Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

But I fucked that up, didn’t I? And for the first time in a long time, knowing I’m a mess doesn’t make me angry. It just makes me sad.

“I think,” I whisper, “that something about you makes me 65% less violent, and that’s well worth exploring.”

I’m swallowing hard and worrying about that when Griff finally speaks. “I think,” he tells me slowly, “that I want to hold your hand.”

I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Like what? Wanting.

I let him see, though. And I wasn’t afraid.

Everyone laughs. Nothing to see here. But when Griff walks by me a moment later, the back of his hand brushes mine.

There is a box of Amitriptyline at the bottom with my full name printed on the label, taking up a majestic amount of space.

“Yes. Yes, you must be tired.” I’m not. He’s here. How could I be tired?

“Something like that.” “Pansexual?” Looking up, I tell him, “I am who I am. I want who I want. It doesn’t matter what you call it. That’s what my mum taught me.”

My mum took her own life, and it’s kind of a touchy subject ? I’m so used to everyone pissing all over her memory, I never bring her up ?

I didn’t realise until this moment how much I really, really, really fucking like Keynes.

“I didn’t know how to fix it or how to explain what needed fixing—what the it was, exactly—so I pretended it wasn’t happening. I pretended you weren’t happening, but you are. You’re happening. To me.”

Perhaps being present is something I should value more, no matter what inconvenient emotions it might bring. After all, this week in Fernley has proven that when it’s good, it’s good.

I’m also not expecting to open my back door and find, instead of Lewis’s pale blonde head, the most beautiful man in the world.

“If I thought I deserved it,” he says, “I’d probably kiss you.”

She slaps my shoulder with a tea towel and says, “It’s only been a bloody week. A week, and there’s romance!” “It’s not romance.” “Get inside, you slut, and tell me all about it.” “There’s nothing to tell,” I protest, but by the time my arse meets her kitchen chair I’m already babbling, “He liked my cooking,” like a fool. I am a happy fool.

Some devil possesses me, and I raise my eyebrows. “Intense. Do you like that?” His smile is a surprise and a relief, teasing with an edge that I’m willing to swear is flirtatious. “Don’t talk dirty to me at work, Griffin. There are children present.”

“I’ll teach you whatever you want,” I say, my voice low. “Promises, promises.”

I whisper, “You deserve it. Everything you want, you deserve it.”

He pulls back suddenly. Looks me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.” “Since Saturday?” “Listen to me,” he says. “All weekend.” I am fucking volcanic right now.

For a moment, his eyes aren’t mirrors hiding worlds; they’re windows I could climb right through, if I just had the nerve.

“I don’t think you want seduction. I think you want someone to know you,” I say honestly, “and this is all about what you want, Olu.”

“Well,” I tell him, “I like you.” “I believe you’ve said that already.” A pause. “Perhaps I like you too.”

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.

Sometimes I’m so angry with him. How dare he make me feel like he adores me?

He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Do you know you’re mine?” I must have lost my mind. But when he drags me down for a hot, frantic kiss, I have no regrets or concerns. “You know I’m yours,” Griff whispers against my mouth. “You do.”

“Then what’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong. I want you so bad I feel like I’m dying.”

But I also want to be Griff’s, to know that it’s safe and it’s forever and it will never come back to bite me.

“Olu,” Griff says finally. “You don’t have to leave me.”

I’m trying to leave him. And he won’t let me.