How to Date a Younger Man

by Kendall Ryan

  I know the whole point of therapy is to better understand yourself and all that shit, but sometimes, it freaking sucks. I don’t want to tell her how I really feel about Griffin. More importantly, I don’t want to admit that to myself.

  “What do you want me to say? That I like him? Of course I like him. I wouldn’t be sleeping with him if I didn’t.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that your feelings go beyond wanting to sleep with him?”

  “I don’t see why it matters what I feel. It’s too late. He’s going to New York. It’s over. There’s no future for us.” I throw my hands in the air at this point, completely exasperated by this whole conversation.

  I don’t understand why she’s making such a big deal out of this. What’s done is done. He has a plane ticket and a job offer and plans for the future on the other side of the country that don’t include me. It’s over. Done with. End of freaking story.

  “I understand why you might feel that way,” she says, “but I’m not so sure it’s as over as you may think it is.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he’s still here. And you still have time to give him a reason to stay.”

  “I guess I just don’t know if there’s a good enough reason. What if I force him to stay here and we break up in six months? Then he’ll have thrown his future away for nothing.”

  She pauses, leaning her head to one side in a half shrug, tucking her silver hair behind her ear. “It’s a gamble, sure. But wouldn’t it be better to take the risk and find out, instead of spending the rest of your life wondering how differently it all might have turned out if you’d taken the chance and told him how you feel?”

  I don’t have an answer to that question.

  With my stomach in knots, I leave Dr. Benson’s office, still unsure how to feel. On the one hand, she made some good points about the fact that Griffin hasn’t left yet, and there’s still a chance that he feels the same way I do. But on the other hand, I’m not exactly sure how I feel.

  I’ve always cared about Griffin. He’s my best friend’s brother. He’s been there for me through some seriously shitty times of my life. But then everything changed. Now there’s a part of me that deeply cares about Griffin and wonders what a future could look like with him. But there’s another, louder part of me that has such vivid memories of the absolute player man-child he used to be, the stupid little comments he used to make to me all the time, and the fact that we’ve been going behind his sister’s back. Would the excitement, buzz and need for each other disappear if we didn’t have to hide?

  And yeah, he’s grown up a lot in the past few years, but he’s still twenty-seven. We’re at totally different times of our lives with different goals and wants. At the end of the day, there are ten years between us, along with a million concerns and questions. And to be honest I don’t know how willing I am to go looking for answers. Because it’s possible I’m a big fat scaredy-cat, and all of this is going to blow up in my face, and even though I’ve dealt with my fair share of heartbreak, I’m not sure I could handle having my heart broken by Griffin.

  20

  * * *

  GRIFFIN

  “It’s a good move for you.”

  Layne’s words are ringing—loudly—inside my pounding head. I press my palms to the hardwood floor, trying to brace myself against the spinning. Fuck. The bottle of Four Roses sits nearby, only a finger’s worth of bourbon left at the bottom.

  When did I end up on the floor? Goddamn, what time is it?

  “It’s a good move for you.” Those cruel words are looping like a broken record in my head.

  Yeah, maybe it is a good move for me, Layne. If I was a fucking robot with no emotions. But not all of us are heartless workaholics who only care about career advancement.

  God, I’ve resorted to name calling. I chuckle, the alcohol in my system helping me ignore the sudden intense churning of my stomach. If I only cared about my job, if that was my only source of happiness . . .

  I reach for the bottle, determined to put those last drops where they belong . . . inside my drunk self. Through double vision, I vaguely acknowledge my wristwatch, remembering that I still have no concept of what fucking time it is. I draw the watch closer to my face, tilting the bottle and spilling the remaining sweet amber poison on my jeans.

  “Goddammit.”

  There’s more where that came from in the kitchen. If I can stand up.

  I squint at the silver clock face, both of our hands wobbling with the effort. It’s 7:56 p.m.? Fuck.

  Since Layne gave me her unwanted blessing, I really jumped the gun on this whole New York City move. I sent off my acceptance email to Milos within the hour, packed some of my more necessary shit in whatever boxes I had lying around, and argued with my shitty landlord about breaking my lease. I got everything more or less taken care of in record time. I even booked a last-minute flight—the 8:15 p.m. flight to La Guardia airport that I’m about to miss. Isn’t that just spectacular?

  I fumble with my phone, finally managing to find the webpage I need to cancel this ill-advised flight. I’ll take care of rescheduling it in the morning. Or better yet, I’ll still be drunk in the morning, and getting on an airplane will be the very last thing on my mind.

  The drinking started when I made the all-too-familiar mistake of getting too fucking sentimental. I scrolled through old texts between Layne and me, ultimately landing on photo albums. There we were, moving her into her new place, basking in the sunlight on that fateful beach day, arm in arm with Kristen at her engagement party . . .

  That last picture was the one that did me in. The glowing flush on Layne’s cheeks was evidence of her happiness for her best friend. It was also evidence of the secret we’d just shared in the bathroom, moments before. The whole time we’d been sneaking around, I thought we were simply having fun while we got our bearings in our relationship. I guess I was wrong.

