Pieces For You (22 page)

“Did I mention the guest room has a walk-in closet that’s bigger than your bathroom here?” Griffin asked with a victorious smile.

“Sold!” I said, letting him believe it was the closet that closed the deal and not the fact that he knew how much the closet would sway me.

“Okay,” Hunter said, “Sam, why don’t you work the legal angle and get all the information before making a final decision about whether or not to fight?  In the meantime, you girls can focus on packing up the apartment so you’re ready to move into your temporary homes on Wednesday.”

Ev and I nodded our agreement.

“Let’s go get some boxes for them, I have my pick-up,” Griffin said to Hunter.

“Good plan.”

After the guys left, Ev and I remained in the den, lost in thought.

“Congrats,” I said genuinely.  “It’s bittersweet.  I am thrilled for you and Hunter, but I’m gonna miss living with you.  Lord only knows what fashion crimes you’ll commit without my supervision.”

“True.  You’ll have to come by frequently to make sure I haven’t stocked up on flannel and tees.”

“I just might.”

It was hard to believe this phase of our lives was ending and we would no longer be roommates.  Constant companions, we had lived together for over four years.

Ev rearranged our work schedule to give us both time to focus on packing.  The apartment might not have been large, but we had acquired a massive amount of stuff in our time there.  We decided to store the furniture in Griffin’s garage since Hunter’s current apartment didn’t have the space and I was currently without a permanent address.

Griffin’s house was not the bachelor pad I expected; he had a ‘grown-up’ house.  A well-maintained colonial with three bedrooms, two-and-a-half bathrooms, and an office greeted me upon arrival.  It was an impressive house with modern updates in high-quality materials, and was both clean and comfortable.  My eyes swept over the heavy wooden tables, soft leather couches, and masculine bedroom set.  He had all the requisite man technology like a huge flat-screen TV, surround sound stereo, gaming systems, you name it.  The pictures on the walls hinted at the man who lived there and I couldn’t help but smile—he had a collection of musical instrument prints, abstract in black and white with pops of color.  There were others with recognizable travel destinations, and various pub-themed posters and signs decorated the walls of the office.

I cooked an extravagant dinner for my first night; field green salad with goat cheese and apple walnut dressing, Texmati rice with barley and rye berries, and zesty chicken piccata coated in seasoned homemade breadcrumbs with grilled vegetables.

“Sam, if you cook like this a couple nights a week, I’ll never let you leave,” Griffin said while devouring his third helping of chicken.

“I love to cook; it’s a great stress reliever.  Ev always joked that she ate best when I was conflicted.”

“Where did you learn?”

“I spent a lot of time in the kitchen growing up.  The chef at my parents’ house was phenomenal and always happy to teach me.”

Over dinner, I learned Griffin had worked at the family restaurant since he was fifteen and began bartending at eighteen.  He carefully saved his money like a squirrel collecting acorns for winter.  After graduating from Hensley University, he used his nest egg to purchase this house and handled the renovations himself.  He shared his plans to manage the bar his parents had left him when they retired to Florida and open a small private practice that would be client driven.  He wanted to provide help even to those who were unable to pay. 

As I listened to him, I was struck by how much responsibility he shouldered.  He obviously loved running The Stop and it provided a lucrative salary, but I was proud he had followed his calling as a therapist and also managed the family business he loved.

As Griffin shared the details of his life, his passions and dreams, my admiration for him deepened.  I was surprised to find he could relate to the conflict with my parents from personal experience—the frustration felt when parents attempt to control your life and dictate its course.  He was a man anyone would be proud to call friend; a man any woman would be honored to call hers. 

After dinner we snuggled on the couch, watched a movie, and fell asleep after an exhausting day of moving.  Neither of us woke until daylight spilled through the sliding glass doors off the family room.

As wonderful as it was to spend the night in Griffin’s arms, it was too soon be moving in together.  I wanted our relationship to have a fighting chance, and moving in together too soon could be the kiss of death.  I felt like I needed to have my own place in order to maintain my self-worth.  Perhaps if I hadn’t been attacked, I would be more willing to throw caution to the wind.  But I needed to prove to myself that I was strong enough to survive on my own before I could make a full commitment to any person.

I spent the day on the phone with my lawyer and financial advisor, attempting to sort out my options.  The guest room Griffin offered me was lovely and I took my time hanging my clothes in the large walk-in closet.  I did not intend to stay forever, but I would not live out of boxes and suitcases while I was there.  At bedtime, an unintentional stand-off ensued.  I was waiting for an invite to his room and he was waiting for my cue as to whether I was ready to try using him as my body pillow again.  We stood in the hallway, straining to find random bits of dialogue, trying to figure out what the other wanted.  When I asked who should be responsible for buying toilet paper, Griffin took action, sweeping me into his arms and carrying me into the master suite.  I had never been so grateful to toilet tissue.

