who’s going to spend time around our grandson,” my mom adds, and my circulatory system floods with fire.

“Don’t you dare try to make this about your grandson. You didn’t want anything to do with Jason or me before now. Be honest about why you suddenly care,” I demand .

There’s an awkward moment of silence, and I can envision the back and forth pointing going on between my parents.

Dad must have drawn the short straw because he’s the one who finally speaks.

“Danae, darling, if you’re dating someone like Griffin West, it certainly seems appropriate that we be included in your future plans for your relationship.

I can’t believe you haven’t introduced us already. ”

“And there it is,” I say, wobble returning to my voice. “I’m dating someone useful to your ambitions, and suddenly you care that I exist again.”

“That’s quite the accusation to make,” Mom says, soothing tone evaporating.

“We’re your parents, and we’ve always loved you and wanted what’s best for you.

Do you think your private education and college paid for themselves?

You think all the head starts we gave you in life aren’t evidence of our love for you?

Just because you made some ill-advised choices doesn’t mean that we—”

“Ill-advised choices?” I cut her off. “You mean my choice to become a teacher instead of a trophy wife? Or my choice to adopt Jason instead of trying to bag an eligible bachelor with a trust fund? I’m very sorry that your view of the world would categorize my choices as ill-advised.”

My entire body is shaking from anger, adrenaline, anxiety, fear, disappointment, all of the above.

Just as the phone—the conversation—starts to feel too heavy to hold anymore, I’m pulled tightly against Griffin’s chest. His arm wraps firmly around me, supporting my weakness with his strength, as he takes the phone out of my hand.

“Danae is finished with this conversation. Please don’t contact her unless she contacts you first,” he states. His voice is calm, but I sense the raging undercurrent of protective anger. He ends the call and stuffs my phone into his pocket before securely fastening his other arm around me.

I bury my head into his chest as my tear ducts detonate. I’m sobbing against him, not even attempting to stem the flow of sadness. Anger. Hurt.

This is not a pretty, staring-sadly-out-the-window movie-scene cry. This is an ugly, eyes-on-fire, snot-dripping-like-water-from- my-nose cry.

I cry for Jason not having loving grandparents on top of everything else he’s missed out on.

I cry for my childhood, for all the unnecessary anxiety little Danae carried around.

I cry for my future, unable to imagine a cordial relationship with my family, much less a loving one.

I cry for the shame, the embarrassment of Griffin witnessing the fact that I wasn’t worthy of my parents’ attention until I was associated with him.

I cry for the possibility that someday Griffin could wake up and realize I’m not worth keeping around. Even as he holds me close to him, holds me like he’d never dream of letting go.

The adrenaline crash takes my shaking body to the next level on the Richter scale.

Griffin swivels his torso and threads an arm under my knees, scooping me into his arms in one flawless movement.

I wrap an arm around his neck, although let’s be honest—I’m completely useless.

In no universe could a case be made that I am supporting any of my own weight.

The sobs that won’t stop are sucking up every ounce of energy.

Griffin carefully eases us onto the cushioned couch and hands me the tissue box.

He holds me on his lap and gently scratches my back, occasionally pressing kisses to my temple or forehead or cheek.

He lets me cry until my body has evicted every spare ounce of water, which is not a short amount of time.

As the tears wind down, my body goes rigid as the thoughts wind up. The thought factory is spiraling off the rails. My muscles tense in preparation to stand, to back away, but Griffin’s arms tighten around me right before I can move.

“Nope,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. Because I’m not going anywhere. Let me go ahead and directly address some of what I think is going on up here,” he says, motioning toward my head.

“Yes, I overheard most of what your parents said. Yes, it’s taking a tremendous amount of self-restraint not to track them down and show them exactly what I think of them.

No, I am not your parents. I don’t love you because you add value to my life—even though you do.

I love you because of who you are, because of your heart, your tenderness, your concern for others, your passion for books and Jason and teaching.

I love you for all the amazing ways you bring light to the world.

I am here, and I am not leaving,” he says.

I love you . His words register in my mind, and my eyes double in size.

“You love me?” I whisper.

Griffin slowly tucks a strand of (wet) hair behind my ear and gently wipes my (wet) cheeks with his thumb before he answers.

“I love you, Danae. And before you say anything, I should tell you one other thing. Now that I better understand the context of your suspicion toward people with financial wealth, I want to be up-front and tell you that this past week I paid in advance for six months of Jason’s weekly therapy and occupational therapist appointments. ”

Jerking back, my brain struggles to choose an emotional direction. “You what? Griffin, you can’t just—”

“I am not throwing my wealth around to show off. I’m not trying to buy anyone’s affection or good graces.

I have resources, and I’m investing them in something I care about.

Someone. Well, two someones. Because I care about you and Jason.

So paying to make sure he gets the professional help he needs to process his trauma—to support you in that way—is an absolute no-brainer.

And it’s already done, so there’s no point in trying to talk me out of it.

And I’ll continue paying as long as he needs to keep going,” Griffin states, no-nonsense tone engaged.

I flop against his chest, dead weight once again.

“I know that being with me is complicated. And . . . unideal, in a lot of ways, but I’m doing anything I can to show you that you and Jason are safe with me,” Griffin murmurs against my ear. His fingertips graze paths up and down my forearm, and my eyes track the movement, slowly calming my body.

“Griff?” I whisper, still watching his fingers.

“ Mmhmm? ” he hums.

Lifting my head to face him, I say, “I love you too.”

His hand finds my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my lips, then making its way up to brush the final tear from under my eye.

He whispers, “I hate to see you cry, but the green of your eyes is even more emerald in person. You’re so beautiful when you cry—even though I wish I never had to see it happen ever again. ”

I lean in to his lips, my heart calming at the contact.

Safe. We’re safe.

Aren’t we?