He raps the spoon on the side of the pot and grins. “I never said you were a lost cause. If it makes you feel better, I can’t change the oil in my car.”
I cock my head and study him. “Why would that make me feel better?”
“Because it’s one of those byproducts of misogyny or toxic masculinity or whatever the hell it is.” He glances over his shoulder where Soph is pretending not to listen while she sets the table. “This idea that women are supposed to know how to cook and men are supposed to know how to fix cars. It’s bullshit, and I’m not buying it.”
Soph looks up from arranging a placemat. “Daddy, my delicate ears.” She says it in a sing-song voice that makes me laugh. “How dare you curse before me.”
“Sorry, baby.” Griffin flashes a dimpled grin. “You wanted to go first?”
Soph busts up laughing, and I’m struck by the sweetness of their schtick. My brothers and sisters have bits they’ve performed since we were kids, and I’ve always loved watching the ritual.
“Blimey!” She shouts the word with an impressive British accent as she yanks open a drawer filled with silverware. “Some bloody blighter forgot to unload the dishwasher.”
“I wonder who that would be?” Griff gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Perhaps the same young lady who’s only allowed to use British curse words.”
“Bollocks,” Soph says, and carries the utensils to the table.
Stifling a grin, I wrap the bread loaf in foil and hand it off to Griffin. His fingers brush mine, and an arc of electricity shoots up my arm. “I’ve heard some creative solutions to discourage kids from cursing, but that’s adorable.”
He shoves the bread in the oven and hits some buttons. “It seemed like a good compromise, plus it’s a nice vocab lesson. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh! I almost forgot.” I run back to the entry table where I abandoned a bottle of 2018 estate pinot noir from Kristin Hill Winery. I bought it a few weeks ago when the whole Judson family went wine tasting in the Willamette Valley, all six of us piled into a company van like the Brady Bunch. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, but pinot goes with everything.”
He gets a funny look on his face, and for a moment I panic. He’s not in recovery, is he? But no, that wouldn’t make sense for a brewmaster, and besides—
“Thank you.” He sets the bottle on the counter and gives a smile that almost meets his eyes. “Can I pour you a glass?”
“Actually, I wanted to sample your beer.”
“Oh?”
I shrug, and skim a hand over the counter, trying to pretend it’s not a big deal. “I’ve never been a beer drinker, and I can’t promise I’ll like it, but I want to give it a try.”
With a curious smile, he reaches out to touch me. No, not touch me. He’s reaching past me to get to the fridge, and I jump out of the way.
“You’re in luck.” He drags a giant glass jug from the fridge. “I’ve got a growler of radler.”
“I understood ‘I’ve got a.’” I watch as he pours a few ounces into a small glass. “The rest of that was Greek to me.”
Griffin grins and hands me the glass, and I try to ignore the fresh zing of lightning shooting up my arm as our fingers touch. “A growler is a 64-ounce jug for beer. And radler’s sort of like a cross between beer and citrus soda. Tends to be more palatable for non-beer drinkers.”
“Beer with training wheels?” Cautiously, I lift the glass to my lips. “Smells fruity.”
“I use a combination of lemon and grapefruit for this one,” he says. “It’s a German-style radler, but with an American twist.”
I take a taste, reminding myself to keep an open mind. It’s fruitier than I expected, without the skunky smell that usually turns me off with beer. The first sip goes down easy, like a fountain drink on a hot day.
“What do you think?” He watches me with his own glass cupped in one large hand. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t like it. I’ve got lots of other stuff you can drink.”
“I like it,” I say as I lower the glass. “I think.”
Griffin laughs. “You think?”
“I do. This is really beer?”
“Technically, it’s more of a hybrid between beer and citrus soda or even juice. Pretty popular in Europe. It’s similar to a shandy.” He must see my eyes glazing over because he taps a finger to the glass. “There’s low alcohol content in that one. If you enjoy that, you might also like sour beers or even a nice gose.”
“Gose? How did I never know there were so many kinds of beer?”
“That’s another German varietal. There’s usually a lemony, herbal quality to them, but they’re most known for having a touch of salt. I make a kefir lime and cucumber gose that’ll knock your socks off.”
My mouth is watering, and it’s not entirely from all the culinary descriptions. It’s seeing Griffin so at ease, so passionate about something he knows well.
“This.” I breathe the word without meaning to, flushing as I fumble to explain. “This must be why my family was so eager to have you here. The way you light up from the inside when you’re talking about something you love.”
His eyes lock with mine, the gaslight blue aglow. He’s not blinking, and I’m not sure he’s breathing. He looks like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should. I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Guess I get pretty fired up when something excites me.”
All the breath leaves my lungs. I feel my lips part, like they’re aching to be kissed. This is crazy. It’s insane. Both words I swear I’ll never use because they smack of ableism, but I can’t think of a better way to describe how Griffin makes me feel in this moment.
I thought maybe I imagined our near-miss kiss the other day, but there’s no question now.
Griffin wants to kiss me.
Griffin’s going to kiss me.
I want that more than anything.
He takes a step toward me. “Mar.” He breathes the syllable, hand lifting to touch my face.
I lean in, already feeling the callused palm on my cheek, feeling the heat of his chest as he—
“Dad!”
Soph bounds into the room, and Griffin and I spring apart like we’ve been caught in a full-on lip lock. Which we haven’t, I swear.
But if Soph picks up on any tension between us, she’s not letting on. She’s too excited about what she’s clutching with both hands, holding it tight against her chest. It’s a picture frame, and as she lowers it, my eyes lock on the image behind the glass.
Oh.
My.
God.
All the blood leaves my head, and I start to sway. Grabbing the counter, I fight to stay upright, to wrap my head around what I’m seeing in the photograph.
“Check it out.” Blessedly oblivious, Soph taps a baby-pink nail on the face of my former patient, Gabrielle Julia.
Gabrielle…Walsh?
No. This can’t be happening. We did background checks. We interviewed family members. We were so cautious with our prospective community members.
How did this slip through the cracks?