I continued to wait on news from my attorney, but my initial hopes for an easy resolution were dwindling.  I found myself happy at the prospect of losing the apartment that tied me to my parents and looking forward to finding my own place, one purchased with money not associated with them.

In the meantime, it was strange to live with someone new and to learn their schedule and habits.  Griffin was a considerate roommate—he would switch my clothes from the washer to the dryer, make me coffee in the mornings, and even brought me dinner several nights a week.  I cooked many nights to express my gratitude for his hospitality.

However, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses.  Griffin was tidy but had several quirks that irritated me the first few days.  For reasons I was unable to comprehend, he always managed to leave a pair of dirty socks on the floor in the family room at the end of the night.  It was baffling!  The man never left a glass on the table or a plate in the sink, but his discarded socks greeted me daily.  I also learned Griffin despised the smell of nail polish remover, forcing me to relocate my frequent nail polish changes into the bathroom, instead of in the den while watching TV.

Ev and I would call or text one another when our men exhibited odd domestic behavior.  Living together was a rousing success for Huntleigh, despite the fact that Hunter perpetually left his discarded clothes
next to
the hamper instead of putting them in their target destination.  Ev even tried leaving the lid open and sliding the receptacle a foot to the right.  She theorized Hunter had been throwing clothes from across the room and consistently missed the basket, but her attempt was a failure. 

Ev also managed to push a few of Hunter’s buttons.  My favorite was when she rearranged the kitchen to place her coffee supplies in the optimal location, moving his pots and pans to a high cabinet across the room.  There was also an ongoing debate about where the toothpaste tube should be squeezed—Ev, a chronic middle squeezer, and Hunter, a resolute bottom squeezer.  I believe they secretly loved having new material for their ongoing verbal warfare—it was their weird form of foreplay. 

On nights when Griffin wasn’t working late at The Stop, I would sleep with him in the master suite, where he continued to prove that our first night together was no fluke.  The man worked my body like he had written the owner’s manual.  Each time was better than the last and I was able to reach the big hell
O
more quickly, unless Griffin decided to tease me and make me wait for it.  He was commanding and playful in bed, and I was seriously considering taking our fun all the way to home base.  I desperately wanted to, but I was still afraid of not being able to complete the act.  Even though I knew he would understand, it was a possible failure I was still afraid to try.

A week after I moved into Griffin’s house, my attorney finally called with the news that the deed to the apartment was exclusively in my father’s name.  He advised I could fight for joint ownership since the apartment was a gift, but it would come down to judicial decision, which would likely fall in my parents’ favor since they originally purchased the property.  What he didn’t say was that I was likely to be perceived as a greedy brat who was trying to mooch off my parents’ affluence.  If that was not enough to dissuade me, the fact that my father played golf with most of the sitting judges in Suffolk and Nassau Counties was.  I was officially homeless.  I had a place to stay, thanks to Griffin, but it wasn’t a permanent solution.

After our call, I immediately contacted a real estate agent and provided details of what I was looking for and my budget.  I was anxious to find my own home as soon as possible.  Since I had been at Griffin’s, I found myself imagining what it would be like to truly live there.  Despite knowing it was the wrong decision, the idea of staying forever was a temptation and if I didn’t move out soon, I may never do so.  I was so comfortable in his house with him it felt…well, it felt like home.  I knew I wasn’t ready to play house yet; I still had too much to prove to myself.  So I used my day off the following week to tour several townhouse condos.  Griffin tried to hide his disappointment, but I could tell he wanted me to stay.  I fell in love with one property, but the seller had tentatively accepted an offer, pending the buyer’s mortgage approval.  I was disappointed, but we scheduled several more viewings later in the week.

Two weeks after I moved in, Griffin went to my car to grab the sunglasses he had forgotten.  I was on the couch reading the latest Kristen Ashley novel when I heard a very loud, very angry “what the fuck” seep through the front window.  The front door slammed against the wall in the foyer as Griffin called my name.

Griffin could never scare me; I trusted him with my life.  But I had to admit the sound of him stomping around was intimidating. 

“In here,” I called, forcing my voice to remain casual, as if I didn’t notice his dramatic entry.

He strode into the room with purpose, arm extended before him, something clutched in his hand.

“Would you like to explain what the hell these are and why I had no clue they existed?”

Uh-oh.  After taking a quick inventory, I concluded he had found the weekly threats I had stuffed under my visor—the ones I’d neglected to mention to him…or anyone for that matter.  I weighed my options, calculating my most promising method of response before deciding on humor.

“They’re poetic, aren’t they?  I mean, he’s no Emerson, but he has a definitive style.”

“You think this is funny?” he asked softly, the effect louder than any shout could ever have been.

“Not funny, ha ha, but insane funny, yeah.  You gotta laugh, right?”

“No, I do not
gotta laugh
,” he said through clenched teeth.  “I can’t believe you are turning this into a joke.  These are blatant threats against you…your life.”  He paused to flip through the six wrinkled papers clutched in his fist and handed one to me.