Half an hour before noon, Griffin stuck his head in my office, guitar still in hand. “Is this a good time to go play for Harvey? His door is closed.”
“Let me check,” I told him. “Could you stop by Vicki in 107 first? If she’s awake, play her something Beatles. She used to be a fan, and her days are pretty monotonous.”
“Can do.” Griffin sketched me a salute and turned away.
As I tidied up the file I was working on, the faint strains of “Hey, Jude” floated down the hallway.
He’s a good man.I’d thought so when I dated him, of course, then been furious and pushed him out of my mind as not worth my time. But that’d been the hurt talking. Griffin Marsh might be far from perfect, but he was one of the good guys.
I stood and stretched, working the kinks out of my back, then headed down the hall to Harvey’s room. The door was shut but I could hear voices beyond it so I knocked.
“Come in.”
Owen sat on the side of Harvey’s bed, a hand on Harvey’s blanket-covered leg, as they chatted with Prescott.
Harvey’s face fell as I entered. “I hoped you were Griffin.”
“He’s on his way. Just wanted to make sure he was welcome past the closed door.”
“Hah,” Owen said. “Completely. We just closed up because the whole world doesn’t need to hear about Harvey’s and my last vacation on Fire Island.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Does Prescott?”
But he gave me a thumbs-up and grinned, so whatever the elderly couple were telling him, it hadn’t crossed his TMI threshold.
“Let me get Griffin.” I dug out my phone and messaged him.
A few moments later, he appeared in the doorway. “Hey, guys. Ready for the show. Um, hi, Prescott. Harvey asked for some hard rock. That okay with you?”
Prescott signaledyesand gestured at me for his whiteboard. I held it for him, while he printed laboriously, “Ask Snow + Ice.”
“Got more requests, Griff.” I turned the board to him.
“Can do.” He pulled the door shut, set his shoulders against it, and played the opening notes to that 2007 hit.
Listening to Griffin rock out, even with an acoustic guitar and the power of his voice dialed way back, was no hardship. I should’ve been heading back to my office and work. My excuse was that Griffin was blocking the door and I didn’t want to interrupt. Truth was, I loved watching his hands so fast and sure on the strings, seeing the joy in his face for his music, and hearing the raspy true tones of his voice as he sang words written a few years after we split. I shouldn’t have recognized the lyrics, but Griffin Marsh had been a star then, on every radio station, and I guess I hadn’t ignored him as much as I liked to pretend. Regardless, twenty years fell away and every bit of this felt familiar and right.
I stayed over by the windows, watching, as he segued into “Kite String” and then “Bite This.”
Harvey laughed and pounded the bed with his good hand in applause when Griffin finished with as close to shredding as theold guitar allowed. “Oh, man, that takes me back. We saw you in concert… when was that, Owen, you remember? You gave me the tickets as a birthday gift.”
“2011, hon. Your sixtieth.”
“Oh, right. All those twenty-somethings rocking out and the arena shook with the sound. Great concert, but I have to say, this was even better.”
“Glad you liked it.” Griffin pushed away from the door. “Now I should return the guitar and head off to my afternoon gig. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll stop in and say hello—”
He was interrupted by my phone playing Mom’s ringtone.
Crap, what now?I answered as I edged past Griffin into the hall. “What’s up, Mom?”
“The other one burst this time. And the dishwasher is running.” I could hear the beginnings of panic in her voice.
“The other what? Other hose?”
“Yes. The hot one. It’s spraying and I don’t want to turn off all the water. What’ll happen if the dishwasher runs dry? Can you come home?”
Fuck my life.I knew I should’ve installed both new washing machine hoses but I got lazy and the old one had looked okay. “Listen. Go up and push ‘Pause’ on the dishwasher and then turn off the water.”