  “I just don’t want you to sacrifice everything for a woman that doesn’t even care about you.”

  Now it’s Wren’s sharp voice that’s digging hooks into my brain. I totally fucked things up with her too, didn’t I?

  I reach for my phone again, debating for a moment. Is it worth it? Whatever, she’s gonna figure out that I’m wasted one way or another. Hiding anything from Wren is a pointless and juvenile game at this point in our friendship.

  “What do you want?” Her voice is angry, crackling across the line with a rawness I’m far too drunk to even begin to navigate.

  “Hey . . . you,” I say. I lay my head against the wall, trying to steady myself. I’m gonna puke within the next fifteen minutes, and that’s a bet I could win money on. Or I’m gonna pass out.

  “What do you want?”

  “Mmm. Would you come over? I’m on the floor.” Or maybe I’ll just pass out and puke in the morning.

  “Why are you on the floor?”

  “You have a key?” My eyelids feel so heavy. When did I get so tired?

  “Yeah, I do. Griffin, are you okay?”

  “Oh, not great. See ya soon, crescent moon . . .”

  The hand holding my phone to my ear drops listlessly to the floor. I can faintly hear Wren’s voice in the background, calling for me, but the darkness is already taking me.

  When I come to, there’s a trash can inches from my face.

  “Come on.”

  A woman’s voice softly coaxes me, distant in my ears. Before I can understand what’s happening, I feel a warm, wet washcloth blotting my hands and face.

  I open my eyes, focusing them the best I can. “Layne?”

  A strawberry-blond braid brushes against my shoulder.

  “No, you idiot.” Wren.

  “Sorry.” I let out a chuckle. If I can’t laugh at what a pathetic schmuck I’ve turned into, then I’ll end up crying. And I’m not about to cry in front of Wren.

  Jesus. The thought alone is terrifying.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she demands, holding my chin w
ith an icy, claw-like hand, and I shiver.

  “I’m cold,” I say with a yawn.

  In moments, Wren is back with a throw blanket from my bed, tucking it tight around my hunched shoulders and rubbing my biceps aggressively.

  Her eyes meet mine. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’m on a plane,” I explain slowly, hearing the slur in my voice. “I’m on my way to the Big Apple. The greatest city in the world.” That last bit sounded a bit more like greatest shitty in the world.

  “Okay, so, no, you’re not. You’re on the floor of your trashed apartment. What’s going on?” She hands me a cold glass of water.

  I take a long, satisfying gulp. I could drink the whole glass, but Wren snatches it from me, willing me to respond.

  “I should be on a plane,” I mutter. “But I missed it. Whoops.”

  “You took the job?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh.

  “Good. You should,” she says with a definitive nod.

  I close my eyes. “Layne thought so too.”

  “Oh . . . you talked to Layne. That explains this.”

  I don’t need to open my eyes to know Wren’s gesturing at the mess that is me at the moment.

  “She doesn’t care at all, Wren. She doesn’t care about me for a second.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “Well, you were right.” My voice sounds raw, low and gravelly, even for me.

  “I’m sorry,” Wren whispers, her hand finding my cheek.

  It’s a little warmer now, so I lean into it.

  “Thanks,” I say, my lips brushing against her wrist. I’m glad she’s here. Glad I’m not alone right now. “Thanks for being here, Wren.”

  “I’m always going to be here.”

  I feel the press of lips against my temple, and then against my cheek. Then against my lips. Fuck. Wren, my best friend, is kissing me with both hands braced on my cheeks.

  I kiss her back, because why not? Why the fuck not? Everything is burning to the ground around me anyway. I’ve lost Layne, I’m about to lose this job I literally just accepted, and I’m sure this fragile friendship is next.

  I tangle my fingers in Wren’s hair, tilting my face to deepen the kiss. She sighs into my mouth, pressing her body into mine until I’m flat on the floor with my best friend straddling my hips. I run my hands up and down her thin body, trying to find those familiar curves I love on a woman. There’s nothing, which is fitting, because I feel absolutely nothing.

  Wren must have been reading my mind, because her lips find my ear. “You can pretend I’m her, if you want. I can boss you around and treat you like shit and use you for sex. Whatever you want.”

  Her words are like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. I shift my body so Wren loses her balance, sliding off me with a small gasp.

  “Jesus, Wren,” I growl, distancing myself from her.

  The room spins the moment I stand, but I need to put some space between us. Now. I slump onto my bed with a wince. Headache’s back.

  “Why not?” she asks, obviously perplexed by the situation.

  Me too, man. Me too.

  “I don’t want to. With you,” I say with surprising clarity. If I were sober, this conversation would be a lot more difficult. Amazing what a few drinks will do to a man. “I never, ever want to do this with you. You’re my friend, nothing else.”

  I look at Wren, praying she’ll understand for once why I haven’t entirely kicked her to the curb yet. I want her to know that I love her, but not like I love Layne.

  I love Layne.

  Fuck, my stupid heart aches so much.

  I lie back in my bed, willing the darkness behind my eyelids to pull me into sweet oblivion. I hear the soft scrape of the trash can against the floor as Wren moves it within reach of the bed, followed by the clink of the water glass on my bedside table.

  For a fleeting moment, I wonder where my phone is. I lift my hand, as if to say thank you, because I’m simply too tired for any more words. Sleep is rushing toward me like a tidal wave, and I’m not about to fight it.

  Go on. Crash into me.

  21

  * * *

  LAYNE

  My phone buzzes from the bedside table, knocking me out of my true-crime documentary daze.

  Dr. Benson has been encouraging me to find new ways to destress for weeks now, and Kristen swears these kinds of shows do the trick for her, so I decided to finally give one a shot. And while I totally get the appeal, so far, all this thing has been doing is making me more stressed out than ever.

  Pausing the documentary, I lean over to see who could possibly be calling me. If it’s someone from work, there’s no way I’m answering. But to my surprise, it’s Griffin’s name that’s flashing across my screen.

  “Hello?”

  But it isn’t Griffin’s voice that greets me. It’s a woman’s. And she sounds pissed.

  “Hi, Layne? Listen, you and I need to have a little chat.”

  “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “He’s in love with you. You know that, right?”

  It’s a voice I’ve heard before. Not one I’m super familiar with, but I know it, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t place it.

  Then suddenly out of nowhere, my stomach drops. I know exactly who this is.

  “Wren, is that you?”

  “Oh, so you’re smart enough to recognize my voice, but you’re not smart enough to put together how he really feels about you?”

  “What are you—how who feels about me?”

  “Griffin, you dumbass! He’s in love with you. He always has been. I can’t believe I’m the one that has to clue you in to this. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be a brilliant, high-powered lawyer?”

  I’d be lying if I said that this news didn’t shake me up, but I immediately have my doubts.

  Sure, he’s wanted to get in my pants from the moment we first met, and yes, maybe things have taken on a slightly new tone since we started hooking up. But love? That seems a little extreme, especially given the circumstances.

  “None of that matters. He’s moving to New York.”

  “Nope, not even close. He’s halfway to being passed out in the other room right now.”

  All right, what the fuck is going on?

  “He’s what? Is he okay?”

  “No, he’s not okay, and you’re a fucking idiot if you don’t understand why. He just gave up the biggest opportunity of his goddamn life because he doesn’t want to leave you. If that’s not cold, hard evidence of how he feels about you, then I don’t know what the hell is.”

  Before she can say anything else I can’t comprehend, I hang up, my mind reeling from all this new information.

  Griffin isn’t going to New York.

  He’s staying for me.

  Because he loves me.

  With these thoughts still swirling around in my head, I grab my purse and get in the car. I have to see him. I have to find him. And more importantly, I have to find out if what Wren was saying is true. My hands are shaking as I clutch the steering wheel, and my stomach is one gigantic knot.

  By the time I arrive at Griffin’s place, I’ve gotten my feelings at least slightly under control, steeling myself for the possibility that Wren was just playing some sick joke on me, that maybe he’s not there at all, and I’ll be walking up to an empty apartment more humiliated than ever. But even if that’s a possibility, I know now that what I really need an answer. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I’d followed up on a weird phone call.

  After knocking, I wait a few moments, pressing my ear to the door to try to hear any sign of life. I can hear the faint sound of music, maybe a TV on in the background, and decide to try the handle.

  To my surprise, the door’s unlocked, and I swing it open.

  The sight before me isn’t at all what I was expecting—cardboard boxes piled in the living room, half-eaten Chinese takeout containers strewn across
the counter, an empty bottle of whiskey poking out of the full trash can in the kitchen.

  Upon further investigation, I find a note on the kitchen counter:

  He’s hammered in the bedroom.

  Stop being an idiot. – Wren

  It might have been sweet if it wasn’t so condescending. But that’s Wren for you, I guess.

  I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. The walk to Griffin’s room reveals a similar scene—half-packed boxes, furniture moved around in odd places, the general disarray of someone beginning the process of moving out of an apartment. I take a deep breath before stepping into his bedroom’s open doorway, the smell of alcohol letting me know that this is exactly where Wren left him.

  “Knock, knock,” I say, leaning against the door frame.

  Griffin looks worse than I thought he would. More drunk than I’ve ever seen him, slumped against the headboard, a pillow tucked haphazardly behind his back. His eyes don’t seem to focus when he looks at me, his work shirt rumpled and partially unbuttoned. The dazed look on his face would be funny if it weren’t so out of the ordinary to see him like this.

  “Layne? What are you doing here?” he slurs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and starting to stand up, only to immediately fall back on the bed.

  “I could ask you the same question,” I reply, setting the water glass on the bedside table and helping to prop him back up.

  He snorts and laughs, more to himself than to me, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. “I’m gone, baby,” he says, still stumbling through his words. “Gone, so far away. Forever.”

  “All right, well, let’s get some water in you before you go, then.”

  I hand him the glass and watch him drink, still confused by what exactly is going on. Maybe the job offer fell through or something happened with his contract. If he wasn’t such a proud, stubborn ass, I could have read through it for him and made sure they weren’t trying to screw him over.